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I have completed the first draft of my novel, Turnstiles. Here is an excerpt:

The train was slowing down, and the relentless, hypnotic message in the click clacking of the wheels could almost be deciphered. As soon as the train was in the station, Martin and Evelyn stumbled through the passenger door like newborns coming into a strange world. Once they stepped foot on the dirty platform they were disoriented, but kept running. As they came into the terminal, their mad dash dissipated into a jog so as not to bring unnecessary attention to themselves. Although their appearances brought notice, they were perceived as a young couple running to catch a taxi, rather than fugitive-types fleeing from a pursuit on their lives.



... The queue inched forward, person-by-person, going over the edge. Martin shuffled down the human conveyor belt until he, too, had to state his destination and was handed a ticket. This rectangular piece of paper, which could be torn so easily, was his passport to a new life or an extension of his old life. Even though his daily regimen in Hyde Park had been tethered and desolate, it was a familiar place. And more than twice today, Martin had questioned himself of what he was doing. Why he was doing it. Oddly enough, there were no real answers and he could no longer justify his doubts.


“Track seventeen,” the man in the conductor’s hat announced sharply from behind the counter. When asked about his destination, Martin squeaked, “Paris.” Not because he ever had the desire to stroll through the streets of Paris, but simply because he knew about the Chunnel. Paris would not be a far journey, geographically, and he was taking baby steps. He spoke no French – but he knew how to be silent and still make his way. Martin sat on one of the rickety benches that lined the platform on track seventeen. They were planted like telephone poles until they miniaturized and disappeared. He looked to his left and remembered he was at the end, or the beginning. Those seated at the far end perhaps believed the same thing, he mused. He had no luggage with him. An elderly couple seated on the bench next to him acknowledged his youth, and smiled. He wondered if they were marvelling at him, thinking to themselves, 'must be wonderful to be young and free,' and remembering, even though they were headed in the same direction. He smiled back, not really understanding what he was smiling about. The train he was waiting for could be taking him to the end of the earth.