Laura and Mahmood

 Cardiff, 3rd September 1952

Rain was falling, slowly but steadily, not too heavy, but enough to keep most people indoors if they could help it. But Laura Mattan was not concerned by this: in her blue raincoat and headscarf, she made her way across the streets towards her destination: Cardiff Prison. For that was where he was, her husband, Mahmood, watched over all day and night, only allowed to leave his cell once a day for an hour of exercise, fed on the meanest of diets. She shuddered when she thought of it: what a horrible existence. But, she thought, he would soon be cheered when he saw her.

But when she reached the prison gate, she froze. There was a notice pinned there, and it read: "Today at 9 am Judgement of Death was executed on Mahmood Hussein Mattan for the murder of Lily Volpert. The execution was carried out expeditiously and without a hitch."

For a moment Laura stared in horror at the notice, struggling to take in what it said. Then she cried out:

"No! No! No! It can't be!"

She began to cry. Poor Mahmood, dragged to the gallows and killed in so awful a fashion, and for something he didn't do. She sobbed even louder as she recalled that she would never see him again, they would never embrace again, he would never see David, Omar and Eddie grow up. Sadness mixed with anger as she felt the cruel injustice of it all. She remembered Mahmood's barrister, Thomas Rhys-Roberts, addressing the jury.

"You have to ask yourself this question when you saw him: 'What is he? Half, child of nature; half, semi-civilised savage?' ".

Her Mahmood, a semi-civilised savage? She was furious now. This brave, intrepid man, who had left his home in British Somaliland to join the Merchant Navy? The man who had made a new life for himself in Tiger Bay? This kind, generous man who had loved her and their sons?

Then that was that lying Jamaican, Harold Cover, who had told the court he had seen Mahmood walking away from the shop about that time that poor Miss Volpert had been killed. Impossible! Mahmood could not have done it, she knew that. Cover had lied, she knew it, and one day everyone else would realise it as well.

Still weeping, she bowed her head as she recalled the black cap being placed on the head of Mr. Justice Ormerod, before he pronounced the dreadful words:

"Mahmood Hussein Mattan, the sentence of the court upon you is that you be taken from this place to a lawful prison, and thence to a place of execution, and there suffer death from hanging, and that your body be interred within the precincts of the prison in which you were last confined before your execution, and may the Lord have mercy on your soul."

Mahmood, she remembered, had stood facing the judge as sentence was passed, showing no emotion. How brave he had been, how calm, how dignified.

Then she remembered seeing Mahmood in prison, just two days ago. He had then said:

"If these people in here kill me, you leave me in here until you find the man that did kill that woman."

She also remembered them laughing, and how they had held each other tightly. How warm, how soothing that had felt.

"Don't worry", Mahmood had then said. "I'll be with you soon. They won't kill me."

She cried even harder on recalling this. Then she remembered how they had met: Mahmood had stopped her in the street one day, saying, "I think you nice girl". She had been rather flattered by this, and smiled at him, and he had then invited her to go to the cinema with him. She had hesitated, knowing that her family would not have wanted her to date a black man, but she had agreed to it in the end. She also remembered the hostility they had faced, the buckets of water doused over her, the shouts of "black man's whore", and "you've brought shame on us all", and how in the end they had had to separate. Yet Mahmood had never seemed to understand this, it had never occurred to him that there were people who hated him for the colour of his skin. That was why, she thought, that was why the police had been able to build a case against him, because he was black.

Next thing she knew, she felt two strong but gentle hands around either side of her body. She briefly wondered if she might be in Heaven, with Mahmood, but then she heard the voice of her mother, Elizabeth Williams:

"Laura, are you OK?"

Suddenly she realised she was now lying face down: she must have collapsed from all her crying.

"They killed him, Mam, they killed him . . .", she said, breathing through heavy sobs.

Laura found herself being lifted off the ground and stood up, facing her mother. Elizabeth glanced at the prison gates, and having seen the notice of execution, turned back to face Laura.

"Well", she said, "I'm afraid there's nothing you can do about it now, and, who knows, maybe one day you'll find a better man."

Laura gave her mother a blank stare.

"But he was innocent, and they killed him", she pleaded.

"He might still be alive if he'd agreed with what I said in the trial", Elizabeth replied.

Laura didn't answer. She remembered how Elizabeth had testified that Mahmood had called at their house just after eight o'clock in the evening on the fateful day, just 10 to 15 minutes before the murder - a virtually cast-iron alibi - but Mahmood had denied this, insisting that he had visited some 20 minutes earlier than this.

"I think it's time to come home now", said Elizabeth. She put her arm around Laura, who did not resist. Rather awkwardly, Elizabeth supported her daughter, who was shaking violently, until they arrived at 8 Davis Street. Once inside the house, Laura broke free of her mother, and made her way to the room where she and the boys slept, locked the door and once again gave free vent to her emotions.

Four-year-old David popped his head out from under his blanket.

"What's happened, Mam?", he asked.

"It's . . . your Dad", sobbed Laura. "He's dead."

"Dead?", exclaimed David. Omar and Eddie, who had been having a play fight in the corner, immediately stopped and looked at their mother.

"Drowned. Lost at sea", said Laura, before once again giving in to her tears. The three boys all ran to her, and she held them tight as, if anything, her crying became even louder.

And so it went on, for weeks and weeks afterwards. In the end, Laura ached so badly from crying, that she had to be taken to hospital. After she was discharged, she desperately hoped that someone, anyone, would show some kindness to her and her boys, but instead people crossed the street when they saw her coming, or would point at her saying "There's the wife of a woman killer", or would shout "killer's wife" or "you married a murderer" at her, and when she insisted that there was no way Mahmood could possibly have done it, they would laugh and sneer at her. She would go into shops, waiting in the queue, but when it was her turn to be served, the assistant would instead serve the next person, pretending she wasn't there.

Ely, mid-1950s

The glass shattered with a piercing, ominous noise. Laura looked up, terrified: there were shards of glass all over the living room, and a large brick in the middle of the floor. The three boys ran to the corner of the room. More bricks, and some tins, flew through the newly formed gap in the window. She could hear shouts of "Out! Get out of our street!": she looked up, and saw a large crowd outside the house. She heard a noise at the door and ran to the porch to investigate: someone seemed to kicking it. She bowed her head: about a year after Mahmood's death, she had moved to Ely, hoping for a fresh start, but that nasty gossip Hilda had spilt the beans, and the abuse and the threats had started all over again.

"Mammy".

She looked up: David, quivering with fear, had made his way to the porch.

"Yes, darling", she said.

"Why are they doing these things to us?"

"It's . . ." she began, and then stopped. What could she tell him?

"Is it about Daddy?", he asked.

"No", she said hastily.

David stared at her.

"Then why . . . ?"

"It's nothing", said Laura. "Please just . . . let's get back in the living room shall we." She spoke in a firm voice that brooked no argument. David looked at her again for a moment, but then obeyed. Laura followed him slowly, wondering when it might be right to tell the truth.

The following day, Laura went to the local police station to call on Detective Chief Inspector Harry Power, telling him about what had happened the previous night.

"So, Mrs. Mattan, if I understand you correctly", said Power, "you believe the crowd were angry about your husband." He had his feet up on the desk.

"Yes, sir", said Laura, "and I would like you to do something about it."

"But you see, Mrs. Mattan", said Power, "your husband committed a truly horrific crime against an innocent woman, that's why these people are angry with you. You do realise that, don't you?"

"Mahmood was innocent", said Laura, a little more stiffly than she had intended.

Power threw his head back.

"I admire your devotion, Mrs. Mattan", he said, "but I'm afraid you're in denial. I led the investigation, I gathered all the evidence, your husband was convicted on overwhelming evidence."

"He was convicted on the word of a liar", said Laura forthrightly.

"So you say, Mrs. Mattan, but I interviewed Harold Cover, I found him to be truthful, and so did the jury."

Laura sat expressionless on her chair.

"So", Power continued, "may I make a suggestion to you, that you change your family name. I mean, even among Somalis, the name Mattan isn't exactly common, everyone knows that you're the family of the hanged man. Choose something different, like Davies or Jones . . ."

"Mahmood was innocent." Laura stood up, firmly enunciating each syllable. "I knew him, he couldn't possible have done a thing like this."

"But think of your children, Mrs. Mattan, how much easier their lives would be . . ."

"My children will be told that Mahmood was innocent", said Laura, her voice now shaking. "They will be proud to carry the name of a good man who never murdered anybody."

"But he let you down, he was a murderer who left you and your children bereaved . . ."

"He was a good man". Laura was shouting now. "I loved him, and I still love him, and I will not betray him."

She stormed out of the office: she thought she could hear Power muttering something like "such a foolish woman".

Ely, 1957

Music. Sweet music. It was a Sunday evening, and, as Omar knew well, a Salvation Army band played on the corner of the street every week. He decided to go outside and listen: it would make a nice change from life in the school playground, where he and his brothers were always bullied, and where no one ever wanted to be friends with them. Omar and the other two would often ask their mother why they were so hated, but she would never answer. It was quite maddening, to be treated so badly, and have a mother who seemed to know why, but would never tell you. But, anyway, Omar thought, as he gently prised open the door and cautiously made his way up the street, he could forget about that for now, and just enjoy listening to some music

Omar carefully sidestepped all of the other children walking in the same direction, and eventually took up a position just a couple of feet away from the musicians: the perfect spot, as far as he was concerned. But, almost immediately, he felt a cold, hard slap against his cheek. The eight-year-old boy staggered back, confused, and looked up into the face of the trombonist, who said to him:

"We don't want any murderer's children here."

Daddy a murderer? Omar did not know what to say. He ran back to the house, through the still-open door into the living room.

Laura looked at him severely. "Where have you been?", she asked.

"Outside. To see the band", said Omar breathlessly. "I went up to them, but one of them slapped me, and said they didn't want any murderer's children. Was Daddy a murderer, Mammy?"

"No", said Laura immediately.

