The train reached Saint Ives at eleven.
The platform was white and bright and full of people, and I stood by the window of car six and watched two marshals in jackets walk Grant off the train with his hands behind his back. He did not look at me. He looked straight ahead, like a man who had booked a seat and found it occupied by someone else.
Bridget sat on the bench in the corridor with her cap in her lap and cried for twenty minutes. I stood there and let her.
When she was done she said, "I didn't know."
"You knew enough to push me."
She looked up, wet-faced. "You keep saying that. Grant said you got confused. He said you had a fall."
"On the first trip," I said, "you put your hands on my shoulders in the doorway of this car and pushed me into a knife. I remembered it every day for
