He has heard these vehicles referred to as ‘sweat boxes’, and he now understands why; hot and marinating in adrenaline, he sits in a claustrophobic sweat in the small cubicle, his nose twitching at the acrid stink of B.O. The air around him is stifling and heavy, and it is not just the stench of unwashed men that makes it hard to breathe. He leans back, trembling, against the plastic headrest. On his right, central London passes by the small, dark-tinted window, a porthole to the world he is no longer a part of.

Men clamour and bang on the walls, yell and swear in a cacophony of different languages. He continues to stare out the window, focusing on the men and women bustling along the London street, trying to absorb the to-and-fro of business suits, pencil skirts and briefcases as if he could somehow osmose himself back into that world. The window darkens, perhaps the sun ducking behind a cloud. The noise around him builds, the vehicle judders and jolts, the seat punches him in the back of the head. His vision blurs and he now sees only his reflection, his thin-mouthed grimace and moist, erubescent eyes.

There are perhaps eight or nine other men onboard, each in their own cubicle, and the increasing ruckus drags his attention ineluctably from the window. Loud voices compete such that he can make out only snippets of conversation. A couple of Russians are engaged in a boisterous discussion; having seen them earlier as they were escorted into the van, their loud, aggressive voices are just what he expects from their large, aggressive bulk. He remembers a little Russian, from several years ago, from happier travelling times. The conversation ends when one yells, “ Mne pokhuy sto ty govoryshch!” He knows that if you say it to the wrong guy, you’ll end up accidentally falling out of a high-rise window.

From the cubicle behind someone yells, in English, “Yo bruv, d’ya see that new guy?”

“Yeah!” The reply bellows from another cubicle, somewhere in front of him.

“Looked like he gonna fuckin faint, bruv!”

“Yeah … ha ha!” The heat, sweat beading on his forehead, dripping uncomfortably down his back, does not suppress his shiver at the cold laughter.

The door to his left has a small window, and through this he makes out the large hulk of a man in the adjacent cubicle, across the narrow aisle down the centre of the van – the sort of guy you see on TV in American prisons, the sort of guy who's usually called Bubba. He leans back quickly, wondering just how secure the doors are. There's only one guard on the van, and he is no bigger than Bubba’s thigh. Leaning back, he hopes he can’t be seen through the small window. He keeps his eyes locked on the wall in front.

He notices scratched into this wall, about two feet in front of his face, what strikes him as the most cultured graffito he has ever seen: I’d yield me to the Devil instantly, did it not happen that myself am he. Below this, scratched by the same hand but somewhat less philosophically, and Mullish is a Cunt! He thinks, I don’t remember the latter in Goethe’s original Faust.