"Then why are the other children at school always mean to us?", asked David.

Laura didn't answer.

"Please tell us what happened to Daddy", pleaded Eddie. He looked at his mother imploringly.

Laura sighed.

"Your Daddy was hung for murder", she said, very slowly, as though this somehow made it easier. "But he didn't do it", she added.

"Then why didn't you tell us? Why did you lie to us?", asked Omar, a note of anger in his voice.

"It's because, well you were very young", said Laura gently. "I wanted to protect you."

"But that didn't happen", David pointed out. "Instead we've had all these people being horrible to us, and we didn't know why."

"It's always better to tell the truth", opined Eddie.

Laura buried her head in her hands. Eventually, she raised her head and spoke:

"I'm sorry, I just thought it was for the best."

None of the boys answered.

Cardiff Prison, 1968

"Mattan, is it?", laughed the prison officer. "Well, well, well, it runs in the family, so it seems."

"But at least you'll get out alive", smirked another prison officer. "Unlike your dear father."

Both men lapsed into guffaws. Omar didn't answer. Though inwardly seething, he stared impassively at the two prison officers until they finished laughing.

"Well", said the first officer, "I think it's time to show you your new home. Come along now, don't hang around."

"We're going to show you the ropes", said the second officer.

The two of them marched Omar down the corridor.

"I must say, you're coming much quieter than your father did", remarked the first officer. "I heard they really had to wrestle to get him to the gallows."

"Yeah", said the second officer, "and when the noose was placed around his neck he fell to his knees simpering like a woman. Note a good role model, I say."

"And didn't he also pray to a false god?", added the first officer.

"Quite so", said the second officer. "That must be why he was a murderer, these Mohammedans obviously don't believe in the Ten Commandments."

Omar did his best to remain silent. Once we get to the cell it'll be OK, he thought, then they'll leave.

"But, anyway", said the first officer grandly. "Here we are. Welcome, Mattan, to your humble abode."

The three of them entered the cell. Before Omar could begin to take in the surroundings, the first officer marched over to the bed and announced:

"Look at this, Mattan."

Omar looked at where he was pointing: a noose had been placed on the bed. The two officers burst out laughing once again. Omar lunged at them, but they dodged him with ease and carried on laughing.

"And another thing", choked the second officer, "the exercise yard" - he pointed through the cell window - "is built on top of your dear father's grave. I'm sure you will like to get reacquainted."

The two of them were now laughing so hard, they were almost doubled up. Omar felt the urge to attack them, but before he could act, the first officer remarked.

"Oh by the way, it's completely slipped my mind, but your brother is in here as well."

"Yes", said the second officer, "three Mattans in this establishment, two alive and the other dead."

They laughed again, and they seized Omar and hustled him along to another cell. They pointed, Omar looked inside, and there, sitting on the bed, trying to pretend that nothing was happening, was Eddie.

"See what we've done", said the first officer. He pointed: Omar saw that someone had drawn hangman on the inside of the door. He lunged again, but his targets once more easily evaded him.

"Well, well", said the second officer, "see how violent all these Mattans are. We're best not hanging around."

He and his colleague walked away, still laughing.

A fuming Omar tentatively entered Eddie's cell.

"I see you've met the two jokers", said Eddie bitterly.

"Yes", said the angry Omar: he told Eddie everything that they had done to him. Eddie sighed.

"I've had it even worse."

"Worse?", asked Omar.

"Yes", said Eddie. "When I came to this cell, they told me it was same one Dad was in, before they hanged him. I don't know if they're telling the truth or . . . but anyway, there's been much worse than this. They took me to the punishment bloc, kept me there far longer I should have been, hosed me down with ice-cold water, them soaked me and left me there for three days."

"What?", exclaimed Omar.

"There's more", said Eddie. "They took my bed out of the cell, forced me to take some drugs, and put some horrible things in my food. I only got out of there when the other prisoners held a protest for me."

"The rotten bastards!", shouted Omar.

"Yes", said Eddie, "but don't get too angry, don't give them an excuse to do horrible things to you as well."

"They've already done plenty of horrible things", replied Omar. "Apart from everything else, they told me the exercise yard is built on Dad's grave."

Eddie's jaw dropped.

"So I'm never going there", Omar finished.

"Good for you", answered Eddie. "And", he added, "maybe if we can stick together, it might not be too bad in here."

Western Cemetery, Cardiff, 20th September 1996

It wasn't what she would have wanted, but it was better than nothing. Those were Laura's thoughts as she watched the dirty blue Transit van pull into the Muslim section of the cemetery. Mahmood's body was inside, housed in a cheap plywood coffin. She remembered how two years earlier, she had been allowed into Cardiff Prison after Philip, Mahmood's stepson, had written a letter to the South Wales Echo. Things had moved pretty quickly since then: the Echo had published a story about Mahmood's case, solicitors Bernard and Lynne de Maid had begun an investigation, and Laura had been allowed into Cardiff Prison, accompanied by Philip, to lay a wreath on Mahmood's grave. She had also been able to have the body dug up so Mahmood could be given a decent burial. She had been pleased with this, though shocked to see that Mahmood's neck was longer than she had remembered, and that there was bruising on it: no doubt caused by the hanging rope. The Home Office had insisted that they would not pay for the funeral of a man they called a murderer: the family had had to pay themselves, at a cost of £1400. All around were TV cameras: the family had requested these to help with their campaign to clear Mahmood's name.

The van came to a halt, the back doors were opened, and Laura's sons stepped forward to lift the coffin out. No sooner had they hoisted the plywood box onto their shoulders than a voice rang out:

"Stop!"

Everyone looked round. A man, who had not been invited to the funeral, was waving his arms.

"Stop!" He said again. "There are no TV cameras allowed."

"Who are you?", shouted Omar: he and the other pallbearers had to look over their shoulders to see.

"I'm a trainee bereavement counsellor from Cardiff City Council", replied the stranger. "I repeat, the cameras must be removed forthwith."

"But we wanted them here, sir", said Laura, trying her hardest to be respectful. "For our campaign."

"The Council does not exist to help with campaigns", said the stranger. "We are there to enforce the rules, and the rules state that TV cameras are not allowed at funerals."

"Why, you . . .", began Omar, but Eddie whispered in his ear, "Leave it, Omar, he's not going to change his mind." Omar glared at his brother, but did not retort.

"I'm afraid there's nothing for it", sighed David, turning the face the photographers. "I'm sorry about this, but you'll have to leave, you heard what the man said. I'm sorry about all this."

The photographers slowly filed out of the cemetery. The stranger kept his eyes fixed on them as they did so: it was plain that he would not allow the funeral to resume until they were out of sight. When they had gone, he gave a curt nod and strode away.

Laura tried to appear calm, but inside she was boiling. How dare he interrupt Mahmood's funeral? First Mahmood had been killed by the state, then the bricks through the window, and now this. Would there never be dignity for the family?

Mahmood's coffin was lowered into the grave and then covered with earth. It should have been a solemn, respectful occasion, but instead there were angry faces all around, and a brittle atmosphere: it felt like there had been a family argument.

Court of Appeal, London, 24th February 1998

Laura struggled up the steps of the impressive classical building in her walking stick. Getting around always seemed to be an effort these days. She was feeling nervous: Mahmood's conviction had been referred to the Court of Appeal by the newly formed Criminal Cases Review Commission. Would it all finally come right, or would the family suffer yet another indignity? She had had a cup of coffee and a cigarette that morning, but was still shaking as she walked through the door. Her three sons were there, as well as Lynette, Eddie's partner, and Philippa Cherrison, the South Wales Echo journalist whose article four years ago had led to this day. Her companions offered to support Laura to walk, but she declined their offers. Inside, they were met the family's barrister, Michael Mansfield QC. He smiled when he saw them.

"Are you ready?", he asked.

"Definitely", said Omar forthrightly. The others nodded.

"OK, then", said Mansfield, "We're about to go into the courtroom now, if there are any problems, just let me know."

The family filed into the courtroom and found a row of seats near the back.

"All rise!"

No sooner had they all sat than they had to stand up again: the three judges had just come in.

Once everybody had taken their seats for the second time, the judge in the middle spoke:

"We are gathered here today to hear the appeal in the case of Regina v Mahmood Hussein Mattan. We have concluded that the conviction of Mattan is unsafe and therefore shall be quashed. The court shall reconvene at two o'clock where we shall give our reasons for our judgement. The court will rise."

And they disappeared almost as suddenly as they had arrived.

Laura looked around, bewildered

"What's happened?", she asked.

Cherrison, sitting next to Laura, leaned over.

"It's happened", she explained, "his conviction's been quashed."

"But . . . but . . ." Laura could hardly get the words out. "I thought we were having . . ."

"No", said Cherrison firmly, "they've read the evidence and that's it, they've said that Mahmood's an innocent man, he shouldn't have been hanged, they've just said it."

Laura sat back in her seat, gasping and shaking her head. Was it all a dream? No, apparently not, it really had happened, Mahmood had been found innocent, his name had been cleared. She looked across at her sons, who were all applauding. She grabbed hold of them, sobbing. She had not cried so much since that awful day 46 years ago, but this was different, these were tears of happiness, of joy, of victory. She had said all along that Mahmood was innocent, and now she had been proved right.

The Mattans walked out of the courtroom, Laura still crying, her sons cheering loudly. Outside, they all began to dance: Laura had never been the most graceful dancer but what did that matter today?

"We did it!", shouted Omar, and then he burst into song, with the others quickly following.

The next few hours went by in a blur, nothing but shouting and and dancing and singing: they didn't stop until they saw Mansfield walking up to them.

"Well you've been having a bit of a party", he beamed. "Looks like you've missed something."

He pointed to the clock on the wall: it was half past two.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Mansfield", mumbled Laura.

"There's no need to be", he replied. "So anyway, the judges have now given their reasons for the overturning of the conviction."

"And what were they?", asked Laura.

