The train is nearly on him now.

It feels preordained. Like it was written in the stars all along. A circular series of events destined to link back on themselves. He wonders if he even has a choice now, or if the path of time has already made this final decision for him. If it wasn’t going to end like this all along, surely none of what led him here would ever have happened.

Time, it seems, works in mysterious ways.

‘You know, don’t you?’ his guide says.

‘I do,’ Will answers. He can feel the pressure from the train approaching now.

‘You are a hero,’ his guide says.

He smiles at the ridiculous concept. Will Parks, a hero.

Even in these last seconds, he thinks again of the shoe-licking incident. Of Mick Touch’s words: Not one for playing the hero … act a bit braver than that when you’ve got an audience.

There’s no audience here. No show to put on. No playing of the action hero.

Yet he is about to save the lives of hundreds of people. He is simply doing what must be done. No promise of applause. No status to be gained. No glory to bask in.

Will Parks. Wimp. Pussy. About to save the day.

‘Even if no one knows what you did. Or why you did it. You are a hero.’ His guide nods with the words. A Magician’s Nod.

And he’s gone.

For the first time in months, on these snow-covered marshes, Will is completely alone.

The train is unimaginably large.

Will loads up his left foot, sure it has good purchase on the slippery ground. The wind ramps. Snowflakes whip into tiny tornadoes. This is the last light to pass Will Parks’ eyes.

Not yet.

Not yet.

Now.

Will jumps.

His final thoughts are of April. And of Nain. And, lastly, of Beppo. Dear old Beppo.

There’s a fleeting instant when Will and the train driver are eye to eye through the windscreen.

The driver’s arm reflexes up, as if to protect her own face. There is a dull thump.

Cracks shoot across the glass. Wipers paint the screen red. Emergency brakes are applied.

It is done.

A Narrow Escape

Most of the children on the bus don’t even notice it coming. They’re still too revved up from the evening they’ve had to realize the danger they’re in. Just one or two, sitting nearest the right-hand windows, spooked by the sounding alarm, look along the tracks. Despite the snow, they see the distant lights.

‘Try reverse,’ a dog walker yells to the bus driver through the open window.

The driver obliges. A howl of wheel spin. The bus rocks half a metre backwards.

‘Now forward,’ she shouts. ‘But gently. Gently this time.’

A year seven points through the window. He can see the train, distant but racing down on them. He’s open-mouthed. Can’t speak.