The only way to the place you’re going is through a dark passageway. It’s a sunny day, but you can’t see to the other side. Everyone else keeps walking past the passageway as if they don’t see it.
The Northern line isn’t running above Camden Town. The buses have stopped going that way too. People start referring to North London like it’s Manchester. “That’s just how things are up North,” they say. “My sister moved up there but I haven’t heard from her in months.”
It’s been raining for days. It is always raining. Your flat is damp, condensation collecting on the insides of the windows. The walls are weeping. Your feet are wet. You will never be dry or warm again.
A pop up shop opens on Portobello Road. It sells herbs and homeopathic remedies one week, crystals and amulets the next. The third week, it’s stocked with rabbit’s feet and animal skulls, lizard skins and strange feathered things. People can’t get enough. The week after that, the store is gone.
You roll your eyes at a group of tourists taking a Jack the Ripper walking tour: a dozen of them winding through the alleys and pubs, following a guide holding an umbrella above his head. You see the same group again later, and there are only ten of them now. The guide looks straight at you. You look away.
There’s a red telephone box on every corner. The tourists like to take pictures inside, outside, on top of them. Every night, after midnight, all the telephones begin to ring. Your mother told you never to answer. You cross the street to avoid the sound, pulling your scarf tighter around your throat as you scurry on.
It’s summer and the ponds in Hampstead Heath are spreading. The grass is growing higher, up to a man’s chest. It’s all marshland now, all the paths and bridges swallowed up by rising water and vegetation. That’s just how things are now, up North.
You run down the steps into Piccadilly Circus and weave through the crowd to the ticket barrier. You touch your Oyster card to the reader and it beeps disapprovingly. The reader flashes the message: Seek Assistance. You try again and get the same message. You’re irritated, you’re in a hurry. You look around for a ticket agent, but you don’t see anyone. The booths are shuttered. The station is empty. The lights are flickering. There is no one here to assist you.
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