A young woman with bright red lips and two big curl rolls pinned on top of her head locked the door of her room carefully, afraid of awakening the grizzly Croatian couple next door sleeping off their night shift, walked down the stairs, passed the door of the Kiwi woman with the ambition to be a singer but with the voice of a strangled cat, just as, lucky her, her house mate was murdering another libretto and shut the door on all of them. Mona hadn’t been living there long, only six months and though names might have been exchanged, it’s only their house mates accents she remembered.

She had rented the cheapest room in one of the cheapest London neighbourhoods, Wood Green. She thought if she kept herself to herself, never go out past sunset on her own, she’d be fine. And she had been.

As she was closing the house gate, a black cat appeared out of nowhere and started rubbing itself on her legs. Mona yelped and swinged her backpack at it.

“Shoo, shoo! Bad cat!”

The last thing she wanted was cat hair on her new swede boots.

The cat growled and puffed its tail. Even the fur on its back raised up.

Mona backed down slowly. She wasn’t superstitious but her guts churned. Was this an omen? Her grandma would have said it was. Should she still go to her work-do? She didn’t want to go anyway, should she just stay at home?

She raised her head and looked at the crumbling house with six bedrooms and ten people living inside. A ground floor window was open and a screeching voice was just reaching some particularly high notes. An window opened above it and a man with a shaved head threw a can at it. The can hit the window and fell off, but not before a black liquid smeared all over it.

“Shut it,” the man shouted. The noise died and the window closed. Behind the curtains a pale woman with long hair and a thin mouth shut the blinds.

Mona sighed. The party couldn’t be worse than this.

She turned and walked towards the underground station, tottering on her stilettos and watching the pavement like a hawk afraid not to snag her heels in it.

It was grey and cold, just like most of the afternoons she had had the pleasure of experiencing in London. As she turned the corner into the High Road, it started drizzling. She hurried. Not long until the station.

Thankfully today there was no puddle of blood to skip over (it had only happened once, a few weeks before) and the Turkish shop was finally free of the white police tent (a man stabbed another man there, but again, only once). Good omens for the day and the neighbourhood, or so she thought. Maybe she would even shop there again.

It was still daylight, and she had never seen anyone snatch bags, not even once, only read about it in the newspaper, so she let herself relax her hand on her backpack.

She just needed to save a little more money to move to a better neighbourhood. And then she’d have all these stories to tell about roughing it up in the London underbelly.

As it was Saturday, the man that had found Jesus and wanted everyone to know it was in his place, just across the entry to the underground, sharing the Good News on his loud speaker. Mona gave him a wide berth and scurried past him, her eyes down.

The road was full of empty cans, fast food bags and spent cigarettes, even spent condoms, if you looked carefully, just as it was every weekend. People of all ethnicities, bar the native one, were out in force, in their best Brand of the Day joggers and t-shirts. Mona fit right in, one could have taken her for Greek or Italian, or even Jewish, like she was told once. She was neither, but an immigrant nonetheless.

She scanned her Oyster card and went through the ticket barrier. Just before going down the escalator, a brown Police dog with long ears gave her a sniff. Mona waited a second until its handler, a scruffy constable, waved her on. For six months she had seen no Police and no dogs, but here they were, twice in the same week.

“Stand clear of the closing doors,” a speaker warned and Mona dashed down the running escalator.

“Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep!”

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

She went in sideways just as the doors were closing in. Relieved, she sat down and quieted her racing heart.

Ah, to live life on the edge!

As the Piccadilly train drove south towards Central London, the minutes were counting down to her death, or ‘passing’, as it was. Fittingly, she was worried. Not about death though, but if she forgot something.

She opened her bag and checked: black dress to change into later, sparkly clutch bag for her phone, a change of clothes for the next day, her tablet, phone, makeup remover, toothbrush and toothpaste and an charcoal eye liner to refresh her eye lines if needed.

Though her work-do was in London and all her colleagues lived in London too, the boss splashed on London hotels every time they had an event. You’d think startups didn’t have that much money or were careful with spending it, at least. Not this one.

