The woman over the aisle is tall and narrow; her long coat, soft fabric skirt, page-boy cropped hair all black. She's leafing through the financial pages of the Evening Standard, the pink paper standing out against her monochrome. She licks her finger to separate the pages. Each time she raises her hand to her mouth, she wrinkles her fine, sharp nose and flares her nostrils, as if the stories of gloom, greed and incompetence she's reading have left some putrid residue.

She catches my eye as I get off at Bank and for a second I wonder whether I know her. But I can't do; I don't know any Muslim girls who wear the hijab. But she looks so familiar: the oval face and pointed chin beneath the gold border of the wheat-coloured scarf; the dark, mournful almond-shaped eyes; long, straight, narrow nose; small, serious mouth; the complexion that would be called olive, but is actually closer to dark honey. Even the downcast, intent expression. It all registers so fast and goes straight to some part of my brain - you know that face.
Of course I do. I've seen it hundreds of times before, glowing from centuries-old wooden panels pictured in books, on TV, in galleries, in candle-lit churches.
The headscarf should be blue.
She should be looking at a baby.

He's going up but facing down, and he's the only person on that escalator. He's small, middle-aged, grizzled, and something about the way he stands and the tilt of his head marks him out as a Scouser before I even hear his voice. Not that I can avoid his voice, because he's yelling at the top of his hoarse voice. But even that isn't what draws my attention first. He's got the knotted neck of a large black balloon wedged into the top of his flies, and it bobs at groin level in a way that isn't lewd, or even ridiculous; it's somehow fitting.
"Why do people worry so much about things that 'aven't 'appened?" he yells, gesticulating at the crowd of people jostling for the up escalator.
"If it 'appens, you worry! 'Appen!" - his left hand shoots forward, palm down, edge forward - "Worry!" - right hand chops forward. "'Appen!" - left hand - "Worry!" - right hand. "'Appen! Worry!"
"If it 'asn't 'appened, then why the fuck worry? Save your time! Save your breath!"
"It's the game of life! It's the game of death! It's the game of London!"
And with that, he spreads his arms, bows, and takes a step back without looking behind him. He's exactly at the top of the escalator. He turns, straightens his back, and marches out of the station, his balloon jiggling in front of him.