"We've discovered a statement from Harold Cover, the chief prosecution witness, to the police, made just days after the murder, in which he names a man called Tahir Gass as the man he saw leaving the scene. That statement was not disclosed at the time of the original trial."

"What do you mean?", asked Laura.

"I mean that it was not shown to the defence. Mahmood's defence didn't know that Cover had named this other man."

Laura's happiness was beginning to fade, and be replaced by anger. So Harold Cover had lied, she had known it all along.

"And what about Mr. Power?", she asked. "The policeman who led the investigation? Did he know about this? That Cover lied?"

"It seems as though he did", said Mansfield gravely.

"The rotten bastard!", exclaimed Omar.

Laura said nothing, but she was furious with Power. She remembered how he had suggested that she change the family name and had told her Mahmood was guilty. She had always known he was wrong, but now it turned out that he had known all along that Mahmood was innocent, and had let him hang. What sort of man would do that? She wondered how he could sleep at night. David and Eddie placed their hands on her shoulders, and whispered to her that she should forget about Power and Cover, and just celebrate. She tried to, but she knew that the feeling of anger and bitterness and injustice would never go away.

"Only one thing so far I am concerned. I am black man, and nobody like my favour, because my life is buy cheap. I am the first man to get hanged for nothing in this country, and I don't think that anybody believe what I say right now, but before long, one time, you do believe it." - Mahmood Hussein Mattan

"My sons and I have not lived, we have simply existed. My sons toughened themselves up to cope. I have never been happy since Mahmood died. I have lived on the breadline all my life. However I have three sons by Mahmood who I love, and I love my grandchildren and great-grandchildren. I have not loved anyone since Mahmood. He was my friend, and the love of my life . . . I cannot emphasise enough the sadness I feel for my husband, whom I understand went to his death with dignity and control, the scenario of which I can only imagine with horror, which incidentally has haunted me all of my life. My simple wish is that I should be reunited with my husband." - Laura Mattan

In February 2001, Mahmood Mattan's family was awarded £725,000 in compensation for his wrongful execution.

In June 2001, Mattan's family erected a headstone over his grave with the inscription, "KILLED BY INJUSTICE".

On 9th March 2003, Omar Mattan was found dead on a beach near Cleardon Havon in the far north of Scotland. A bottle of whisky was found nearby, and the amount of alcohol in his body was over three times the legal driving limit. The coroner recorded an open verdict. His brother Eddie was in no doubt that he had been adversely affected by his father's execution.

Laura Mattan died peacefully on New Year's Day 2008 after a long illness. She was 78 years old.

Eddie Mattan died in 2012, aged 61, and David in 2014, at the age of 65. Both their deaths were attributed to alcohol abuse.

In September 2022, South Wales Police apologised to the Mattan family for the miscarriage of justice, acknowledging that the investigation had been tainted by racism.

The Inquest Chapter 6: Going ER

"So, Mr. Richards", said Humphrey, "what do you recall of the day in question?"

"I woke up as normal", Anthony remembered, "and instinctively I turned to look at my police gun hanging on the wall next to my bed, and I couldn't see it. I thought maybe I had put it under the bed, or in the wardrobe, so I searched for it, but couldn't find it anywhere."

"What did Miss Calvert say to you about it?", asked Humphrey.

"She woke up as I was searching for it", said Anthony, "and asked me what was going on. So I explained, and she suggested that it was bound to turn up, and that I should have my breakfast and get washed and dressed, or I would be late for work. So I did that, then did a quick search for the gun again, but couldn't find it, so went to work without it. Of course, knowing what we know now . . ."

His voice tailed off.

"The three of us were in the canteen", recalled Kate, "and I was just asking Dan to give me some feedback on my essay, when Samira gave me a slight nudge. I looked up and . . ."

"There he was", said Dan. "Mr. Erwin Richards came striding into the canteen with a gun in his hand."

"I shivered when I saw it", said Kate, "but Samira but her arm around me."

"What did Mr. Richards then say?", asked Humphrey.

"He said, 'All the women over there right now', pointing to the right-hand wall", Kate answered.

"And what was your response?"

"I was shocked, and didn't know what to say or do", she replied.

"Did Ms. Mahmood do anything?", was Humphrey's next question.

"She stood up and calmly told him he shouldn't be wandering around with guns and threatening people. I remember how much I admired her, she was very brave."

"And what did Mr. Richards then do?"

"He pointed the gun right at her and said, 'I'm the man and you'll do as I say or I'll blow your head off, you stupid brown femoid.' So the two of us, and about 20, 25 other women in there, we all walked, very slowly, over to the wall, at all times keeping an eye on the gun."

"And after that", said Dan, "He shouted, 'All the men, out!' ".

"And how did you respond to that?", asked Humphrey.

"I said to him, 'Are you mad? I'll call the police, I won't let you touch Kate'."

"And what did he do then?"

"He pointed the gun right at my head and said, 'Shut the fuck up, you stupid pretty boy, before I spoil those good looks of yours.' "

"And then", said Kate, "I screamed at him, 'No, Dan, don't, leave and save yourself!' ".

"I stared at her", Dan remembered, and said, 'But, surely you realise . . .' "

"And I said, 'Don't worry about me, get out and stay alive!' ", said Kate.

"She looked really agitated", recalled Dan, "and I asked, 'Are you sure?' ".

"And I begged him, 'Please, go, don't die for me!' ", remembered Kate.

"So then I left the canteen", said Dan, "very slowly, looking back at her. Of course, I then thought it could be the last time I ever saw her alive, so . . ."

He broke off abruptly.

"So", continued Kate, "He stood in front of us, pointing the gun at us. He looked . . . there's no other word for it . . . mad, and he said, 'I'm now going to take revenge on all women, I'm doing this for all men, the Incel Rebellion has begun.' And then . . ."

She halted.

"What?", asked Humphrey.

"I'd rather not say", she replied.

"You must, Ms. Donaldson", said Dame Marilyn, though in a softer tone than before.

Kate sighed.

"He pointed his gun right at me and said, 'I'm going to mess up your beautiful face, Stacy' and then fired. Samira shouted 'Duck!' at me but she didn't need to: I crouched down instinctively when I heard the shot. I then heard something shatter above me, and there were pieces of glass lying at my feet: he must have missed me completely and hit the window."

"And what happened then?", asked Humphrey. He had the air of a man who did not want to hear what had happened, but knew that he must.

"We all ran towards the door, but he stood in front of it, saying, 'No woman will escape me, I will have my revenge.' And he started firing indiscriminately, and we all ran all over the place, trying desperately to avoid his bullets. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a few women drop dead. Then I felt the most terrible pain in my legs, and I couldn't help it, I just crumpled to the floor. Later I learned that I had been paralysed from the waist down."

Kate quickly glanced at her wheelchair: her eyes began to water, and her mouth quivered.

"Did Ms. Mahmood do anything to assist you?", asked Humphrey, in the gentlest tone he could manage.

"Yes", said Kate. She now spoke very quickly. "She whispered to me, 'Lie down, pretend to be dead' so we both did that. But still all the time I heard that horrible sound. And then . . ." Now she struggled to get the words out. "Samira . . . put her arm . . . across my back . . . to . . . to comfort me . . . and then . . .  and then . . . I heard footsteps, then a loud bang . . . then I felt blood trickling on to the back of my head, and then . . . I knew . . . I really wanted to cry out, but of course . . ."

Kate completely let herself go and cried. The courtroom seemed to become blurred, there seemed to be no one else around, just her and her grief. Then the clerk came up and whispered to her that Dame Marilyn had ordered the court to be adjourned: she gratefully pushed her way to the hall outside.

About 15 minutes later, Dame Marilyn gave the order to reassemble. Breathing heavily, Kate made her back to the witness box.

"So", said Humphrey, a look of the greatest pity in his eyes, "if you could, Ms. Donaldson, please tell us what happened after the shooting ended."

"Well", said Kate, her voice thick, "after about 20 minutes, the shooting suddenly stopped. I continued to play dead, thinking he might just be cleaning or reloading or something like that, but after about five more minutes I slowly lifted up my head, and I saw him, just feet away from me, lying dead. I tried to get up, but then . . . well obviously, I couldn't so I dragged myself over and saw he had a wound in his head, and the gun was lying beside him. I looked around the room, 10 women were dead, nine students and a waitress, and just about everybody else was wounded. I quickly turned away to look at Samira, and there was this horrible gaping hole in her head, and her hair was covered in blood."

Kate seemed relieved to got to the end.

"I stood just outside the canteen", remembered Dan, "and I heard him shooting, I tried to rush in to help Kate, but the others held me back. Then the shooting stopped, we waited about 10 minutes before going back in. I rushed over to Kate and hugged her, but she didn't hug me back."

"Don't get me wrong, I was pleased to see him", said Kate, "but I just felt so numb."

"She showed me what had happened to Samira, then showed me the bastard . . ."

"Can we not use that language in this courtroom, please Mr. Bassett", said Dame Marilyn icily.

"All right, Mr. Richards then", said Dan resentfully, "lying dead, like the cowardly murderer he was."

"When I was at work", recalled Anthony, "we received reports of a shooting at Pankhurst University."

"And how did you react?", Humphrey asked him.

"My first thought was, are Erwin and Amy all right."

"How did you find out that your son was the perpetrator?"

"Well", said Anthony, speaking very slowly, "as I didn't have my gun, I wasn't allowed to go to the scene. And when my colleagues came back, they told me about the shooting and that the gunman, judging by the resemblance, seemed to be my son." He was looking at the floor as he finished.

"And what did you say to that?"

"I said it wasn't possible, he would never do that, but they seemed very sure about it, and had me travel to the morgue to identify him. They also showed me the gun that had been used, and I had to confirm it was mine. I got hauled up before the Superintendent as well, and suspended for two weeks", he continued bitterly, "like it was all my fault."

"I heard rumours about it when I was at work", said Jenny, "and obviously I was worried for the children. Then, when Anthony got home, he was looking very grim, so he told me what had happened."

