He always felt as though his life were running on a sidetrack, the main train already vanished into the distance. Morning, a cramped minibus, a warehouse of building supplies on the fringe of his little town, heavy rolls of insulation, invoices, a lunch of soup and rice at the base mess, evenings spent in front of the telly and the occasional pint at the bar by the coach station. He was thirtythree, called Andrew, and everyone assumed his world was more or less sorted.
He rented a room in an ageing brick terraced house opposite the school hed once attended. The landlady, a wiry pensioner, lived in the next room and liked to chat about her aches and the price of medicines. Andrew listened halfheartedly, nodded, his thoughts drifting elsewhere. Above his bed hung a faded poster of a great cityglass towers, a bridge, a river, lights at night. Hed bought it after his army stint at a market and never let it leave any flat he occupied. At night he would lie awake and picture himself strolling those streets, a stranger, free like a tourist or a film hero.
Reality was harsher. In the warehouse he was a stock clerk, his wages arriving late, the boss constantly shouting, and his mates increasingly talking about loans and mortgages. One evening, as the landlady complained again about her blood pressure, Andrew realized he barely heard her. A decision, still unvoiced, had taken root inside him, crawling like an itch.
A week later he bought a train ticket to the capital. He told his boss he was quitting for a better logistics job. The boss snorted, shrugged, and wished him luck. He explained to the landlady that he was heading for work, and she waved her hands dramatically but said nothing. He packed a few suitcases, an old laptop, a handful of books, and folded the city poster carefully, tucking it on top.
On the train he sat by the window, watching fields, isolated villages, roadside pumps flicker by. In his head he drew pictures of the future: a jobperhaps as a loader or courier at first, then something steadier. A flat in the centre, cafés, concerts, maybe even someone special. In big cities, he thought, everything seemed to fall into place on its own.
When the train rolled into London at dawn, Andrew pressed his forehead to the glass. Grey highrise blocks, tangled junctions, billboards loomed; the sky was low and leaden. On the platform the cold, damp air hit him, mixed with the smell of iron, cheap coffee from vending machines, and the rush of suitcases and phone calls. No one waited for him.
He stepped onto the square outside the station and froze for a heartbeat. Cars, buses, loud announcements, crowds weaving around him as if he were an obstacle. In his pocket lay the printed confirmation for a budget hostel in the centre, his target once he reached the Underground. He fished out a crumpled map of the tube lines he had printed at home, a colourful web of stations with names he didnt recognise. He needed to find his own stop, the one with the long, foreign word.
He descended into the tube, jostled by the tide of commuters. The carriage was warm, reeked of body heat and perfume, voices merging into a roar. Andrew clung to a strap, eyes darting over the flashing station names. A thrill rose inside him. This was the moment hed dreamed of: a tiny speck in a vast metropolis, and it was only the beginning.
The hostel was a narrow alley off the Ring Road. A shabby building with peeling plaster, a iron door with a keypad, a narrow corridor scented of laundry detergent. The receptionist, a lanky chap with a small ponytail, checked his ID, handed him a key to his locker and showed him a bunk in a large eightperson dorm. Each bed had a curtain, a bedside lamp.
For two days Andrew wandered the city, trying to memorise the streets. He scoured job ads on his phone, called back leads. Well get back to you, they said, or asked for a résumé by email. His legs ached by night, his wallet thinned. In the hostel he lay on his bunk, listening to a neighbours snore, laughter from the next room, convincing himself everything was fine. It had to be.
On the third day he attended an interview at a logistics firm in a glass office block by the Thames. A sharpdressed woman in a blouse asked him a few questions, glanced at his CV, promised a decision within a week. Andrew left the building, lingered by the floortoceiling windows, watching the water, and decided to walk back to the tube.
Rain began to drizzle. He pulled his collar up and quickened his pace. At a corner, in front of a window displaying abstract canvases, he paused. Inside was a gallerywhite walls, bright light, patrons with glasses of wine. A tall woman in a black dress laughed, head thrown back. Andrew lingered, as if before a television screen. Back home such places were rare; art lived only in the dusty community hall.
He was about to move on when the gallery doors flung open and the woman stepped onto the pavement. She lit a cigarette, covering the flame with her hand. Her short, sunblonde hair was tied in a loose bun, a thin chain glinted at her throat. She spotted Andrew watching and offered a small smile.
Come in, she said. Were having an opening. Free entry.
Andrew hesitated, then entered.
Im not dressed for this, he muttered, eyeing his jeans and jacket.
Dont worry, she said, flicking ash. No dress code here. Im Charlotte. And you are?
Andrew.
Pleasure, Andrew. Lets go, the artist will love an extra pair of eyes.
