Jake walks on, crossing the field beside the railway line, the woman’s black bag of clothing slung over one shoulder like he’s Dick Whittington. He glances at Bex’s text again, hearing her Lancashire accent in the words. In the past, she’s always given him a hard time, thinks he spends all day ‘liggin’ about in bed. Now she’s offering him a place to stay. She must be with Kate. He’s sure of it. That’s where she was going yesterday when he met her on the station platform.

He puts his phone away, looks up and sees a man ahead of him, up by the pedestrian railway crossing on the far side of the field. Except that he’s not crossing the tracks, he’s just standing there, listless, glancing one way and then the other.

A knot tightens in Jake’s stomach. It looks like the man’s a rough sleeper: matted hair, torn trousers, a ripped jumper. Could be him in a few days if he doesn’t get a grip. Something’s not right, though. The sheep in the field beyond seem to glance up as one. The morning air is too still.

Jake increases his pace, walking more quickly now, adjusting the bag on his shoulder as he looks around him. The atmosphere today seems purer, the greens of the trees more saturated. His mind is clearer too, senses heightened. Life feels more real after last night. Precious.

A moment later, he drops the bag and breaks into a run. Because to his right, about half a mile away, an intercity train has appeared, curving around the bend to bear down on the crossing. And this time he’s not going to do nothing.

‘Stop!’ Jake calls out to the man. ‘Stop!’

The man either can’t hear Jake or has chosen to ignore him. He’s moved through the metal kissing gate and is standing now on the stone ballast beside the tracks. Jake is ten yards away, running hard, lungs starved of air. The train is almost at the crossing. And then he’s at the gate and spinning through it and lunging at the man as he steps forward.

The man swivels, his bloodshot eyes staring back at Jake, full of anger and fear. And maybe gratitude too.

‘Please,’ Jake says, breathless, gripping his arm.

Ten years ago, at Southall station in London, Jake saw a woman in trouble at the end of a platform and did nothing. A minute later she stepped out in front of a passing train, a sight – a sound – that has haunted him ever since. Now Jake braces himself for the man to tug himself free, but he doesn’t resist. Instead they both flinch as the intercity train hurtles past, carriage after carriage, the scream of its horn fading in the turbulent air.

25

Kate