These aren't the stories your mother told you.

No, these are the other stories.

The monument to Highgate, written by Kev Harrison, narrated by Ian McEwan.

Claire weaved to avoid the half-closed gate at the last moment.

The message delayed between sleepy eyes and exhausted brain.

She heaved her shoulder bag through the barriers and onto the escalators,

the weight of yet more files to audit tugging at her sanity almost as much as at her aching back.

She stepped onto the northbound platform just in time to hear that familiar beep,

watched the door's close, the train gliding quietly out of the station.

She glanced up at the departure board further along the platform.

Welcome to Bank Station.

The next train is from Mill Hill East and will depart in nine minutes.

Nine?

Shit, she said, and slumped onto one of the metallic benches dotting the deserted platform.

It was the third night working late that week, and the forecast for tomorrow was hectic too.

She clutched her bag to her chest, rested her eyes for a moment.

Strong wind, followed by the rhythmic rumbling of the train, shook her from her involuntary nap.

She yawned as the doors slid open, then sat at the end of a row.

She was leaning back against the window, snoring, before the train pulled into Moorgate

90 seconds later.

The doors opened.

The garish light of the platform washed in.

...