There was a problem, Alfie realized, with how they educated you about illegal substances in school – all that ‘drugs are bad’ business. Because, ten minutes after vacuuming up his first line, it was apparent he hadn’t been told the whole truth. Contrary to many a PSHE lesson, Alfie didn’t slide into addiction within the week. In fact, prioritizing his financial commitments at home meant he only allowed himself to get on gear once every week or two. The highs might only have lasted for the few hours in which he and his new-found mates were holding, but Alfie found himself immune to this ‘comedown’ that everyone else talked of. Instead, in those early days, the benefit of a good session stayed with him for days after. It was a vision of himself on best possible form. Because the thing about cocaine, he was beginning to find, is that it makes you immune to all the right things. One sharp sniff and in minutes you are the person you wish you always were. For someone whose brief was to be The Man, it was wonder powder. No fears, no creeping self-doubt. A drug that makes you everything a man should be. What’s not to like?

It’s nearly daylight now, but visibility is no better. The fog seems even thicker, even icier to the touch. Alfie’s left foot scuffs along the rail as he treads from one sleeper to the next. He hears a metallic buzz, like distant mosquitos. Resting his trainer on the metal, he feels a swelling vibration. Gazing pointlessly into the fog, he wonders how far away the train is.

A gale-force blast of air wallops into him, the frozen cushion amassed in front of the racing locomotive. At the very last second, Alfie sees the lights, exploding from two tiny dots into two massive glowing discs, like giant hands intent on grabbing him. He jumps down the embankment, rolling in the mud and weeds.

Five thousand tons of coastal express train thunder past his head at eighty miles per hour. It rattles his organs in their cavity. A sheet of wind cracks in the void after the last carriage passes. The driver must have seen him jump clear, a needless blast of horn Dopplering into the distance. And then quiet, just the fading buzz of rails again.

Alfie draws himself up to his knees. He feels light-headed. Mud is thick on his palms and elbows; they smell of school-football-field misery. There’s almost a smile as he stumbles to his feet on the slippery ground. Close one.

Funny thing – the survival instinct. Even this near to the end, every synapse had been in use to save his own skin.