She took his elbow lightly, like an old acquaintance, and pulled him inside. The scent of wine mingled with the sharp tang of fresh paint. Groups of people chatted, laughed, examined large canvases of blurred city silhouettesfaces smeared, only streetlights and windows crisp. Andrew stood before one, feeling as though he were looking at himself from the outside.
Like it? Charlotte asked, standing beside him.
Strange, he admitted. A little scary.
Thats good. Fear is honest, she replied, turning to him. Are you here alone?
Yes. I just arrived, from the countryside.
Got it. Her eyes flickered with interest. What are you doing in our gritty city?
Looking for work I was a warehouse clerk before.
Romantic, Charlotte laughed. Im a curator, I work with artists, projects, galleriesmy playground.
She gestured around, Youre lucky you walked in. Tonights a soft immersion into the art world.
A man in a black shirt with a trimmed beard approached; Charlotte introduced him as the exhibitions author. They exchanged brief words, he shook Andrews hand, then slipped away. Charlotte stayed close.
Dreamed of coming here long? she asked, pouring herself a glass of white wine in a plastic cup and handing it to him.
Always. I kept planning, but he trailed off. It never clicked.
Now it has. She looked him straight in the eye. What are you hoping to find?
He shrugged, cheeks flushing. Something different. Not like back home.
Different is right here. Question is, are you ready for that different?
She said it without mockery, just a tired certainty. A moment later she was called away, apologised, and joined a group of guests, laughing, hugging. Andrew remained by the painting, glass in hand, feeling both alien and oddly part of something hed only ever seen on screens.
She returned, Any plans for tonight?
No. Just back to the hostel.
Boring, she smirked. Come to the afterparty with us. Music, people, maybe a job lead. Everyone does things through connections here.
Andrew hesitated. The landladys warning about big cities echoing in his mindwhere people cheat youbut Charlottes confidence was intoxicating. He nodded.
Alright.
They hailed a cab to an old manor turned club. Inside, darkness pulsed with electronic beats, flashes of light. People drank, danced, smoked on the stairwell. Charlotte guided Andrew through rooms, introducing him, names spilling out like firecrackers. He was handed wine, then something stronger; his head lightened, boundaries blurred.
See that bloke at the bar? Charlotte whispered, leaning close. Hes a collector, buys young talent. He wants everything to look convincing.
She spoke of artists, grants, sponsorshow everything hinged on connections, impressions, the story you could sell about yourself. Andrew tried to keep up, feeling like hed stepped behind the curtain of a grand performance.
At dawn he stepped outside for air. The nights damp clung to the pavement, the citys roar muffled his thoughts. Charlotte followed, lighting a cigarette.
Regret coming? she asked.
No, he leaned against a wall. Its strange, but interesting.
Youll get used to it. She exhaled smoke. The city either chews you up and spits you out, or you learn to chew it yourself.
She said it almost flatly, as if reciting a line. Then, more closely, Andrew, I like you. Youre genuinethats rare. I have an idea, maybe you can help and profit yourself.
He tensed.
What idea?
Not now. Youre tired. Tomorrow. Ill text you. Just dont disappear. In this city vanishing is easy.
The next morning Andrew woke in the hostel with a pounding head. Fragments of the night replayed: light, faces, laughter, talk of grants. His phone buzzed a message from Charlotte: Come to the gallery this evening. We need to talk.
Daylight found him still calling about jobs, attending another interview at a storage firm. They offered night shifts for a modest sum; he said hed think. Money dwindled, concrete work still elusive.
That evening he entered the quiet gallery. Almost empty, Charlotte sat at a high table, glasses perched, hair in a bun, spectacles perched on her nose.
Hey, night hero, she said, removing her glasses. Hows the head?
Fine.
Sit. She gestured to a high stool. I have a proposal. A bit unconventional.
He sat, shoulders tightening.
You said youre unemployed, money tight.
He nodded.
Theres a private sale of a single artists work. We need a front buyer, someone who signs the contract, makes it look clean. The money and the paintings actually go to other parties. You’d just be the face.
Andrew stared, stunned.
So Im buying, but not with my money?
Exactly. She shrugged. Its common. People dont want their names on the paper. We need a clean slate. You fit perfectly.
He felt a knot tighten.
Is it legal?
Charlotte smiled thinly, eyes serious. Its not by the book, but everyone does it. Money will flow through your account, then well structure it as a loan. Ill handle the paperwork, no tax trouble. Youll be paid well.
How much? he asked, surprised at his own speed.
She named a figure that equated to almost three of his old wagesenough to live comfortably for months.
Why me? he pressed.
Because youre new. No ties to the art world, no history. And I trust you instinctively. I need someone who wont run to the police at the first sign of trouble.
The word police hit him like a slap. He looked at his hands, the calloused nails.
What if something goes wrong?