More, every event had to be different and over the top. Tonight they would party at a secret abandoned station on a train jazzed up for the occasion, then sleep at a nearby hotel and the next day they would have a full day of workshopping the bosses’s new idea, The Tube Tracks & Thrills Murder Mystery Club. And do some team bonding exercises too.

Mona hated it all. Parties, dressing up, drinking and on top of that, socialising and “bonding” with people she had nothing in common with, apart from work. She was there to make money, couldn’t that be enough?

Still, she was curious about the secret station. She even had a small booklet in her coat pocket about the London’s abandoned tube stations and wanted to compare the picture to the reality. She even hoped it would be possible to sneak out of the train and wonder around, take some pictures, see what else was there.

She took the booklet out. A small pocketbook journal fell out with it. It was her dead grandma’s book of spells. Mona had been carrying it around for a week since the old woman had appeared in her dream brandishing her grimoire in her face and shouting over and over to better start practicing. Grandma had been a witch, not a real one, of course (or that was what Mona thought) and had wanted Mona to follow in her steps. The dream spooked Mona enough to carry the grimoire with her, but not enough to actually read it. Mona cringed and hid both back inside quickly.

Mona watched Turnpike Lane, Manor House and other stations pass by quickly, each bringing more people going out for a night of fun.

She got out at Holborn and walked to the ticketing booth, their meeting point. After that they would go to meet the station manager on the South platform and he was going to guide them through a concealed door into an underground passageway and then to a shuttle train that was going to take them to the abandoned Aldwych station where the party car was ready for them.

Apart from renting out the train for the party, the boss had his sights on running murder mystery events there, so they were to also see if and how that will work. Mona dreaded that discussion because as the Creative Director, she was responsible for creating the concept and the storyline.

And she had no experience in doing that, not that anyone knew. Her CV told a different story. And though no one had complained about her previous work on the pop up bar events, this was bigger and the startup was going to invest a lot in it.

Mona trotted along the platform in her stilettos and up the stairs, quickly and efficiently, looking ahead, just like a born Londoner, not daunted by the sea of people coming from all directions, all busy, all still sober. It was only 7pm.

“Mona, here”, a voice shouted.

Mona scanned the area around the ticket booth with dread. Who was there already? Who she’d have the “pleasure” of small talk? Oh, who but Camilla.

Camilla looked her up and down from the corner of her eye, taking in Mona’s new high heel swede boots, high street jeans tucked in and second hand but expensive coat that after dry cleaning looked almost new. Mona hoped she passed the test. Camilla had expensive taste and wanted everyone that fronted the startup to look “up to a certain level of standard”.

Kiss, kiss, smile, smile, how are you, how are you. Cam always smiled and greeted Mona like a long lost friend, and she had done that from the first time meeting her. But not long after, Mona had seen her up and down glances and heard her quickly stopped whispers or outright gossip about people not present.

“I still have to stitch the shoulder of my dress,” Camilla blurted and laughed like she’d just told a joke.

Camilla was a senior partner and had only “partially” invested her fortune, as the boss, a long friend of hers, had complained once, but she didn’t have money to buy a new dress or pay a taylor? Mona tried to laugh with her, looking around to see if anyone else was coming to free her.

There you go. A baby faced twenty something year old called Jake, but that Mona secretly called Jekyll & Hyde, strutted on to them. Their Legal & Compliance Advisor. An “yes, sir” to the boss during the day, and “fuck him, I hate him” after a few drinks. From 0 to 100 in the anger department after one or two beers and probably one to two lines of coke. After Mona had seen him throwing empty glasses at a club’s bodyguard, his face contorted in rage, his eyes bulging, he had been Jekyll to her.

“You ok?”, he said.

Mona blushed remembering the many times during her first month in London when she had mistook this question for genuine concern. But she knew now that the English couldn’t care less how you are, it’s just a form of hello.

“You ok?,” she greeted him back.

That over with, he looked around bored.

You and me both, Jekyll, Mona thought.

Just then a burly man pushed past her, shoving her aside.

“Hey,” Mona said, “watch out!”

He whipped round, heaved a big backpack up his shoulders and threw her a cold look.

Mona froze.

Something stirred inside her brain but didn’t break the surface of her consciousness. Mona was looking into the eyes of her killer and deep down she recognised the danger.