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her. She jumped to her feet, startled. Her shoes slipped on the shiny surface of the painted platform edge and, yet more ignominy, she fell on her back, landing painfully on the concrete floor with a yell.
    It must be the sprinkler system, she thought, set off by accident. And yet, as she looked up, covering her face with her hands, she could see no sign of any such thing.
    Great. Now she was definitely going to be late. There was no way she could go in to work wet and dirty. She’d have to run back home and change.
    ‘Hey!’ she shouted, meaning to call the attention of someone. ‘There’s something wrong with the …’
    There was a woman stood on the tracks a short distance away. She was dressed all in white, her hair was long, black and straight, hanging over her face as the water rained down on her.
    ‘Get up from there!’ Sonia shouted. ‘The track is electrified!’
    But that seemed the least of the woman’s problems as a blast of cool air pushed along the platform ahead of the distant sound of the approaching train.
    ‘Quickly!’ Sonia shouted, not caring for the state of her clothes any more, moving along the platform, and holding her hand out to the woman. ‘The train’s coming, you’ve got to move.’
    It briefly occurred to her that if the woman took her hand and touched the electrified rail, they could both be killed. She pushed the thought away – she couldn’t think about that, not if there was a chance she could get this girl to safety.
    Absurdly, she thought of her son, impressed by Mummy’s real super heroics when she tells him about this later. To hell with being invisible, she thought, I’m Underground Girl and I’m the best hero in the business.
    The woman in white looked up at her extended hand. Her movements were slow. Was she drugged?
    The sound of the train filled the platform, only seconds away.
    ‘Quickly!’ Sonia shouted again, shaking her proffered hand. ‘Grab hold.’
    The woman in white just stared. Watching as Sonia, over-balanced, fell forwards. As the first Northern Line train to High Barnet exploded out of the tunnel, Sonia found herself slapped across the front of it. Later she will be discussed in angry tones by commuters irritated at the brief delay caused to their journey.

CHAPTER THREE: THE MEETING
    a) Offices of Belgrade Entertainments, Soho, London
    ‘What you must remember, Mr Fisher,’ announced Belgrade, the renowned psychic, media darling and bullshitter, stroking at a waxed moustache, the only point of interest on a chubby face that looked to have been sculpted from butter, ‘is that I can only establish communication with the other side with your help. I need constant affirmation from you, I need to hear your voice, I need to feel you’re part of the conversation I am trying to establish and conduct. Does that make sense?’
    ‘Certainly,’ replied the man who was calling himself Mr Fisher. He unbuttoned his jacket, shifted forward in his seat and gave the psychic his undivided attention.
    This was difficult in a room so filled with distraction. Belgrade (real name: Martin Lumpkin, a surname ill-suited to theatrical posters and onscreen captions) surrounded himself with the treasure of his profession. His office was every bit the equal of any theatrical stage he had performed on. Shelves were filled with copies of his books (in several languages, though the lies remained the same), stacked alongside other works of a suitably esoteric nature. ‘Mr Fisher’ had no doubt that Belgrade had read none of these other books, though it was clear that he had spent some considerable time making it appear as if he had done so, creasing their spines and filling their pages with bookmarks and Post-it notes.
    At the end of every shelf, sculptures and busts held the books in place. From a phrenology head with false craquelure finish to a bust of Edgar Cayce, the effect was that of being watched by countless dead eyes, which certainly chimed with Belgrade’s