It wont. Her tone softened, but steel laced it. Weve done this before. Its just a way to sidestep red tape. Clean money, serious buyers, no scandal.
Memories of the landladys warnings, the warehouse, the minibus, evenings with the telly swirled. The thrill of last nights party clashed with the cold reality of a shady deal. Two voices fought inside himone urging a chance, the other whispering danger.
I need to think, he said.
I get it. She nodded. You have 24 hours. I need an answer tomorrow morning. If not, be honest. I dont like people disappearing.
He left, folding the tube map in his pocket, sitting on a bench outside a neighbouring block, staring at the pavement. Images flashed: him in a uniform explaining the money to a stern officer, Charlotte turning away, or a smooth transaction, cash in hand, a decent flat, no more hostels.
That night he lay awake, the hostels chatter drifting by, his mind replaying Charlottes words. He imagined his old lifewarehouse, winter drafts through the gate, mates complaining about the bleakness, his room with the faded poster. He pictured the safe, dimly lit street hed left, then the sprawling, frightening city he now inhabited.
By morning he had decided, though he wouldnt admit it to himself. The phone buzzed: Well? from Charlotte.
Yes. Ill do it, he typed quickly.
She replied instantly: Great. Meet me at three by the gallery. Bring your ID.
The day was a haze. At three he stood at the gallerys entrance; Charlotte waited, sharpdressed, hair pulled back, face focused.
Come on. She took his elbow. Ill explain.
They entered a modest office in the financial district, where a middleaged man in an expensive sweater and a keeneyed gentleman waited. Charlotte introduced him as Dmitri, without detail.
Andrew, the man began, flipping through papers. The scheme is simple. Money will be transferred to your account, youll sign a purchase agreement for the paintings. Then, via a power of attorney, youll pass the works to our partner. You get a fee.
Andrews mind flooded with questions, but words tangled.
What about tax authorities?
The man smiled like a teacher with a child. Weve covered that. It will be recorded as a loan youll repay later. No issues. I handle this stuff, trust me.
Andrew nodded, though confidence was thin. Charlotte interjected, clarifying points, her voice steady, as if this were routine.
He signed several sheets. His hands trembled, the wordsloan, repayment, liabilityblurred together. They then went to a bank, opened an account, got a card. Within the hour a notification popped up: a large sum had landed. The numbers on the screen seemed surreal.
Congratulations, Dmitri said. Everythings on track. Tomorrow well transfer the artworks.
Charlotte walked him back to the tube.
You see, it isnt that scary, she said. You did fine.
What if he started, stumbling. If something blows up?
Dont overthink it, she replied, eyes locked on his. Everyone in this city does what they can to survive. Just dont be a fool.
He left the station, the weight of the money in his pocket burning, though he couldnt yet spend it. That night he barely slept, replaying possible outcomes. At dawn the phone rang a strangers voice. Mr. Whitfield? This is the bank. We need you to come in; there are questions about recent transactions.
His stomach dropped.
What kind of questions?
Well explain on site. Its urgent, today.
He called Charlotte. No answer. He texted; the reply lingered unread.
An hour later Charlotte finally called.
Whats happened? she asked, curt.
He described the call.
Stay calm, she said. Its routine. Just say its a loan from friends for a car purchase. Nothing more. Got it?
What if they
Andrew, if you panic, everything collapses. Youre an adult, act like one.
He nodded, though she couldnt see him.
At the bank he was led to a small office. A woman in a strict suit and a young man with a laptop asked where the money came from, how hed use it. He repeated the line about a loan for a car. The woman probed, the man noted. He felt sweat bead on his forehead, her gaze a little too intense, then she simply thanked him and left.
He emerged onto the bustling street, noise blaring, cars honking, rain slicking the pavement. He fished out his crumpled tube map, unfolded it, traced the lines with his fingertip. The network seemed a maze, every branch a possible escape.
His phone buzzed: How are you? All good? from Charlotte.
He stared at the screen, fingers trembling. He could write the truth, lie, or stay silent.
Instead he slipped the phone away, descended the stairs to the street. Cold air slammed his face. He walked toward the Underground, map clenched like a talisman, the same as when he first arrivedonly now fear outweighed wonder, though a stubborn spark told him there was no turning back to his old life.
At the tube entrance he paused. People rushed past, a shoulder brushed his without apology. He stared at the map again. The central loop connected almost every line. He could buy a ticket and leave, return to the hostel, stay with Charlotte, keep chasing the art world, or find another warehouse job.
He folded the map, slipped it into his pocket, took a breath, stepped onto the escalator and dissolved into the crowd, unsure where the train would take him, but certain the choice would cometoday or tomorrow. And the price of that real life already began to tally in his inner ledger, even if the exact numbers remained invisible.
