June 9

It happens so quickly.

Two pigeons searching for food down the side of the track, inches away from the line. A fast train from Waterloo approaches. Usually it blows its horn, showing off, the driver trying to scare the suburban adventurers waiting on the platform.

Today it doesn’t. A driver concentrating on the track ahead. Never saw the pigeons. Why would he (or she? How many female train drivers are there?)

The pigeons saw the train at the last minute. They make a feeble, panicking attempt to fly up. They knock into each other and then into the path of the oncoming train, two blotchy billiard balls. They hit the train with a crunchy thud.

Like two bullets they are fired out across the platform. One smashes into a column and explodes over it, spreading its floppy pigeon form around three concrete sides. The second shoots down the platform and hits a waiting man wearing a smart suit. His briefcase takes the impact. The head, already half-off, slices to the side. Blood from the body splats up the suit wearing man, who staggers, shakes his head. Looks down. Jumps back, far too late but he can’t help the adrenaline reaction. He shakes his suitcase and entrails slip away and slap down on the platform.

There are gasps and cries of disgust. The suited man turns around, as dazed as the pigeons would have been if they had been luckier or quicker. The woman in the kiosk comes out with some towels and, holding her mouth, she offers them to him. Other people back off. The suited man gags. Somebody starts laughing, perhaps in shock, perhaps just because they found it funny.