The tube station is empty, bar the girl sleeping on the home-made bed next to the booking counter. The Station has been unused for decades, but remains largely intact, forgotten by a world that no so much moved on, as changed direction. The space is lit by hundreds of fairy lights that move infinitesimally in the constant warm breeze of the under London, giving the effect that the station is underwater. The air shimmers with millions of micro-motes of metal dust. The girl’s bed is made up of crates, with a mattress thrown on top. By her bedside is another crate, upturned with a yellow rose in a milk bottle placed on it, next to a photograph propped up against the bottle. The photograph is of the sleeping girl, standing next to a young woman who, judging by her attire, is a doctor. In the girl’s arms is a newly born baby wrapped in a soft yellow sheet. In the photograph the girl is smiling. Next to the photograph is a crossbow pistol, and leaning against the grate are two wicked looking curved knives. In the background there is the muffled sound of an underground river.