He went quickly out onto the platform and contemplated the distance he would have to walk or run, to get onto the tracks. He could jump, of course – simply step into the path of the locomotive – over the top, as it were, if he had the courage. All he had to do was run, now, and dive, and the rails were throbbing. They were pulsing, in fact singing with excitement, for closer and closer came the train and there was no need to brake. The signal is green, and everyone else is standing back. The driver stares forward, for the hardest thing in a train driver’s day, apparently, is the mesmerising miles of unfurling track.

Had he noticed Michael, getting ready to jump? Presumably not, and what would he do if he had? The great steel snout was hammering through, drilling into its own tornado. It was a freight train again, and Michael willed himself into its path and could not do it – he hit a wall, and he just couldn’t smash his way through – he needed the captain’s whistle, and the sergeant’s command. He needed to be picked up and thrown.

He stood still, and the gale broke over him. He was rocked back onto his heels as the wagons came past – at least thirty seconds’ worth of train, and when the last was gone Michael looked at the rails and wondered what would have happened, and what state his own body would have been in. The severed head had a minute or two of consciousness, so he’d been told: he’d be looking up at the white sky even now, as it faded to black.

What if he’d managed it? The train would be grinding slowly to a halt as the poor driver shouted and cried. The controller in Gloucester or Worcester would have been alerted, and all rail traffic would stop. The Samaritans would scramble a team, for everyone involved in the aftermath needs help – the driver, the passengers, the people on the platform where the incident took place as well as those living close to the line. The dead man’s final gift to the world is the traumatising of those forced to look at what’s left of him.

He found he was sobbing.

The weather had broken in his head completely, and down came the rain again. He was furious with himself and bewildered. He remembered school, and his failure in high-jump. Physical education, and his inability to vault the horse, for most boys seemed to sail over it but he never did – he’d funk it. ‘Funk’ was a word from the distant past, but that’s the word they’d used.