Rick has joined his idol, Richard Dawkins, in the Great Nothingness to which he and his friends in the Righteous Non-Believers Society subscribed. One of the most popular societies at April’s university, it seems to have been largely an excuse for the kind of nihilistic drinking which students have a long tradition of enjoying. But there was a serious core to it. In the decade since Dawkins’s death, radical atheism has only grown in popularity, especially among the young.

Without his noticing, the train has come to a halt. A brief announcement: there will be a delay due to ‘passenger trespass’.

A troublesome thought scuttles across his mind – briefly visible, then hidden in shadow – and as if in response, his phone vibrates on his nipple. The opening bars of Beethoven’s Fifth: his wife. The choice of tune once amusing, now true: Jules is ever the harbinger of drama.

Finlay. You’ve had your phone off again. I was that close to calling the police.

It isn’t actually a crime, he replies. And it wasn’t off. Must have been the signal.

I was watching the rail network website. There’s a body on the line.

It isn’t mine.

Her anxiety is a strategy for keeping him alive. She imagines her worry a thread that connects them and tugs him back to his responsibilities, insurance against his falling off the end of the world.

Clearly, clever man. Listen, Tom rang the house. He’s had his mobile stolen, he couldn’t remember your number. You’re meeting him, yes? Later?

That was the plan.

Logan holds himself still, as one holds a door to stop it swaying in a strong wind. His wife is jittery.

He told me to tell you seven o’clock in the Battle of Trafalgar. Your kind of place, he said. Just up from the station. You can’t text him because—

He’s had his mobile stolen. You said. You believe that?

In his own head, he is clear: the story is a convenient way for his son to avoid meeting him on campus. God knows what Tom has said to his friends in the beer-soaked confessions so common among bonding freshers. My father abandoned me when I was two. My father is an arsehole. Whatever Tom has said, his father’s turning up in person among them is now too embarrassing to contemplate. They’d agreed he would text when this meeting with Dr Salmon was over, and Tom would reply with directions to his halls of residence, but now it was to be a quick half by the station and Dad safely back on the train with none of his new mates any the wiser.

Jules has paused long enough to let him know she has considered the matter.

Tom’s flaky, Fin, but he’s not a liar. Are you—?

I’m fine.