Of course I thought of Rufus that day, a ghostly passenger just out of sight.

And then here he was stood at the centre of the bridge and it was freezing cold. He raised his eyes to heaven.

I saw myself with a camera, as Borges once saw himself on a bench , or Cortazar on a pier, or Babu at the railway crossing. He thought, You bastard, you motherfucking bastard. Ain’t I your baby, too?

And then he would throw himself into the blackness to become one with it and all the others before him. The flood, made of millions of droplets all with their own mothers, all with a story sucked into the undertow.