"What was your reaction, Miss Calvert?", asked Humphrey.

"I just stood there, unable to move", she said. "I couldn't believe it, and I still can't believe that someone from our family would do that."

"I must have been in a lecture when it happened", said Amy. "After we came out, me and Will heard rumours, and I thought that an armed robber must have got in or something. People kept saying to me, 'They say your brother was the one that did it', but I didn't believe them, not until Dad came home and told me."

"And what did you do after he told you?"

"I just flung myself on my bed, staring up the ceiling, struggling to believe it. That wasn't him, someone must have made him do it, he wouldn't have done it on his own."

"I did tell her", said Will, "that he might have done it, after all, she'd seen how he'd been behaving. But still, man, when I heard that it was him . . ."

He shook his head.

"I was chosen to lead the officers who went to the scene", said DI Alexander.

"Did you find anything?", asked Humphrey.

"Yes", Alexander replied. "In Mr. Richards's pocket we found a note, which read" - at this point he took the note of his pocket and read it aloud " 'Finally the day has come when I decide to go ER, to take revenge on the femoids who never gave me their love. They use their faces and bodies to attract me, but never let me have them. All I ever wanted was love, and I never got it. They've forced me into a life of loneliness and rejection, they will let other men fuck them but never me. It's not right and it's not fair. I'll take great pleasure in what I do, finally I'll be the one with the power, while those stupid roasties will be screaming in agony as they get what they deserve. They showed me no mercy, so I'll show none to them.' "

"Perhaps", suggested Anthony, "it would have been all right if he'd been given a sex robot."

There were gasps all over the courtroom: Humphrey's mouth was wide open.

"I just think", said Dan, "if only I hadn't left her in there.

"And what are your feelings towards Mr. Richards?", asked Humphrey.

"I hate him", said Dan. "He was an evil man and a murderer, and the world is a far better place without him."

"I've no idea why he would have done it", said Kate, "but I know he wasn't evil to start with, so something must have happened, though I've no idea what."

The inquest concluded with a verdict of suicide.

The Inquest Chapter 5: Chad and Stacy

 "As time went by", said Jenny, somewhat hesitantly, "he became . . .  well, different . . ."

"In what way?", inquired Humphrey gently.

Jenny sighed deeply, striving her hardest not to cry.

"Well, as I said, he had always been very polite and helpful, but suddenly, he . . . he seemed to . . . well he started talking about some rebellion or other, he seemed to be on about men rebelling against women, and kept himself to himself all the time, always seemed to be on his phone or his laptop, said some really horrible stuff about Amy and Will, and regularly insulted me as well . . . I mean, it made no sense to me then, and it still doesn't, when I asked him why he wouldn't . . ."

Her voice tailed off, and she took several sharp breaths.

"I always thought we'd brought him up well", said Anthony, "but then all of a sudden he started being rude towards Jenny, Amy and Will, he seemed jealous of Amy and Will's relationship, said some very spiteful things to them. From what I was told later, maybe we should have been a bit tougher on his Internet use."

Amy shuddered.

"I couldn't believe it then, and still can't. That wasn't him, it just can't have been . . ."

"Are you suggesting that your brother had been replaced by an impostor, Miss Richards?", demanded Dame Marilyn, a discernable note of contempt in her voice.

"No", said Amy, "it's just, that wasn't the Erwin I knew, those . . . incels, or whatever they call themselves . . . they did this to him, they made him say those things, that was them talking, it can't have been him."

"And what sort of things did he say to you?", asked Humphrey. His voice with sympathetic, but there was also a condescending undertone.

Amy hung her head: when she spoke, it was as slowly as possible.

He kept calling me 'Becky', and when I told him that wasn't my name, he kept on saying it, more aggressively each time", she remembered. "Why he called me that when he knew perfectly well that . . . and he was calling me a 'roasty' or a 'femoid', saying how unfair it was that I had a partner and he didn't, saying that I only liked Will for his money, when I told him Will's father was a teacher and his mother was a secretary he wouldn't listen, kept going on about how women will only sleep with rich men. And . . ."

She suddenly broke off.

"What?", Humphrey asked.

Amy did not answer the question.

"Answer the question, Miss Richards", ordered Dame Marilyn.

Amy momentarily glared at her (Dame Marilyn did not appear to notice this as her gaze was once again fixed on the courtroom in front of her), then replied:

"One evening, when I came home from a night out with Will, he said to me, 'You're a race traitor, fucking an inferior ugly black boy.'"

Amy gasped, as though she had been punched in the face.

"I was shocked at first when she told me about it", said Will.

"Had no one ever referred to you in such terms before?", inquired Humphrey.

"It had happened a few times", said Will, almost casually, "but, from my girlfriend's brother, man . . . Then she told me about the other things he had been saying to her, and I got really worried, told her it sounded like he would do something bad."

"And how did Miss Richards respond to this?"

"I told him that could never happen", said Amy, once again looking at the floor. "I told him he was being silly, Erwin would never do anything bad, he was my brother."

"One day", said Kate, "me and Dan were in the library together, studying, but holding hands at the same time, when he came along . . ."

" 'He' being Mr. Richards?", inquired Humphrey.

"Yes", said Kate. "I didn't see him coming, but Dan happened to look up one moment and whispered to me . . ."

"I said to her, 'it's your admirer' ", said Dan, wincing. "She wasn't amused and deep down, I knew he hadn't come along to say hello, there had to be something more to it."

"I looked up", remembered Kate, "and I was shocked when I saw his expression. Up to that point he'd always seemed so quiet and shy, but now he was looking like he might throttle us. I nervously asked him if he was all right, and he shouted at me, 'Shut your mouth, Stacy' ".

"I felt annoyed", said Dan, "and I asked him why he had called her Stacy when he knew what her real name was, and he then spat at me, and said 'And you too, Chad' ".

"I asked him if there was anything wrong", said Kate, and he said, 'The whole world is wrong, I've been oppressed for far too long' ".

" 'What do you mean, oppressed?', I asked him", said Dan. "I remember thinking, what rubbish he's talking."

"And then", said Kate, once again breathing heavily, "he pointed his finger at me and said 'It's reverse rape, what you did to me, that's what it is, reverse rape."

"And what was your response?", asked Humphrey.

"I just said 'What?' ", answered Kate, and then he said, "You robbed me of my rights, my most basic human rights, you never gave me what I wanted."

"I remember getting angry", said Dan, "and told him flat out that she did not owe him anything, it was her choice, and he then said, 'I should have known it, that she would go for a handsome rich guy like you."

"I then told him that Dan isn't rich,", said Kate, "I tried to say that Dan's father is a court usher and his mother works in retail, but he cut me off, saying, 'Yes he is, that's the type you femoids go for, good looks and money, that's all you care about."

"What did you then say?", Humphrey asked.

"I tried to say that I didn't like Dan just for his looks, but . . ."

She sighed, then, after a brief pause, resumed her testimony:

"With hindsight, I can now see that he was beyond reason, but anyway, he went on ranting, paying no attention to what I was saying, 'Yes you do, you would never fuck a normal-looking guy like me, would you? But the day will come, soon, very soon, the rebellion will come, it'll be time to strike back'. And then he wandered off, shouting out loud to the whole room 'Revenge, revenge, revenge' ".

"And what was your reaction?", inquired Humphrey.

"I was shaking", Kate recalled, "and I instinctively snuggled up closer to Dan. For the first time in my life, I knew what it was like to be afraid."

"Did you tell Ms. Mahmood what he had said?"

"Yes", said Kate, somewhat awkwardly.

"And what did she say?"

"She said, 'He sounds like an incel'", said Dan. "We both looked baffled, so she then explained to us what incels are. And after that, she added, 'That's why men shouldn't be allowed into women's spaces.' "

"How did you respond to this?", asked Humphrey.

"I asked her what she meant, and she said, 'All those men who think they're women, the gender ideologues who think that biological sex doesn't matter, that they can just decide one day that they're women, and that we should all just accept their nonsense.' I got quite angry at this, I must admit, and I began to shout, 'How dare you . . .' "

"And then I said, 'Please, Dan, let's not have an argument' ", said Kate, her cheeks flushed, "though deep down I agreed with him."

"So", so said Humphrey hurriedly, "could you now tell us what happened over the next few weeks?"

Kate sighed again, then said:

"Well, Mr. Richards kept coming up to us, sometimes just me and Dan, other times when we were with Samira, and would say really horrible things."

"What sort of things would he say?"

"Once he said, 'The day will come when you roasties will wish you'd let us have what we want.' And on another occasion he told me, 'You won't look so pretty once I've cut your throat, Stacy', and a couple of days after that he said that 'One day I'll fuck you so hard you won't know what day it is, and then I'll kill you.' " Kate's voice was barely audible.

"He once said, 'How I'd love to punch your pretty face in, Chad' ", remembered Dan. "I also recall him saying, 'And when I've killed your roastie, I'll laugh as you cry like a woman, and then kill you too.' "

"Eventually", said Kate, "Samira told me we would have to take it to the vice-chancellor."

"So one day, Ms. Donaldson, Mr. Bassett and Ms. Mahmood all came to your office, is that correct?", asked Humphrey.

"Correct", said Sir Geoffrey Boatman, a balding man with lines on his face who looked rather like an ancient rock formation.

"And what did they say to you?"

"Ms. Mahmood did most of the talking", said Sir Geoffrey nervously. "She told me about Mr. Richards, that he had making threats against Ms. Donaldson and Mr. Bassett, and she recommended that disciplinary proceedings be initiated against him."

"I went into that meeting with a lot of hope", admitted Kate. "I thought, finally, something is going to be done, all these horrible threats are going to stop."

"And were your hopes sustained?", asked Humphrey.

"No", said Kate. For the first time, there was bitterness in her voice. "As Samira told him everything that Mr. Richards was doing, he just sat behind his desk, seeming not to have any reaction to it at all, and when she had finished, he said, in a lofty voice, 'It just seems like he's going through a phase' ".

