Platform Seven is very quiet. It is cold and the waiting room is still open so most of the people waiting are in there, that’s what it’s for. There are only three people standing outside. I can see a middle-aged woman a little nearer than the other two, looking this way with what I think is a small frown of disapproval. Perhaps she noticed the smoking, or the smell has drifted down the platform. I think, for God’s sake, don’t be so bloody English, go and complain. But there is no one around to complain to, the train isn’t due yet, and she turns away. She can’t be bothered because he’s a young man breaking a rule and is no doubt thinking to herself, a young man being a horrible young man and not a young man in distress.

And then I hear it, in the distance: thunder and rumble. It’s coming towards us in the dark – a freight train, getting nearer by the second, the growing and portentous sound of it. This one is slower than the one that killed the man a week ago – I can hear a high-pitched screeching, an orchestral note along with the rumble and thunder – but I can still see the two bright yellow headlights, just like before, distant and disembodied, the edges wavery but the centre of them solid, heading towards us.

Caleb rises from the bench. He walks towards the edge of the platform quite calmly, there is no inching forward like the older man – he has more courage, perhaps, is even more resolute. I am suspended above him and half of me is screaming no and half of me is thinking yes … yes! The freight train continues its rumbling advance. It’s a long one, a great monster of dirty white, dark ochre, moss-green MAERSK containers in an endless screeching train. Yes, it’s slower, but it is vast and hard and doesn’t need to be going quickly to do its job.

Caleb is right on the edge of the platform now. He leans forward.

Freight trains happen in three acts. In Act One, they are distant, barely audible, then in Act Two they fill the air with metal and sound, with the ineluctability of themselves. Act Three, they are gone, the rear end of the final carriage is postage-stamp-sized in the distance and there is only the metallic tang in your nostrils, an echo of noise.

It is Act Two. The train rushes in, faster than I thought – at this proximity it is huge and deafening.