‘ I’ve bought him a nice little car, Joe. I managed to…’

Billy had been about to launch into a full-blown description, make, model and price when thankfully my mobile rang. There is a God, I thought, as I answered.

    ‘Billy, I have to go – it’s work. Listen, we really must meet up for a drink some time,’ I lied.

    ‘Great Joe, I’d like that. That’s if a busy doctor like you can ever find time for a common old mate like me.’

I laughed, but inwardly winced at the idea of socialising with the buffoon.

     I hurried off and hailed a cab. I had only being lying about the drink, the call was from work. It was British Transport Police – I was duty Police Surgeon that day. A body on the line at Balham – could I attend?  Of course I could, even a messy suicide was preferable to gassing to windbag Bingham.

     On arrival I was grimly informed by the Inspector that it was a mere formality, the victim was as dead as dead can be. He certainly wasn’t mistaken, for I had already taken in the macabre sight of a headless cadaver sprawled across the tracks. Cleanly, indeed almost surgically, decapitated by a train. Years ago I would have found the scene gruesome. These days I didn’t even get upset. Just another death which would generate a load of paperwork for me I thought, somewhat callously. I looked round for the detached head.

My eyes fell upon it.

Oh no.

Surely not.

I looked – I stared.

Oh no – surely not.

    ‘ Are you OK, Doc?’ I heard someone ask.

    ‘ Oh yes, I’m fine, just fine’, I replied.

Tears welled up in my eyes – Billy had no need to buy that ‘nice little car’ now and Matthew certainly wouldn’t be off to Oxford next month.

     I’ve heard it said that the final word said by the living person remains on the lips in death. I had scorned the very idea of it.

     The mouth was frozen around ONE word. ONE syllable. It confirmed what I suppose I had always known.

‘JOSH’