"I then said, rather sharply, 'What do you mean by that' ", said Dan. "And he said, 'Well, you know, boys will be boys, he'll grow out of it soon."

"Then Samira fixed him with a pretty powerful stare", said Kate, her tone mixing bitterness with affection, "and plainly told him that he didn't seem to realise just how serious the situation was."

"He then suggested that we should stop wasting his time and get back to our work, as we needed to prepare for our exams", said Dan. "And then I stood up, pointed at him and said, 'If it comes to the worst, you will have blood on your hands.' "

"Why didn't you believe them?", asked Humphrey.

Sir Geoffrey shuffled his feet uneasily in the witness box.

"It's . . .  well, it's not that I didn't believe them", he said guiltily, "it's just . . ."

"From what Ms. Donaldson and Mr. Bassett have told this court, it sounds like you didn't believe them", admonished Dame Marilyn.

"Well . . .", said Sir Geoffrey again, "Maybe . . . what they said didn't seem . . . real, it was hard to believe?"

"But was it not your duty to investigate all allegations?", Humphrey asked him: there was an edge to this voice for the first time.

"I suppose so", said Sir Geoffrey in a faint voice.

"So why didn't you?", was Humphrey's next question.

"It's just that . . . well, I found hard to believe it . . . I had no idea . . ."

His voice tailed off.

"After that, I became even more afraid", said Kate, "and I kept looking behind me, or around corners, to see if he was there. I also found it hard to sleep."

"As time went by", said DI Alexander, "Mr. Richards began posting ever more violent things on Lonely Men."

"What did he post?"

"In one, he wrote, 'I'll be the man who starts the Incel Rebellion, who starts the slaughter of the femoids', and in another, 'When I've finished, Elliot Rodger and Marc Lepine will have nothing on me.' "

The Inquest Chapter 4: Incels

"What sells?", inquired Humphrey, his brow furrowed.

"Incels", repeated Dr. Karolina Radwanska patiently. She was a tall woman with long dark hair with blonde streaks, and sharp brown eyes.

"And what are these . . . these people?", Humphrey asked her.

"It's short for 'involuntary celibates'. They're an online subculture consisting of sexually frustrated men", replied Dr. Radwanska. She spoke in a detached, rather flat tone.

"Take your time, please, DI Alexander", urged Humphrey.

"Thank you", said Alexander, breathing very heavily. "It's just . .  the posts that were on there, oh God they was absolutely terrible. I needed counselling."

"What did they say in these posts?", Humphrey asked.

"I'd . . . well I'd rather not say say . . ."

Dame Marilyn leaned over the side of the bench.

"DI Alexander", she said sternly. "You must tell the court, it's very important."

Alexander stared resentfully at her, then sighed.

"Well", he said, speaking very slowly, as though he risked setting off a bomb. "There was a guy on there calling himself The_New_ER, he had this weird avatar, of a man called Elliot Rodger, superimposed on an image of Jesus, and he kept going on about what he called the 'Incel Rebellion', calling on men to rise up against, I've no idea what to be perfectly honest. He had posts like, 'Time for all men to act like Elliot Rodger, time to kill the femoids", "We need to end male oppression right now, strike back against the roasties", and "We should all go ER, take back what is ours, sex is our right."

"Can you explain more about incels?", asked Humphrey.

"Yes", replied Radwanska. "They believe themselves entitled to have sex, and they are are exceptionally misogynistic. They claim that men are oppressed by women by being denied sex, and claim it's all because of feminism that they are unable to find partners, and even that feminism is a Jewish plot to weaken Western civilisation. They believe that there was once a golden age, prior to the rise of feminism, where monogamy and traditional gender roles prevailed, and women never refused sex. They also use demeaning terms for women, such as 'femoids', or 'foids' for short, and 'roasties.' "

"Roasties?", exclaimed Dame Marilyn. "Why?"

"Because", Radwanska explained, "they believe that the labia resembles roast beef during sex."

There was a brief outbreak of laughter, which almost immediately subsided: no intervention from the bench was necessary this time.

"And they glorify violence against women, is that correct?", Humphrey inquired hastily.

"Yes, they do. In particular, they admire Elliot Rodger, a man who killed six people in California in 2014, and expressed his anger and frustration over not having a girlfriend in a YouTube video and in a so-called manifesto which he emailed to his family and friends, in which he called himself the supreme gentleman. He became a hero to the incel community, many of them have images superimposing his face on those of Christian icons, and they talk about "ER" or "going ER", as a euphemism for violence against women. They also admire Marc Lepine, a man who shot dead 17 women at a university in Montreal in 1989, after asking all men to leave the classroom."

"Was there anything else in his posts?", Humphrey wished to know.

"Yes", said a shaken Alexander. "He was constantly singing the praises of Elliot Rodger, and of this other man, called Marc Lepine."

"Do you think he ever acted violently?", asked Humphrey.

"I don't think so", said Alexander, "as the other members of the forum kept taunting him about it, calling him a 'blackpill'. He seemed to be more concerned with complaining about his situation, he regularly posted about his looks, complaining he was not handsome enough for women to like him. He also complained about what he called 'reverse rape', I wasn't sure what that meant until it was explained to me, and made hateful comments about black and Jewish people."

"They think women are shallow creatures, who only choose handsome or wealthy men, and constantly bemoan what they see as their own unattractiveness. They believe that, because of their looks, no woman would ever like them. They believe in what they call the '80/20' rule, meaning that 80 per cent of women will only sleep with the 20 per cent most attractive men, and in 'hypergamy' meaning that a woman will always abandon a man if she can have sex with another, more attractive man. They refer to attractive, sexually active men as 'Chads', attractive and sexually active women as 'Stacys' and less attractive but sexually active women as 'Beckys'. In addition, many are socially awkward and see that as a factor in their romantic failure as well," said Radwanska. She was doing her best to remain calm and detached, but she could feel her voice involuntarily rising.

"And they also talk about something called reverse rape?", asked Humphrey.

"Yes, by which they mean women's rejection of them, which they claim is just as harmful to society as actual rape. Some even give each other tips on how to commit rape. In fact, Nathan Larson, a white supremacist who once ran for the US Congress, and who self-identifies as an incel and a paedophile, has openly boasted about raping his former wife, and has said that women should be what he calls 'rape-slaves' for men who are unable to find willing partners."

Radwanska's voice was now trembling, and there were gasps all round the courtroom: even Dame Marilyn was open mouthed.

"There was another poster", continued Alexander, "calling himself The Supreme Gentleman, who kept writing posts about the things he would do to women."

"What did he to do them?", asked Humphrey, in the voice of a man who would rather not know but had a duty to find out.

"He . . . he . . . he . . ." Alexander struggled to get the words out, before finally, after taking a deep breath, resuming his testimony. "He wrote things like 'This afternoon I saw this big-tits femoid on the train. Went up to her, squeezed her boobs. God did I love to hear her scream.' "

Alexander paused, and then went on, speaking very slowly, as though it pained him.

"On another occasion, he posted, 'On the bus yesterday I pulled down some long-legged roastie's knickers and fucked her real hard. All men should do that.' And also, 'This whinging foid was on Twitter, writing some anti-male crap about so-called rape, so I absolutely piled into her, telling her the things I'd like to do to her, and within three days she wasn't on Twitter anymore. Bingo!'."

"Do you think he did these things?", inquired Dame Marilyn, in an uncharacteristically soft voice.

"I'm not sure", replied Alexander. "Certainly, the other members of the forum didn't believe him, with responses like, 'And yesterday my cat started talking.' "

"Right, anything else", asking Humphrey hastily, as though keen to get it over with.

"There was also a man calling himself Redpill, who would post things like, 'What wouldn't I give to have a roastie by the throat and throttle her. What a thrill that would be' and 'If I had my way I cut off every femoid's tits and let her slowly bleed to death'."

"They also use phrases like 'redpilled' and 'taking the red pill', from the film The Matrix", explained Radwanka, fighting hard to speak calmly once again, "meaning that they now see the world as it 'really' is, with women dominant over men and where male privilege does not exist, and also 'taking the black pill', that is, giving up all hope of finding a partner. 'Redpill' incels believe in 'fighting back', whereas 'blackpill' ones are more fatalistic."

"So", said Humphrey hastily, with the air of a man desperately trying to forget a painful memory, "we return to Mr. Richards. What was his first post on this forum?"

"He first posted, 'So glad I've found a forum for men like me. I'm in love with a beautiful girl but she won't have me, she prefers another guy, much better looking and more confident than me. I'm really shy, and I know I'm not that good looking. Also my sister has got together with a black man, she's found happiness, why can't I? I feel really upset and lonely, is there something wrong with me?' ", quoted Alexander.

"And how did the other members of the forum respond?", Humphrey inquired.

"Well", said Alexander, with an I'd-rather-be-talking-about-something-else expression, "the one calling himself The_New_ER posted, "I feel so sorry for you, the world is so unjust, you're just one of many men who are oppressed. These foids are so shallow, only going after the best looking men. It's an injustice, it's a crime that can never be forgiven, even more for your sister to go with an inferior ugly black boy."

"What about the others?", Humphrey asked.

"The Supreme Gentlemen posted, 'Next time you see a roastie, just grab her and give her a good hard fuck', while Redpill advised him to 'Kill that stupid bitch who won't have you, show her what a real man does.' "

Humphrey took a deep breath, then, after a minute-long pause, resumed his questioning.

"How did Mr. Richards respond to these posts?"

"He posted 'Thank you for showing such concern for me, I really appreciate it, glad I have found men who know how I feel.' "

"Do you mean", asked Dame Marilyn in a low voice, "that he was expressing agreement with their abhorrent views?"

