You head towards the bit of the station where you remember the door to the stairwell being, find it and open it. You’d forgotten how bad it is in here - or, no, not forgotten, but assumed your imagination had exaggerated it: the stink of piss, knocked-over cans of Carling, a matted scrap of tinfoil. You’ll be quick: you jog up the steps taking in three at a time.
You’re out of breath and sweating by the time you reach the top. The door to the roof is already ajar, inched open by the drift of snow pressing against it.
You can read the full thing for free online here.