No turning back now.

We don’t look at one another. We don’t speak. We don’t have to.

The rope has a loop at either end, already tied to save time. One loop is larger than the other. We don’t remember preparing this, or storing the bag in our home. But we did. This day has been coming.

We didn’t know when.

We don’t know each other.

Not really.

And we lean forwards, each facing our corresponding upright girder. It could be choreographed. Street art. Some deathly art installation. We pull the small-looped end round the pole and thread the larger loop through the hole. It is secure.

We turn back to the east. The derelict power station to the right looms large on the cityscape, casting a darkness where trains penetrate Battersea.

The next to emerge from the silhouetted spires will be our cue.

We won’t have to say go.

Or jump.

Or count down from three.

We’ll just know.

As the carriage appears, the words will not rhyme, the debt will vanish, the love will rekindle. As the brakes commence their screaming and the wheels cease to turn, nobody becomes less, nobody becomes less, nobody becomes less, and Young Levant is a success.

The doctor just wanted to help.

We gave you a parking ticket. We do yoga in the village hall. We deliver political leaflets through your door. We denied your insurance claim.

And we stand facing the shadow that is our future, our eternity, the large loop in our hands held at our stomachs. The rope is still slack behind us. Cars pass but do not notice, do not care; The thirty-two witnesses are still safely tucked behind a building in the distance; the cameraman still films nothing worthwhile.

The nose of the first carriage ekes its way out into the light and we know it is time. We understand what we have to do and that there is no turning back. It travels forty yards, fifty yards, sixty, before the wheels screech as, brakes straining, they increase their friction against the rails, every passenger compartment now in view from our location.

If we can see them, they can see us.

The larger loop drops over the top of our head, the stray fibres grazing our face or rubbing our neck. We tighten slightly.

So we don’t fall out.

Come loose.

Escape.

We are The People of Choice.

And our choice has been made.

EARLIER THAT DAY

15

225–226 – LOVERS

The boys sit down at the table, innocent and unknowing of their impending fate. Unaware that their parents are going to leave them. That they will make them orphans. There is still a chance to get out of this but it would need both of them to take it.

Because they are linked.

They come as a package.

But these lovers are on autopilot. And that is their problem.