"It seems not initially", said Alexander awkwardly, "though clearly he didn't see their views as a barrier. However, he kept posting on the site, and in particular he appears to have imbibed the opinions of The_New_ER. In one early post he expressed delight that Mr. Richards shared his initials with Elliot Rodger, then when Mr. Richards asked who Elliot Rodger was, The_New_ER told him 'He is the patron saint of our movement, the supreme gentleman, the first martyr of the Incel Rebellion. The first man to take a stand against our unjust world, to take revenge on the femoids, to stand up for us beta males.' Mr. Richards seemed quite pleased with the comparison, probably because it gave him a feeling of importance, and he soon was boasting about the shared initials on almost every post. And, as time went by, he began to echo The_New_ER's views, posting things like, 'I want to be a soldier and fight in the Incel Rebellion', 'I'm a victim of reverse rape' and 'I hate that stupid Stacy who turned me down, and the Chad she goes with, and the ugly black boy my sister likes'."

The Inquest Chapter 3: Lonely Men

 "So, Miss Richards", said Humphrey, "you began attending Emmeline Pankhurst University one year after your brother?"

"Yes", replied Amy.

"And what was the experience like?", Humphrey asked.

"I enjoyed it very much at first", said Amy. "Ever since I was a little girl, I'd wanted to be a doctor, it seemed such a wonderful job, to be helping people, so I was really pleased when I began studying medicine. I found the subject really interesting, and, of course, I met Will . . ."

"Well", said a young black man with short curly hair and a beard, "we happened to sit next to each other in our first lecture, and had a bit of a conversation with her before it started about what we were expecting, about our families, things like this, nothing much really . . ." he finished with a smile.

"I was intrigued by him from the start", said Amy. "He made me laugh, and I remember wishing I was in the same seminar group as him as well . . . I actually said that to him when the lecture finished."

"Why, man", laughed Will, "I was a bit shocked by that at first, to be honest, to hear that from someone I barely knew, and I jokingly asked her if she fancied me . . .

"I said no straightaway, and I meant it, but he gave me quite a shrewd look", said Amy, her voice a mixture of embarrassment and affection. "I didn't have any thought of anything deeper, but looking back at it now I think he knew me better than I knew myself."

"And when I had my first seminar", said Will, "she came in after I had sat down, there was an empty chair on the table opposite, the only one available, and what did she do? She picked it up, brought it over and sat down on it next to me!"

He laughed again, only to be cut short by Dame Marilyn.

"Mr. Maduaka", she said sternly, "this is a solemn inquest in the Royal Courts of Justice, it is not a place for laughter."

"I'm sorry", said Will abashed.

"So", said Humphrey hurriedly, "you were saying . . ."

"Yes", said Will, "I remember thinking, wow, she really likes me."

"I just came in", Amy remembered, "and I felt very excited when I saw him there, I was hoping he would make me laugh again, so . . ."

"I remember saying to her", said Will, "half joking, that next thing she would be asking me out."

"I flushed when he said that", said Amy, "but when the seminar ended, I asked him if he would come with me to the library to begin do our studies, and he agreed . . ."

"Of course, even at this early stage", said Will, "I knew how this was going to end up, and I remember thinking to myself, wow, I must have some hidden talent for her to like me so much."

"From that day", reminisced Amy, "we would always do our studies together ands also have our meals in the canteen together, and sit next to each other in our lectures and seminars. And as the days went by, I began really appreciate his intelligence as well as his humour."

"At first", said Will, "I would agree to be with her because she wanted it, and also I was quite amused by her obvious feelings for me. But, gradually, I came to see her differently, she was obviously very intelligent and caring, and a very good conversationalist, so I began to think, hey, maybe I can like her as much as she likes me."

"For quite a while", recalled Amy, "even though he kept teasing me about my fancying him, I kept telling him - and myself - that I didn't, that we were just very good friends. But, in the end, as my feelings grew, I could no longer deny it, and one day, when we were sitting sitting in the theatre, waiting for a lecture to start, I blurted out to him that I loved him."

"I must admit", said Will, "I laughed at first, then I asked her what took her so long. Then she looked embarrassed, but I smiled, and told her I loved her as well, and she was bouncing up and down on the seat, and then leaned forward to kiss me, and I had to tell her that the lecturer had just arrived."

"Oh God, I went so red", said Amy, but I really felt dizzy with happiness in that moment, I barely paid any attention to the lecture, and as soon as it had finished, I leaned towards him and kissed him."

"And what did your family make of your relationship?", asked Humphrey.

"My parents were very happy for me", answered Amy, "but Erwin . . ." She broke off and gazed sadly at the floor.

"Answer the question", ordered Dame Marilyn.

"He said he was happy, but he mumbled the words, and he threw resentful glances at us. I couldn't understand why, and still can't. Why would he not be pleased that his sister had found happiness? I still have no idea."

"So", continued Kate, "I began my second year at Pankhurst."

"Did you ever encounter Mr. Richards?", inquired Humphrey.

"Once or twice", she answered.

"And what was that like for you?"

"It was embarrassing for me, but we never said anything, he would just stare at me, and I would look away."

"So one day", said a young man with brown hair, large blue eyes and chiselled features, "I was in the library, studying something about Hamlet, I can't remember what exactly, when I heard a noise that sounded like something collapsing. I looked up, and I saw this beautiful girl who seemed to have tripped over and dropped her books. So I got up quickly, darted across and picked up the books for her."

"Well", said Kate, with an awkward smile, "there was some fold in the carpet that hadn't been dealt with, so I tripped over it. I wasn't hurt, Samira broke my fall, but my books fell out my hand. I bent down to pick them up, but, quick as a flash, there was this young man who seemed to appear out of nowhere, and he did it for me."

"And how did you react to this?", Humphrey asked her.

"Well, obviously I was pleased", she replied, "but it also felt strange that this complete stranger should help me like this. I smiled and said thank you, and I couldn't help thinking what a handsome man he was", she concluded rather sheepishly.

"I smiled back at her", recalled the young man, "and I got talking with her and Samira, and at lunch time we all went to the canteen together. I got on quite well with both, but it was mainly Kate I conversed with, and Samira ended up suggesting, with a shrewd look on her face, that we might like some time alone, you know, the two of us together."

"I felt a bit awkward when she said that", said Kate. "I'd rarely been apart from her since we were children, and the last occasion that we were, it was . . ."

She broke off.

"Your disastrous date with Mr. Richards?", asked Humphrey.

Kate nodded.

"Speak, Ms. Donaldson", ordered Dame Marilyn. "Nodding won't go in the transcript."

"Yes", said Kate, in barely more than a whisper.

"So", said Humphrey hastily, "did you and Mr. Bassett go together, as Ms. Mahmood had suggested?"

"Yes", said Kate, now having regained her composure. "As the days went by, we kept meeting up, sometimes with Samira, sometimes alone."

"And what did you make of him?", was Humphrey's next question.

"I came to realise how thoughtful and considerate he was, he was always asking about me, he seemed genuinely interested in my studies, even though he was studying something completely different, and he was always sensitive to my feelings."

"And what was your impression of Ms. Donaldson?", Humphrey asked.

"I was struck by how confident and outgoing she was", came the reply/ "She is also a very generous soul, always trying to see the good in people, even in . . ."

He abruptly stopped.

"Then, one day, when it was just us two together", remembered Kate, "Dan asked me if I would like to take things further between us."

"And what was your response?"

"I thought about it for a minute, going over my feelings, but then I realised, yes, I did want to take it further, and I told him so."

"And what was his response?"

"He smiled and said, 'I do, too', and he leaned over to me and we kissed." Kate had an embarrassed smile on her face.

"What did Ms. Mahmood make of you and Mr. Bassett?"

"She told me she was happy, because he was the right man for me."

"Did Mr. Richards ever see you and Mr. Bassett together".

Kate looked down at the wheels on her chair and mumbled, "Yes."

"Speak up", upbraided Dame Marilyn.

"Yes", said Kate, in a strained voice.

"When was this?", asked Humphrey.

"Not long after we got together, we were walking through the library together, holding hands, when I saw him wandering distractedly, and then he suddenly caught sight of us."

"And how did he react?"

"He stared at me for about a minute and a half, then he hung his head and walked quickly away. He seemed very upset."

"I was very surprised at first", recalled Dan. "I thought, 'Who is this man and why is he acting like this?'. After he'd walked away, Kate explained about him."

"And how did you feel towards Mr. Richards?", Humphrey asked.

"I was annoyed by the fact that he seemed to think he was entitled to Kate, and also quite worried", replied Dan. "But, even then, I could never have imagined . . .", he added, his voice shaking.

"So, Inspector, you were the one who led the investigation into Mr. Richards?"

"Correct", replied Detective Inspector Gary Alexander. He was a plump, balding man with a prominent nose.

"And how did you begin?"

"We began by looking into Mr. Richards's Internet search history", said DI Alexander. He spoke slowly, as though trying to come to terms with some shocking news.

"And what did you find?"

"We found that he had typed the words 'lonely men' into Google, and at the top of the search results for a forum by that name on 4chan."

He paused, then added, "That's how the trouble started."

The Inquest Chapter 2: Dating Disaster

"Kate Donaldson", boomed the clerk.

A tall and slim young woman, with glossy black hair and soft brown eyes, determinedly pushed her wheelchair all the way to the witness box, trying her best to ignore the patronising stares from the gallery.

"So, Miss Donaldson", said Humphrey, "would you like to take us back to the beginning, please?"

"Yes", said Kate. "So of course, I went to Pankhurst to read history. I was happy about that, and about Samira . . ."

She suddenly broke off, and looked upwards, trying hard not to cry.

"When you want to, Miss Donaldson", said Humphrey gently.

"Thanks", breathed Kate, her voice barely audible. "Anyway, I was happy she was going with me, we'd barely been apart since our school days."

"I know this must be hard for you", offered Humphrey.

"It is", sighed Kate. "We'd known each other so long, it's just . . . so . . . awful, that she's not . . ."

She gave in to crying: it took several minutes before she could resume her testimony.

"We were very rarely apart", she said, choking on her words. "She was so loyal, so protective, so thoughtful towards me, she helped me to see the world . . ."

