The Story of S

This is the story of S. I have thought of writing it for some time but it remains, despite the passage of time, raw, painful and difficult. Because of the subject matter I have withheld some details, I do not know if the family of S will ever read this. There are details I choose not to recall and there are things I will spare you too. The immediate spur was reading an article in the newspaper this morning and being pitched back, as I sometimes am when passing the places of this story: the station, the hospital, the coroner's court. There is a more measured motivation too, and I will return to it.

S was from Italy and had been recommended to me as a visiting student by a close academic friend. We had in place an exchange arrangement and S was to come and undertake a project under my supervision he could then submit as a thesis concluding his Laurea.

At that time I had a mid-sized research group forming a tightly knit team. I had arrived at the college relatively recently and was trying to make a name for myself. S was quiet but it did not take me long to appreciate that he was clever, he understood straightaway the rather complex research task, probably on reflection, unsuited to somebody with his limited experience. He was engaging, questioning and thoughtful, but appeared to lack confidence in his own abilities. I would make light of his doubts and, as he made immediate rapid progress, I felt it was the right thing to do.

I also liked his company and we would talk, mostly about computer science, but also about life in London, the usual chat. On one weekend S, at my invitation, joined my son and I to watch Chelsea play at home at Stamford Bridge. At that time a very 'Italian experience'. My son would probably recollect the game and the score, I cannot. S appeared to enjoy it though I recall he seemed uncharacteristically distant, perhaps preoccupied.

The research work was good and I was happy. Not much more comes to my mind about that autumn as it drew into winter.

Now some sharply illuminated moments. We are sitting at lunch in the lower refectory, as a team, myself, Barbara - a research fellow, a few doctoral students and S. S is very quiet and there is an air of nervous tension about him. When asked by me, casually, he says he is worried about writing up his thesis but nothing more. I dismiss his concerns, lightheartedly, the work is good, nothing to worry about. Shortly after that S leaves the table, perhaps to return to the lab, he does not say, and his departure is not particularly noticed.

We stay, chatting. We get coffee. Maybe fifteen minutes later, it is difficult to be accurate, I leave to walk back to my office. I am accompanied by Barbara. In the middle of the quad is a large red helicopter, the air ambulance, sponsored by Virgin. Perhaps it is there for advertising, some technical exhibition by the manufacturer, an event on emergency medicine or similar, possibly, as I joke at the time, Richard Branson has arrived in style. We briefly spectate and I return to work, email, meetings, and so on.

Again, the passage of time is unclear, perhaps an hour passes maybe more. Then the Departmental Secretary, JJ, comes to see me. S is in the University hospital, he has had an accident. He has, in fact, walked from the lunch table and jumped beneath a tube train at nearby Euston Square station. This, I learn later, accounts for the air ambulance that carries the expert trauma team. The accident and emergency staff from the hospital, which is opposite the station, had also gone to assist. S was carrying his visiting student card, his only identifying information, and the police have requested that I am to go to the hospital where he is undergoing treatment.

I ask JJ to find his home address and any other information we might possess. No more is said, I go to the accident and emergency section of the hospital where the staff tell me to wait. Some time, not long, later, two policemen approach me, taking me aside they tell me that S died from his injuries a few moments previously. They ask me to formally identify him.

I wait, it is not long, and am then taken downstairs. The scene is clear in my mind, different from the many times I have seen it in murder dramas. The room is darkened, I recollect it as like a chapel, though the body and particularly the face is clearly illuminated caught by strong spotlights. S is difficult to recognise, his distinctive hair is pushed back, it appears dusty, and he is without expression, still, departed. I look carefully, conscious of my responsibility. 'Yes' I say clearly 'this is S'. I am led out and the police ask a few more questions, about his family and his living arrangements in London. I have few answers, what I know is fragmentary. I return to work and in a desultory manner conclude some pieces of work. It is Friday evening, I go to my parents, the family is there, the candles are lit, I tell some of the story, not all.

After the weekend, I clear his desk and gather together the notes from the research that are lying there. Intertwined in the hand written technical notes are small drawings, doodles, of guns, knives, tunnels and gravestones. In the margins are annotations 'I want to die'. I copy them and pass it to the Coroner's Sergeant, who is my designated contact. I then transcribe the research material. It appears many months later in a leading journal.

Weeks pass and I am summoned to appear at the Coroner's Court. The formal inquest takes place behind the old St Pancras Station, a gothic location. I walk across a dark Victorian churchyard to a small courtroom. I am asked questions, I answer to the best of my ability. The details do not matter, there is more, but I will not write about it. I meet the family of S but I have nothing to say. There are other people there, from London Transport, a kind nurse from the hospital, we are the bit players. The proceedings conclude or fail to conclude, more accurately they finish with an inconclusive verdict because the jury is unable to decide on the matter of intention. All that is left from the day is the image from the station camera. Three grainy shots as he moves across the platform towards the track, and is gone.

Why do I write this? Because I owe a duty to memory? No. Because I want to exorcise it? No. S was ill, and he died of his illness as so many others have, I understand this. How could I have let him walk away from that table? Perhaps I should have spotted it, perhaps it was not possible. This is not about my guilt or otherwise. Ultimately it is about the vulnerable young people we have in our care.