Sebastien Flement had often wondered about taking his own life. He was curious enough to have read an internet article on the subject and knew that, according to statistics, most suicides happen on a Wednesday. It was unusual, then, that his death occurred on a Sunday morning, with one hundred and fifty tons of electrified steel hitting the side of his head at forty miles an hour.

Clean-shaven with a mop of dark hair, Flement stood over six feet tall with a build that was lean and well toned; regular long runs along the Grand Union Canal had shaved close to a decade off his forty-six years. Even on a Sunday, he looked sharp in the dress-down weekend uniform of pressed beige chinos, blue button-down shirt and tailored overcoat. Clutching the weekend papers and his briefcase, he walked the one hundred yards towards Warwick Avenue station, took his last ever breath of what passed as fresh air in London and descended the long escalator, inhaling the Tube’s trademark mix of tunnel dust and stale heat. 

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