"What do you mean?", asked Dame Marilyn, in an abrupt tone.

"She . . . how can I put this", said Kate. "She really opened my eyes to things like unequal pay, sexual harassment, domestic abuse, all those kind of things. I mean, she wasn't perfect, I felt she might have been more inclusive towards trans people, but . . ."

She hastily stopped herself.

"So", said Humphrey awkwardly. "Could you please tell how you first met Mr. Erwin Richards?"

"Yes", said Kate, her voice shaking. "It was in the second semester of my first year at Pankhurst, me and Samira were in the library together, when this young man who'd I'd never seen before . . 

"Mr. Erwin Richards?", interjected Dame Marilyn. Kate nodded her head very slowly, then resumed her testimony.

" . . . just came up to me and said 'You're the most beautiful woman I've seen in my life. Please go out with me.' "

There was some muffled laughter in the courtroom, swiftly silenced by a stern look from Dame Marilyn.

"And how did that make you feel?", asked Humphrey.

"First of all, I was shocked", replied Kate. "Then I felt embarrassed, and a bit awkward, and I didn't feel I could say no to him."

"And what was your impression of him?", inquired Humphrey

"He looked to be shy", said Kate, "and also seemed a bit lost. He wasn't very confident, either, and he mumbled his words. I thought, this doesn't look very promising, but to be polite, I agreed to meet him in the cafe the next day."

"And what did Miss Mahmood make of him?"

"She warned me off him, telling me that he clearly didn't know how to approach or speak to women. I mean, deep down I knew she was right, but I'd given him my word, and I also felt sorry for him, being so shy, it didn't feel right to refuse him."

There was an awkward pause before Humphrey resumed his questioning

"So, the next day you went to the cafe with Mr. Richards?"

"Yes", said Kate, rather embarrassedly. "I tried to make conversation with him, but he wasn't very good at it, it was something he obviously struggled with. There were long periods of silence between us, when he was finding it hard to come up with something to say. He also kept staring at me, I found that very uncomfortable."

"Did Mr. Richards realise you felt uncomfortable?", inquired Humphrey: he was also looking rather awkward to hear this story.

Kate sighed.

"He obviously didn't", she replied, "because when we finally went our separate ways, he asked me if I would go out with him again."

"And what did you say to that?", Humphrey asked.

"Well", said Kate, speaking very slowly, "of course I wanted to be polite about it, so I told him that my diary was full up for the next few weeks."

"Did he understand what you meant by that?"

"Again, no", she said. "I probably should have told him straight, I should have realised by then that he couldn't read social signals, but, anyway, a few weeks later, again I was with Samira in the library and he came up to me again to ask me on a date."

"And what did you say to that?"

"I said . . .", replied Kate, in barely more than a whisper, and staring at the floor.

"Speak up, Miss Donaldson", upbraided Dame Marilyn.

"I told him that I was very sorry, but that I didn't think we were suited."

"And how did he react?", asked Humphrey.

"He hung his head, his face went all red, and he quickly moved away: he looked devastated. I felt really sorry for him, but I knew I'd made the right decision."

"And what did Miss Mahmood make of it all"

"She told me that he really needed some advice on relationships." Kate sighed again. "I only wish now that Pankhurst did that sort of thing."

The Inquest Chapter 1: In the Beginning

 "He was such a polite boy", she began, dabbing her eyes with her handkerchief. "I mean . . ."

She broke off, breathing heavily.

"Take your time, Miss Calvert", said Humphrey Chambers QC encouragingly.

Jenny tried to smile. She was a tall woman with short blonde hair and brown eyes. Compose yourself, she told herself, you don't want to embarrass yourself in a court room, but she was all too conscious of her tears.

After a minute or two, Humphrey tried again.

"So, Miss Calvert, you were saying . . ."

"Yes", said Jenny. "Well, like I say, he was very polite, we brought him up well. He was always very quiet, you know, never gave us any trouble or anything like that."

She stopped again, desperately trying to hold back more tears and to stop her body shaking.

"I mean", she continued, "I've often wondered if we didn't bring him up properly, it's kept me up at night, but I can't think . . . I think we brought him up OK . . ."

Her voice tailed off, and she looked down at the floor.

"Are you OK to continue, Miss Calvert?", asked Humphrey, politely but firmly.

"Yes", she replied, in barely more than a whisper. "He was always helpful to me, he would tidy his room when we asked him, he would give me a hand washing the dishes, making his bed, that sort of thing, he was very good with Amy as well, I would never have guessed . . ."

She burst into uncontrollable sobs.

"He was quite a shy boy, didn't say very much", said a thin man of medium height, with black hair and eyes. "Maybe he could have been a bit more assertive, he was a bit too sensitive for my liking, maybe we should have been more disciplined."

"But, Mr. Richards", Humphrey pointed out, "his mother has said he never gave any trouble."

"That's true", said Anthony. "Maybe I didn't say that properly, but what I meant was, had we been stricter with him, he might not have done . . . this."

"Were you disappointed in him, Mr. Richards?", asked Humphrey, his eyebrows raised.

"No, of course not", said Anthony defensively. "We used to go to the football together, he really enjoyed it," His voice now took a different tone, more affectionate, nostalgic, even. "And, of course, there was the day he got accepted by the university, he was so happy to be studying engineering, I'll never forget the smile on his face. I was so proud of him, Jenny was as well, we both thought he would go on to great things . . ."

His voice faded. There was silence, before Anthony spoke again, his voice wavering:

"I just can't understand how, I mean, when I showed my police gun to him, which I did often, he never seemed interested . . ."

"We used to play together", said Amy. She looked like a miniature version of her mother, but with her father's eyes. "Hide and seek, hopscotch, just about anything."

"Was he ever rude to you?", asked Humphrey.

"Of course not". Amy sounded shocked. "He was always very loving with me, he would hug me so tightly, and he loved nothing better than playing with me. I used to think how happy I was to have him as a brother."

"But was there anything . . . odd . . . about him?", asked Humphrey tentatively.

Amy gave him an angry look.

Dame Marilyn Sharp leaned over the side of the bench. She was a short and white-haired woman, with an impassive expression on her face.

"I think, Miss Richards", she said, "what he means is, was there anything that gave an indication about . . ."

"Absolutely nothing", said Amy emphatically. "I mean, he wasn't very good at talking to people, he would always hang back a bit whenever anybody else came up to us, but there was nothing at all . . ."

She broke off: she had a bewildered expression on her face. After a long pause, she said:

"I still have no idea what made him change."

The Other Engine Driver

On a warm summer's evening, Ed Speed was pulling his engine into the terminus. It had been a normal day's work for him, and that was how he liked it. No drama, no fuss, just getting on with the job, enjoying the whistle, the steam, the clattering of the wheels, as he rushed through the countryside. It's not a job everyone can do, he would think proudly. But though he loved his work, he was also happy to be going home to see his wife Mary and their four children.

Ed applied the brakes as he drew up alongside the platform, and then watched all the passengers clamber out of the coaches. He heard the guard shout out a reminder that the train was terminating, and after being uncoupled, he drove to the engine shed some 200 yards away. Feeling exhausted, he decided, as he always did, to have a nice cup of tea at the station before heading for home. Whistling to himself as he walked, he had just reached the door of the staff room when another man emerged. This was Harry Lawson: while Ed was tall and slim, with thick black hair, brown eyes and a moustache, Harry was shorter and bulkier, almost bald, with twinkling blue eyes and a bushy beard.

"Back out to work, are you?", inquired Ed.

"Yes", grinned Harry, "Never seems to stop."

"You poor thing", said Ed, in a rather less than convincing attempt at sympathy. "How lucky I am eh, to be going home. You must be missing your rabbits."

Harry laughed. "It's the last train though, thank God. Maybe it'll be your turn tomorrow night", he said playfully, before winking at Ed and making his way towards his engine.

"As if!", Ed called after him: Ed of course knew perfectly well that he might be called upon to drive the last train the following evening, but he always liked to have the last word.

The staff room was large but sparse: all it contained were a number of chairs, a sink, and a table with a number of teacups on it: there was also a cloakroom next to it, accessed through a small doorway near the table. Ed made himself a nice strong cup of tea, took a soothing sip, and sat back in his chair. He was pleased not to have to drive the last train, and could look forward to some quality time with Mary that evening. Maybe even the children would still be awake when he got back.

After about 20 minutes, when Ed was down to the dregs of his cup, the staff room door swung open purposefully and he saw four men walking in. One of them he recognised instantly: of medium height and build, with spiky brown hair and focused brown eyes, it was Albert Robson, the stationmaster. Normally Albert would have been the one striding at the front of the procession, but on this occasion, to Ed's bafflement and bemusement, he was having to keep up with the other three men, stomping their way towards Ed's chair with angry looks on their faces. At their head was large, fat old man with a grey beard that almost reached down to his chest, and dull grey eyes. He was wearing a dark blue uniform and cap, and holding a set of large rusty keys that looked like they had been in use for about 50 years: he must be a gaoler, Ed thought. He was flanked by two other, considerably younger men: judging by their uniforms, they were obviously policemen. Both were tall, one of them with a pudgy face staring straight ahead, the other with a long face, darting his head around the place in what Ed considered a rather paranoid manner. Ed felt put out: he could not remember doing anything wrong, so what did these men want with him?

"Edward", announced Albert somewhat nervously as well as unnecessarily, "these men want to see you."

"I'm James Locke, the local gaoler, known to my friends as Jim", growled the man with the keys.

"I'm Sergeant Tim Crates", said the pudgy policeman.

"And I'm Police Constable John Bullough", quickly added his colleague.

"And what brings you here?", inquired Ed, doing his best to remain polite.

"We want to catch a toad", said Locke.

"Then why have come here?", Ed asked. "All you have to do is go down to the river with a jam jar."

"Don't be impertinent, Edward", snapped Albert: the three uninvited guests looked furious.

"Perhaps I should have been clearer", said Locke. "What I meant was, we want to catch a toad who was in my prison, but now he's gone."

