‘Thank you!’ he called cheerfully – but both baristas were involved in their work. The first was talking to a customer, and Zara had her back to him. In any case, the noise of the coffee machine would have prevented her from hearing his voice. He left the café and used the toilet. Then it was back towards the barriers, and up the steps of the footbridge where he paused to watch a freight train coming through. There would have been an announcement, warning everyone to stand back: ‘Stand well away from the edge of platform two. The approaching train is not scheduled to stop at this station.’

He knew the voice.

They used a man for that particular announcement, and it was still the old-fashioned received-pronunciation type of voice. He sounded just like your teacher controlling the scrum at the tuck-shop window: ‘Stand back! Wait!’

Don’t get caught in a vortex of air, and be sucked down onto the tracks. Stand behind the yellow line, and hold onto your buggies. Press yourself against the wall – link arms with anyone nearby, just in case you’re drawn to the edge and lost. There are no Steves here with a garden rake, so hold on tight!

The engine smashed through beneath him. Every wagon it drew clanked and heaved, for they were all made of iron and steel. Every one carried the same sort of container: the long, hard-edged metal box of sheer weight, bearing down on those severing wheels – he felt the bridge-floor vibrating under his feet – and he could have jumped. It would have been a quick movement, over the vaulting horse at school – he could do it now if he hoisted himself and rolled.

The containers flipped by beneath him, one by one, and his legs were too heavy. He watched them, recalling the sequences in films when the hero – or the villain – would drop from above, to make his getaway. Light as a cat, he would drop neatly into a crouch, steadying himself before running along the whole long length of the train. How many movies used that stunt?

Michael found that he was smiling again.

It was quite ludicrous. If anyone dropped onto the train below, he would be clipped by one of the hard edges and thrown upwards. A man would somersault, and end up either flat on the platform or broken on the tracks – unless he fell between the containers themselves, of course, and slid down under the wheels where he would be rolled, and chopped and dragged by the axles. His clothes would be snagged on bolts and hooks, and ripped clear of the flesh, which would be cut again and again, minced up and mashed. Someone would then have to make dry remarks about needing a bucket.

‘He won’t need a coffin,’ someone would laugh. ‘A couple of carrier bags will do for that one.’

‘Who was he? Here’s a shoe, look at this! There’s a card inside…’