Dusk falls but all the lights hold it up. A siren screams in the distance when the flock is shepherded out of the station by a ‘Keep to the left hand side please.’ Heads are down and eyes stare blankly at feet in front, as they stay in line at the correct distance apart from those ahead. A silent command is given, and the rows turn ninety degrees to the right. Heads turn ninety degrees to the right again, and they all stand still.
Five minutes pass and the flock becomes restless. One falls out of line to move closer to the front. Others follow. Most remain in their positions, heads still turned to the right, eyes transfixed. Then suddenly they see a flash of red up ahead. Feet stamp, and hot breath streams fiercely from nostrils. Fire fills vacant eyes. They come alive. The vision of red is now upon them and they charge forward. Old, young, barely born are pushed, knocked, crushed in the stampede. A youngster’s pitiful wail can be heard through the clip clopping of feet, forsaken by its mother for the thrill of the fight. The broken tension is intoxicating.
They’re now a mass of irrepressible bodies all battling to get to the front. Heads on heads, feet on toes, forearms on backs, pushing and shoving. Whites of eyes and teeth are on show when the dark side takes over. A foot kicks a leg in front, tempers flare and one rears up in anger. The downtrodden are now treading on. They barge their way into the red and it consumes them one by one. No one listens to the ‘No standing on the stairs please.’ The transformation is complete as the No. 2 heaves its way up the hill, home.
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