He’s on the marshes now. White and unblemished in the moonlight, rolling gently down towards the sea, this landscape would be bleakly beautiful on a different day.

‘Please,’ he says again as he runs. ‘Please …’

His feet thump out a rhythm. To his left, in the distance, an orange haze hangs over the town. Smoke rises from chimneys. Most people are safe and warm indoors, blissfully unaware of how their world will be shaken off its axis if Will doesn’t fix this in time. He imagines for a second that he’s watching himself from above, running bloodied and broken and crying across these fields.

Will’s at the marsh road now. Almost at the very spot where Danny left April and him after the fight at the bowling alley. He can almost see the railway line. Without the snow, it would be in clear sight. Is there still time? It feels like he’s been running for hours.

A minute later and he’s there. He stops for a moment beside the rails. To his left, the tracks lead dead straight into Ebbswick, the level crossing half a mile away. To his right, the tracks begin to curve, following the coastline. That’s the direction from which the express will come, racing at eighty miles per hour towards the town. Visibility is limited, but there’s no sign or sound of it just yet.

The ground between the rails is the best for running on, flat and with no hazards lurking in the snow. Progress is good to start with. But then a foot lands wrong against the leading edge of a twisted sleeper. Will’s momentum carries him five or more metres before he sprawls flat on his front.

He raises himself on to his hands and knees, takes a second to gather his breath. A stiff gust of wind kicks the falling snow clear of the ground. For a moment he can see along the straight tracks to the lit-up crossing five hundred metres away.

Initially the way is clear. And then, like a sliding door closing, the flank of the number 83 bus blocks the line. There’s a delay in the noises reaching Will: metallic clanks as the chassis grounds, the squeal of skidding tyres, the panicked revving of a diesel engine.

‘No,’ Will whines. ‘No!’

He’s not yet back on his feet when he hears another sound from the distant level crossing. The alarm bleating, warning of an approaching train.

All Change

The face is close to Will’s. They stare silently at each other in the middle of the tracks.

It’s how calm he suddenly feels that surprises Will. How calm he feels for someone who’s come face to face with, what, his own ghost?

Here he stands with his informer, his mystery messenger. His guide. Another version of himself. Himself, dying.

‘I’m too late,’ Will says.