Time drifts. Soon it is full daylight and the thick wad of cloud that has filled the sky until now melts away. Sunlight appears, as if by magic – who would have thought that would happen, after such an unwilling dawn? As I glide towards the waiting room, two young women exit together, stopping on Platform Seven and standing next to each other without speaking, tipping their faces to the sky in a small act of worship: winter sun, always such an unexpected gift.

Mid-morning, midweek: how quiet the station seems now the rush hour has gone. The commuters have disappeared. The sky above is clear and blue; the air is light. By noon, it will, for a short while, feel positively balmy.

I can’t see any trainspotters on Platform Seven this morning. I’ve got quite fond of them. I know most of them by sight and admire their dedication and their enquiring spirit: philosophy for the working classes. A lot of them are on first-name terms with the staff and they will be concerned for them when they hear what has happened. Unlike most of the travelling public, they would never dream of being rude to a staff member. They know better than most the sort of things the staff have to deal with on a daily basis.

Half a dozen passengers are sitting in the waiting room. The young man behind the mobile coffee cart is playing tinkly tsk-tsk music too quietly for anyone to hear but loud enough to irritate everyone. Four of the six people have earphones in anyway and five of the six sit frowning at their phones. The tannoy bleats, from time to time. Passengers are reminded to keep all personal belongings with them at all times. Not just hang on to your stuff please, but keep all of your belongings with you at all times.

Not long after this reminder, there comes the testy request that the owner of the suitcase on Platform Six return to it immediately. The sixth person in the waiting room, the only one without a phone or headphones, is an elderly woman with white curls and thick glasses – a little old lady straight out of central casting – who is standing by the cart pouring sugar into her coffee. At the sound of this announcement, she looks around and realises that, yes, the disembodied voice is referring to her. She frowns a little, clearly annoyed that she is receiving this public rebuke. The suitcase on Platform Six is fully visible to her through the glass wall of the waiting room and she knows that it contains not explosive devices but socks and jumpers – she’s on her way to spend a few days with her son and daughter-in-law in Sheffield and their new baby. They’ve called the baby Ivan and she disapproves.