He held up his tablet, slowly, and took a photograph of the rails. He stepped to one side, and Michael realised he was actually filming, panning slowly from right to left to take in the whole side of the station – and there could be no reason for it, for who would ever ask to see that sequence of film? Who was waiting at home, yearning to watch an empty section of this particular station on a September afternoon? If Michael walked onto the line now, would he carry on filming? Would he show it to a journalist, and get his great-grandson to upload everything onto some website where the world could enjoy Michael’s last moments, and comment on them?

‘Phew, look at this one – whoa! #Splat! (57 likes)’

The old man flipped the cover, and put the tablet under his arm.

‘That’s it for today,’ he said softly. ‘I’ve run out of time.’

‘Is it late?’

‘It is for me. I’m ready for a cup of tea.’

Michael smiled.

‘Where do you go for that?’ he said.

‘Oh, here and there. Different places.’

He didn’t want Michael to know. He didn’t want the conversation to resume – he just had to get away.

‘Goodbye,’ said Michael.

‘What?’

‘I said goodbye. Have a nice afternoon – it was nice to chat.’

The man nodded.

He turned and walked carefully off. His legs were not reliable, and he should have had a stick. Michael didn’t watch him for long, but turned back to stare at the warehouses. He thought of those poor women again, forced to expose themselves in magazines. The ones he’d seen had held their legs wide open so their genitalia were like a wound, and he remembered hard, glassy eyes – a sense that he was looking at corpses, mutilated by a madman.

Deep in thought, he didn’t hear the announcement, or the approach of the train he’d been waiting for. It was suddenly on him, hurtling in from behind on his very own platform – not platform seven after all. He’d missed the warning and there it went, its slipstream rocking him so hard that he found himself cowering. It really was the train he’d planned to be in front of: the absolutely punctual non-stop express, just a blur of red blazing through at fifty miles per hour with a confidence and purpose that Michael found shocking. Even if he ran at it, he’d simply be bounced off the side. He’d spin and tumble like a clown, and there he’d be on his back looking up from the ground – would he laugh at himself, he wondered, as the staff gathered round him? He’d have to listen to his very own announcement:

‘If there’s a doctor in the station, could you please make your way to platform…’

‘Let me go,’ he’d say. ‘Don’t save me.’