They called me a witness, and requested, no, demanded my presence down at the precinct. Did the voice on the other end of the line really say precinct, or did I suddenly see myself as a guest in some gritty New York crime drama? They said I might have seen something of value. I don’t know. But we need to catch them, whoever did this. We need to put them in chains and block up the lock of their cell with quick drying cement. People like that should be only fed through bars, and fatty fried food at that, so they come down with a coronary. And spit in their water bottles if you like, I don’t mind. Piss in them for all I care. They deserve the darkest dungeons, the lot of them. Or maybe there is just one out there who is responsible for the lot of it. I don’t know. But I kind of doubt it. These things take time, piles of planning. I knew it was no accident. Not that I’ve seen anything like that before. That was certainly a first. I went walking down that way again earlier in the week, just to look, to see if anything jumped out at me, jogged my memory. I just want to help. They need all the help they can get. How are we supposed to go on after something like that? So anyway, I crossed over and turned down the narrow street that runs past the bungalows and lush gardens, rising towards the bridge that now ends in the middle of the air. It was all so quiet. I stood around a while and waited to see if a train would come past. But I couldn’t even hear a bird. I was pretty sure that I could smell something distasteful somewhere but I might have been imagining it. All the same I checked under the soles of my shoes. Nothing was there, just some sort of dust, from all the crushed concrete perhaps. The concertina I inherited from my grandfather now reminds me of that morning, the way the carriages were piled up.
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