He jumped down from the platform onto the sleepers.

He stepped over the live rail.

The train drew nearer, a blast of warm air pouring out of the mouth of the tunnel.

Milton knelt down by the woman.

“No,” she said. “Leave me alone.”

He slipped one hand beneath her back and the other beneath her knees. She was slight and he lifted her easily. The train turned the final bend, its headlights shining brightly. Its horn sounded, shrill and sudden, and Milton knew it was going to be touch and go. He stepped over the live rail again and threw the woman up onto the platform. The train’s brakes bit, the locked wheels sliding across the metal with a hideous shriek, as Milton planted his hands on the lip of the platform and vaulted up, rolling away just as the engine groaned by, missing him by fractions.

He rolled over, onto his back, and stared up at the curved ceiling. His breath rushed in and out.

The train had stopped halfway into the station. The driver opened the door and sprinted down the platform towards him. “Are you alright, mate?”

“Fine. Check her.”

He closed his eyes and forced his breathing to return to a regular pattern. In and out, in and out.

“I thought you was a goner,” the driver said. “I thought I was gonna hit you both. What happened?”

Milton didn’t answer. The students had made their way down the platform and the driver turned his attention to them. They reported what they had seen in singsong, broken English: how the woman had lowered herself from the platform and laid herself out across the rails, how Milton had gone down after and pulled her away from danger.

“You’re a bloody hero, mate,” the driver said.

Milton closed his eyes again.

A hero?

He would have laughed if that wasn’t so ridiculous. It was a bad joke.

4

An ambulance arrived soon afterwards. Milton sat next to the woman on the bench as she was attended to by the paramedics. She had cried hysterically for five minutes but she quickly stopped and by the time the paramedics had arrived she was silent and unmoving, staring fixedly at the large posters for exotic holidays and duty-free goods that were plastered across the curved wall on the other side of the tracks.

One of the paramedics had taken the woman’s purse from her bag. “Is your name Sharon, love?” he asked. She said nothing. “Come on, love, you have to talk to us.”

She remained silent.

“We’re going to have to take her in,” the paramedic said. “I think she’s in shock.”

“I’ll come, too,” Milton said.

“Are you a friend?”

Leaving her now would be abandoning her. He had started to help and he wanted to finish the job. He would leave once her family had arrived.

“Yes,” he said.

“Come on, sweetheart, let’s get you checked out properly.”

Milton followed behind the ambulance as they took the woman to the Royal Free hospital. They wheeled her into a quiet room and made her a cup of warm tea, full of sugar. “We’re just waiting for the doctor,” they said to her. “Get that down you, it’ll make all the difference.”

“Thank you,” she murmured.

The paramedic turned to Milton. “Are you alright to stay with her? He’s on his way, but it might be twenty minutes.”

“Yes,” Milton said. “Of course.”

He took the seat next to the bed and watched the girl. She had closed her eyes and, after a few minutes, Milton realised that she had drifted into a shallow sleep. Her chest rose and fell with each gentle breath. Milton regarded her. Her hair was of the deepest black, worn cut square and low on the nape of her neck, fanned out on the white hospital linen to frame a sweet almond-shaped face. Her eyes were wide under finely drawn eyebrows, slightly up tilted at the corners. Her skin was a perfect chocolate-brown and bore no trace of makeup save a light lipstick on her wide and sensual mouth. Her bare arms were slender and her hands, folded beneath her breasts, were small and delicate. Her fingernails were chewed down, the red varnish chipped. There was no ring on her finger. The restaurant uniform was a utilitarian grey, lasciviously tight across her breasts. The trousers flowed down from a narrow, but not thin, waist. Her shoes were square-toed and of plain black leather. She was very pretty.

Milton let her rest.

5

She awoke a full two hours later. At first her pretty face maintained the serenity of sleep, but that did not last for very long; confusion clouded across it and then, suddenly, came a terrible look of panic. She struggled upright and swung her feet off the bed and onto the floor.

“It’s alright,” Milton said. “You’re in hospital. You’ve been asleep.”

“What time is it?”

“Six.”

“Jesus,” she said. “I’m so late. My boys — I need to be home.” She looked around, panicked. “Where are we?”

“Hospital.”

“No,” she said, pushing herself onto her feet. “I have to be home, my boys will be there, they won’t know where I am, they won’t have had their tea. No-one’s looking after them.”

“The doctor’s been. He wanted to speak to you. He’s coming back when you’re awake.”

“I can’t. And I’m fine, besides. I know it was a stupid thing to do. I’m not about to do it again. I don’t want to die. I can’t. They need me.” She looked into his face. Her expression was earnest and honest. “They can’t keep me in here, can they?”

“I don’t think so.”

She collected her bag from the chair and started for the door.

“How are you going to get home?” Milton asked her.

“I don’t know. Where is this?”

“The Royal Free.”

“Hampstead? I’ll get the train.”

“Let me drive you.”

“You don’t have to do that. I live in Dalston. That must be miles out of your way.”

“No, that’s fine. I live just round the corner — Islington.” It was a lie. “It’s not a problem.”

The medical staff were uncomfortable about their patient discharging herself but there was nothing that they could do to stop her. She was not injured, she appeared to be rational and she was not alone. Milton answered their reflexive concern with a tone of quiet authority that was difficult to oppose. She signed her discharge papers, politely thanked the staff for their care, and followed Milton outside.

Milton had parked in the nearby NCP building. He swept the detritus from the passenger seat, opened the door, waited until she was comfortable and then set off, cutting onto the Embankment. He glanced at her through the corner of his eye; she was staring fixedly out of the window, watching the river. It didn’t look as if she wanted to talk. Fair enough. He switched on the CD player and skipped through the discs until he had found the one he wanted to listen to, a Bob Dylan compilation. Dylan’s reedy voice filled the car as Milton accelerated away from a set of traffic lights.

“Thanks for this,” Sharon said suddenly. “I’m very grateful.”

“It’s not a problem.”

“My boy should be home. He’ll be wanting his tea.”

“What’s his name?”

“Elijah.”

“That’s a nice name.”

“His father liked it. He was into his Bible.”

“How old is he?”

“Fifteen. What about you? Do you have any kids?”

“No,” Milton said. “It’s just me.”

He pulled out and overtook a slow-moving lorry and she was silent for a moment.

“It’s because of him,” she said suddenly. “This morning — all that. I know it’s stupid but I didn’t know what else to do. I still don’t, not really. I’m at the end of my tether.”

“What’s happened?”

She didn’t seem to hear that. “I don’t have anyone else. If I lose him, there’s no point in carrying on.”

“Why don’t you tell me about it?” She looked out of the window, biting her lip. “How have you lost him?”

She clenched her jaw. Milton shrugged and reached for the radio.