"Why do you want him back, then?", wondered Ed. "If he was in my house, I'd have got the pest controller in."

"Don't be an idiot", said Crates in a warning tone. "He was sentenced to prison for stealing a motor car . . ."

"Come off it", laughed Ed, "A toad driving a car? Me and me missus could do with him, she wants a car but we can't . . ."

"It's not funny, Edward", said Albert. "Listen to what these men are saying and show them some respect."

"It's definitely true, we arrested him", said Bullough breathlessly, jerking his head in Crates's direction. "He was also driving dangerously, and the cheek he gave us as well . . ."

"What did he say?", asked Ed. " 'Croak! Croak! Croak!' ".

"I'm warning you now, Edward", said Albert, his voice rising ominously. "If you want to keep your job . . ."

"He said lots of things I would rather not repeat", said Crates in a dignified tone. "So, anyhow, John and I arrested him, he got 20 years in prison, with Mr. Locke here as his gaoler."

"Whatever next?", exclaimed Ed. "I suppose you'll be telling me this toad of yours lives in a fine mansion by the river."

"He does", said Locke: Ed was about to burst into an incontrollable bout of laughter, but stopped when he caught Albert's eye.

"But then", continued Locke, his voice becoming increasingly creaky, "that stupid daughter of mine got all soft on him. Utterly sentimental about animals, she is, she'd probably let all us humans die if only to save one animal. He wouldn't eat, until she coaxed him, then she could hardly keep away from his cell."

"She sounds like Harry", remarked Ed sardonically.

"Anyway", continued Locke, his voice creakier still, "this evening, I was doing my rounds, checking all the cells, when I popped my head into Toad's cell and what did I see?"

"Crawling on the walls was he?", asked Ed.

"No, you fool", snapped Locke: Albert looked positively murderous. "I saw my sister, bound and gagged on the floor. She's the prison washerwoman, you see. I asked her what had gone wrong, and she told me that Toad had kidnapped her and run off in her clothes, but I was suspicious so I searched her pockets and found some gold sovereigns on her. She confessed that my daughter had come up with this scheme that Toad would escape disguised as her. Needless to say", he concluded grimly, "neither of them is in my employment any more: they'll have to try the workhouse. As they deserve," he added.

"You mean to say", said Ed, "that there is a toad wandering about this town in washerwoman's clothes?"

"Not wandering about town, he's on the train", said Crates. "Jim came to me and John, we spoke to witnesses - luckily Jim's sister is well known in town, so we were able to trace the toad's movements to this station, and we know he's riding on the footplate of the engine just gone."

"You mean, Harry's engine?", asked Ed.

"Yes", said Albert.

"And", said Bullough excitedly, "we want you to get your engine out and go after him."

"And you expect me to believe that cock and bull story?", exclaimed the incredulous Ed. "What about me? I have to get home, see the kids and me missus." He looked pleadingly at Albert. "Surely you don't believe these crackpots?"

"You must do as they want you to, Edward, your wife and children can wait. If a policeman or a gaoler asks you to do something, you must do it, no questions asked."

Ed sighed, rose up from his chair, and wordlessly beckoned his three visitors to follow him. As he led them towards the shed, he heard Locke constantly muttering about the outrageous treachery of his daughter and sister, and the two police officers trying to interest him in the story of how they had arrested the toad. Ed was not the slightest bit interested: with every step his anger at Albert and the other three men increased.

Eventually, they reached Ed's engine: all four mounted the footplate. Ed set about exhaustively cleaning and lubricating the engine, then lighting the fire, and allowing the heat to rise sufficiently high to generate steam. All of this took a long time, and Ed's irritation with his passengers only increased as they constantly complained: God Almighty, did any of these blithering idiots know how to work a steam locomotive? Of course they didn't!

When finally, Ed was ready, he had to drive forward, in the opposite direction to the one desired, to reach the turntable behind the shed, causing yet more complaints. Ed had to stop himself from snapping that if they didn't like it, they could simply get off his engine and let him get back home. But once they were away, Ed could not help feeling tremendously proud as the engine sped along the rails. With no coaches behind him, he was able to reach speeds he had only dreamed about before. Ed soon found himself enjoying the ride very much, and almost forgot why he was doing it.

After about half an hour, Ed could see they were in sight of what he knew to be Harry's train. Instantly the other three men staring shouting out "Stop! Stop! Stop!": Ed's annoyance returned as he briefly wondered why they were shouting at him, and why they wanted him to stop now, but then remembered that they were calling out to Harry. Locke was bawling out the words at the top of his hoarse voice, while the two policemen were jumping up and down with excitement as they called out: all three were making a disgraceful show of themselves, Ed thought.

The pursuit continued for about an hour, with Ed slowly gaining on Harry. He wondered what Harry would say when they caught up with him, and heard the three men's bizarre story. They entered a long tunnel, and Ed slowed down slightly.

"What are you doing?", demanded Locke.

Up to this point, Ed had maintained his silence, but now he finally snapped.

"Look, do you want to cause an accident?", he demanded: Locke looked rather abashed, and Ed felt quite pleased at having shown his unwanted guests how he knew more about railways than they did.

They emerged from the tunnel, next to a wood, and continued the pursuit: Harry seemed to have put on a bit of speed, Ed thought, and, let's face it, he can hardly be blamed for not wanting to be caught by three nutcases. Eventually, however, Ed's greater speed told, and he pulled up just behind Harry's train, whistling to alert Harry. Harry brought his engine to a halt, and stepped off the footplate, walking back towards Ed and the others.

"What's up?", he asked, grinning.

Before Ed could splutter his reply, Locke spoke.

"You've a runaway toad on your engine, we know you've got him, and we want you to hand him over."

Somehow, Ed thought, the story now seemed even more ridiculous.

"What?", replied Harry, evidently fighting to stop himself from laughing. "You've dragged poor Ed along with you, just for a toad? Not what you expecting eh, Ed?"

"It's not funny", said Crates sharply. "Don't try and be clever with us, driver, we know he's on your footplate."

"There's no toad on my footplate", said Harry, in a more serious tone this time. "I can show you if you want."

The three guests seemed rather startled: they had obviously not expected such an offer. Eyeing Harry somewhat suspiciously, they let him lead them to his engine, Ed walking slightly behind them. Harry turned round and winked at Ed, but Ed wasn't in the mood at all. He could also hear the muttering of Harry's passengers, wondering what on Earth was going on.

Sure enough, Locke, Crates and Bullough searched Harry's engine fully, and there was no toad. Having quickly determined he was not on the footplate, they next went clambering around in the tender evidently thinking the toad might be hiding in the coal, much to Harry's amusement: Ed, however, felt only mounting annoyance. Locke even asked if the toad might be hiding in the boiler, until Harry laughingly reminded him that the creature would likely be dead if he had done that. Finally, they searched the coaches, checking in the aisles, under the seats and in the luggage racks, even demanding that the passengers open up their cases and bags in case the toad might be hiding in there. The passengers were agitated and distressed by the whole situation: Ed's anger increased, and Harry stopped laughing and assumed a more serious expression.

Having searched the length and breadth of the train, the three were finally forced to admit defeat.

"Now, sirs", said Harry earnestly, "Now that you've caused such worry for my passengers, and all for nothing . . .

"And sent me on a wild goose chase", shouted Ed, unable to contain his anger any longer, "I should have been home with me missus, sitting by the fire with a nice cup of tea, and you come along with your stupid story about this toad, and look, where is he? Nowhere!"

"I'm telling you there was a toad on this train", insisted Locke. "He must have got off somewhere. And", he added ominously, glaring at Harry, "if I get proof that he was on your train, I'll have you in one of my dungeons in no time. Maybe you and Toad can share a cell."

And he stormed off the train, hurriedly followed by the two policemen.

Ed looked at Harry, who, trying not to smile, said nothing and made his way back to his footplate. Ed just about managed to say goodbye to his friend, before he stormed back to his own engine. He had to drive a long way to reach the terminus, before he could turn his engine round and get back to the station, and finally heading for home.

It was dark by the time he finally reached his own house. A slight, dark-haired woman was sitting by the fire, which was the only source of light. Ed tried to smile at Mary, but she did not return the gesture.

"I've been worried sick about you!", she told him: it seemed she had bursting to say this. "You could have been dead for all I knew! The children have been asking about you as well, so much that I had to work hard to put them to bed! Working late again! Why didn't you tell me?"

"I wasn't meant to work late", Ed sighed, and he told her everything that had happened that night.

"And you really expect me to believe that?", she asked.

"Honestly, that's what happened", said Ed desperately: even after everything else, for Mary not to believe him felt like a punch in the stomach.

"Why did you believe them, then?", she demanded. "I always thought you were a sensible man."

"Because Albert told me I had to, even said I might lose my job if I didn't go along with them."

Mary stood up.

"I'm very disappointed in you, Ed", she said. "I always thought you cared about me and the children, and now you stay out late and come up with some strange excuse for it."

And she strode off, presumably to the bedroom. Ed sat down by the fire, in the chair she had vacated, feeling at a complete loss.

A few weeks later, Ed had just come into the staff room again, when he saw Harry proudly wearing a shiny black coat with silver buttons. He eyed it curiously and suspiciously.

"Where d'you get that from?", he asked.

"Oh, it's just a present", said Harry, trying to make it sound as though this was of no importance.

"Who from?", asked Ed.

"Oh, it doesn't really matter", said Harry, evidently making an effort to sound casual. "From a friend, that's all."

Ed looked at Harry for a moment: it was very unusual for his friend to be as evasive as this.

"Anyway", said Harry rather abruptly, "I must be off now", and he placed the coat in the cloakroom.

Once Harry had gone, Ed discreetly made his way into the cloakroom. He picked the coat from off its hook and examined it: he saw a note attached to the collar. The note read:

"Dear Mr. Engine Driver. Thank you for helping me escape those men. You were very kind to me. Yours in gratitude, Mr. Toad."