Upstairs in Globe House, a new build that that climbs four stories above the North London Line railway, Ion Williams stares out of the window of his one bedroomed flat. A halfway house that that overlooks the tracks. Halfway to where? It’s not like he can go anywhere, Williams stuck in the limbo of the system. Even if they prove he did nothing wrong, there’s no coming back. The shit sticks. Wife gone, his son now in New Zealand, as far away as he could fly from the horror back home. Fifty seven in a week and only his sister Carol sticking by him. An appeal in November. They reckon the boys must have collaborated. As a teacher – ex teacher – he could have told them that. When two pieces of homework came back the same, you knew one of them was copying. Five years, of which he’s already served two and a half. Ion Williams, painted as a monster by the tabloid press, papers more interested in story than truth, innocent but forever contaminated. Just across the bridge is Brondesbury Station. A yellow and white Richmond train approaches from the east; people going somewhere. Willesden Junction connects with trains to Euston. From there you can travel to Birmingham and Glasgow; follow the West Coast Mainline to all points north. Jump on the Northern or Victoria to Kings Cross St Pancras and a Eurostar will take you to Paris, Brussels or Bruges. From here, the great railway networks of Europe fan out like a peacock’s tail. The Trans Strait railway leaps across the Bosphorus to Asia. A ferry links Algeciras to Tangier and on to the ends of the earth. Not him though. Ion Williams tagged and going nowhere. Hanged by the testimony of two young men fifteen years after an event that never happened. And whatever compensation he gets once he’s exonerated can never buy back his innocence. No smoke without fire. Mr Williams the nonce. If he’s guilty, he deserves it. If he’s pardoned, they’ll say he got away with it. The stain. Williams watches the chap with the green hair and army boots pass by beneath him. Boy never seems to go anywhere either. A Stratford train approaches from the west. Then again, nor do the trains. East and west, always back to the beginning. Tangiers. That could work. Teach English and live like a king.

Tired of people and train watching, Williams grabs yesterday’s Evening Standard and settles at the kitchen table. A footballer jailed for having sex with a schoolgirl. Hope the poor bugger’s guilty, he thinks; that way he knows he’s getting what he deserves. Williams’ empathy broken. His trust gone. The child might be a victim, or she might be a destroyer of lives. Hating himself for having these thoughts, he keeps reading.