Purple Train
Established Member
It was mid-winter. The moon loomed ominously above the golden tower of Big Ben, illuminating it with an eerie glow. No lights, not even in Trafalgar Square or the National Gallery, were on, and Nelson's Column was nothing but a dark shadow manipulating the cool night breeze into many jets of silence.
Descending the stairs on the eastern side of Trafalgar Square, into Charing Cross tube station, I made my way through the barrier and wandered to the southbound Bakerloo line platform. Nobody else was about, and nothing stirred. No light could muster a protest against the hideous power of all-encompassing darkness.
I stepped onto the platform, where a train was just pulling in. It had the outward appearance of one of the New Tube for London mock-up drawings, but the interior of a 1972 stock train, complete with soft seating. The train had no head- or tail-lights, and the carriages were unlit and uninhabited, except for me. They made no noise, and the ride was smoother and softer than any stationary train I had ever been on - but a great deal more eerie.
The next stop southbound was called Graham Park. It had an interchange with the Northern and Victoria lines, and (I just knew) an OSI to a station on the District and Central lines. I got out, hoping to find some solace from the biting darkness, but there was nothing. Eventually I decided to exit the station, knowing that at least there would be the bliss of light outside, the solace of the moon's kindly face.
Graham Park was an odd blend of a Leslie Green-style oxblood tiled facade and an extension in the form of one of Charles Holden's "brick boxes with concrete lids". Turning my face away from the building, I noticed that the moon had vanished, and without it, the world as I knew it had lost its last illumination.
The station was situated on the corner of a small park, on an island in the middle of the Thames. I saw the water, lapping past the edge of the building and washing up onto the edges of the island, but it made no noise, not even a reassuring whoosh.
And then - then - to the release of all manner of feelings of relief, of happiness, of pleasure - I heard the thing I most desired.
A noise.
Slowly, gently, it came to me, floating soft as a feather on the wisps of the cool, wintry night air. The strains of something I loved and longed for, something that transcended the emptiness and darkness that had hitherto been enfolding me.
Music.
I turned in wonder to the other end of the island, and noticed someone walking towards me, singing. And though the first words I heard had been distorted by the night's grip, the grip of the strange new world I was in, I recognised the haunting melody now as "The Music of the Night" from The Phantom of the Opera. The singer came closer, walking towards me, singing all the while, as, softly, deftly, the music caressed me.
As they sang, I noticed that the music was drawing me in, almost as if it was trying to lull me to sleep, and I suddenly became wary of the music. Resolved not to, as I saw it, let my darker side give in, I looked for Graham Park tube station again. But with no light, and having wandered far from it, I couldn't see it.
I then remembered the OSI, and that it linked to another station on the island. I ran to the other end and there it was. It was called Island Bank, with an impossibly small station building about the size of a telephone box, which led to a long spiral staircase. I descended it, and followed the signs to the Central line platforms - no light. After a minute's wait, a train looking very like some of the old A60 stock pulled in, and I boarded. Like the last train, it had no head- or tail-lights, and the interior was unlit - though, from what I could make out, it had the same interior as an EMT Class 156.
The next stop, going east, was Chancery Lane. On the brief journey to it, again punctuated only my by heavy breathing, and no other outside influence disturbing the ruling silence, I felt again how utterly depressing the darkness and silence was. At the station I got out, and I had only one aim - to go back to the music, to grasp it, to sense it, to once more know light and comfort, to know that I was not alone.
But before I could do that, I woke up.
(Obviously this isn't the terms I dreamed it in, I'm not that weird. But everything that happened in this did indeed happen in my dream, though without the flowery description that I've added to it simply to make a few cheap Music of the Night references
)
Descending the stairs on the eastern side of Trafalgar Square, into Charing Cross tube station, I made my way through the barrier and wandered to the southbound Bakerloo line platform. Nobody else was about, and nothing stirred. No light could muster a protest against the hideous power of all-encompassing darkness.
I stepped onto the platform, where a train was just pulling in. It had the outward appearance of one of the New Tube for London mock-up drawings, but the interior of a 1972 stock train, complete with soft seating. The train had no head- or tail-lights, and the carriages were unlit and uninhabited, except for me. They made no noise, and the ride was smoother and softer than any stationary train I had ever been on - but a great deal more eerie.
The next stop southbound was called Graham Park. It had an interchange with the Northern and Victoria lines, and (I just knew) an OSI to a station on the District and Central lines. I got out, hoping to find some solace from the biting darkness, but there was nothing. Eventually I decided to exit the station, knowing that at least there would be the bliss of light outside, the solace of the moon's kindly face.
Graham Park was an odd blend of a Leslie Green-style oxblood tiled facade and an extension in the form of one of Charles Holden's "brick boxes with concrete lids". Turning my face away from the building, I noticed that the moon had vanished, and without it, the world as I knew it had lost its last illumination.
The station was situated on the corner of a small park, on an island in the middle of the Thames. I saw the water, lapping past the edge of the building and washing up onto the edges of the island, but it made no noise, not even a reassuring whoosh.
And then - then - to the release of all manner of feelings of relief, of happiness, of pleasure - I heard the thing I most desired.
A noise.
Slowly, gently, it came to me, floating soft as a feather on the wisps of the cool, wintry night air. The strains of something I loved and longed for, something that transcended the emptiness and darkness that had hitherto been enfolding me.
Music.
I turned in wonder to the other end of the island, and noticed someone walking towards me, singing. And though the first words I heard had been distorted by the night's grip, the grip of the strange new world I was in, I recognised the haunting melody now as "The Music of the Night" from The Phantom of the Opera. The singer came closer, walking towards me, singing all the while, as, softly, deftly, the music caressed me.
As they sang, I noticed that the music was drawing me in, almost as if it was trying to lull me to sleep, and I suddenly became wary of the music. Resolved not to, as I saw it, let my darker side give in, I looked for Graham Park tube station again. But with no light, and having wandered far from it, I couldn't see it.
I then remembered the OSI, and that it linked to another station on the island. I ran to the other end and there it was. It was called Island Bank, with an impossibly small station building about the size of a telephone box, which led to a long spiral staircase. I descended it, and followed the signs to the Central line platforms - no light. After a minute's wait, a train looking very like some of the old A60 stock pulled in, and I boarded. Like the last train, it had no head- or tail-lights, and the interior was unlit - though, from what I could make out, it had the same interior as an EMT Class 156.
The next stop, going east, was Chancery Lane. On the brief journey to it, again punctuated only my by heavy breathing, and no other outside influence disturbing the ruling silence, I felt again how utterly depressing the darkness and silence was. At the station I got out, and I had only one aim - to go back to the music, to grasp it, to sense it, to once more know light and comfort, to know that I was not alone.
But before I could do that, I woke up.
(Obviously this isn't the terms I dreamed it in, I'm not that weird. But everything that happened in this did indeed happen in my dream, though without the flowery description that I've added to it simply to make a few cheap Music of the Night references
)
). I’m subsequently arrested for spreading misinformation on the forum and have my laptop seized as evidence.
