I’m walking home from work. To the left, cars hurry by. To the right, the river Thames. And ahead, a man. A big man, jeans and bomber jacket, dishevelled hair, and a troubled expression. He catches my eye and won’t let it go. I find I can’t either. His gait, a touch erratic, tottering even, alters direction, so that he’s heading directly towards me. Three steps away, I realise and stop. But it’s too late. Two steps, one step, and then it happens. He thrusts his arms out, grabbing my chest, under my armpits. His momentum carries me backwards, towards the railing, and then upwards, the power in his arms propelling me off the ground. Our eyes are still locked together, his stare vacant, as I feel myself lifted, my legs first catching on the railing and then, with a heave, I am hoisted over, and I feel, instinctively and suddenly, the vast space beneath. It all happens in an instant, and I am powerless. For a moment I seem frozen in mid-air. Then I start to fall. I feel the air rushing upwards, but I hear nothing. All I can take in is the sky. The unrelenting sky. I fall for one second, maybe two, then hit the surface. I read, once, that you can die falling into water, from the impact. But I’m okay. I plunge deeply, and my brain clicks into gear, my survival instinct. I wriggle free from my backpack. And then my shoes. I remember that from school. Then I float to the surface, looking around as I emerge, trying to get my bearings. The current drags me downstream, surprising me with its force. My arms and legs move automatically to keep me afloat, but sluggishly, encumbered by my winter clothes. The cold hasn’t hit me yet. I look up, to where I fell from. There’s nobody. It happened so quickly. Nobody to save me, nobody to watch me drown. I look across, see the floating jetty. That’s what I aim for. I try to swim. Slowly, painfully, my movements uncoordinated and feeble compared to the choppy waters, but still, I make progress, and I arrive, finally, at the wooden column, rising up from the riverbed to the jetty. I hug it desperately, thankfully, then I look back up to the road, to the railings, and I shout. Help! Help! It seems, suddenly, like I am far, far away, alone. I realise how noisy this city is, the possibility that nobody will hear me. I feel the cold, properly, for the first time, and I start to panic. Help! Then someone appears. Thank God, I think. I shout again. I see a response, an acknowledgment, and more people appear. They’re frozen, not knowing what to do, and that makes me temporarily, and unreasonably, angry. I see one of them running, along the pavement, stopping, I realise, at a lifebuoy, a rubber ring, one that I’ve walked past hundreds of times unthinkingly, never conceiving of this moment. He struggles to detach it from its case, the urgency of the situation complicating his movements, but then I see it, in his hands, held aloft, for a moment, while he prepares to throw it. Then it’s in the air, arcing towards me, but falling short. I have to leave the wooden column and swim towards it, and only now do I realise how exhausted I am, how little strength I have left. I reach the ring and struggle to clamber onto it, aware of the people staring at me, and I feel embarrassed at my clumsy, ungainly attempts, an embarrassment I will later find ridiculous. Somebody shouts, hold on!, or something to that effect, something well-meaning but unnecessary. And I do, shivering, relieved suddenly by the crowds, because I can’t possible drown now, not with all those people watching. And then I hear an engine, see a rescue boat approach, and I know it’s going to be okay. They drag me on board, wrap me up, take care of me, take me ashore where an ambulance waits. Now I feel excited. All these people, just for me. This amazing thing, happening to me. I’m taken to hospital, fussed over, kept overnight for observation. Journalists find me, I don’t know how, but that’s what they do. People thought I’d jumped, at first. That wasn’t much of a story. Who’s going to empathise with someone who wants to die? But then they find CCTV footage, because there’s cameras everywhere. They’re amazed. They interview me, ask me what went through my mind, whether my life flashed before my eyes like people say. I say something profound and they like it, they nod their heads sagely. By now the office is wondering where I am, why I haven’t showed up. My boss is texting me, emailing, but my phone is useless of course, all that water. I see the messages, later, read the annoyance in his words, and hope that he felt guilty when he knew, when the hospital rung him, like I ask the nurse to do, because I know that will have more effect. They see it on the local news, people from work. Oh my God, they say to each other, can you imagine? And then, when I go back, after a couple of weeks off for the shock, people treat me differently somehow, more respectfully. And I behave differently, too. I am different. I have gravitas. Something serious has happened to me. I nearly died.

I look up. I’ve reached Blackfriars station. I’ve no recollection of how I got here, lost in thought since that guy veered past me. I scan the board and see there’s twelve minutes to wait for my train. I sigh in annoyance, find a seat, take out my iPhone and start flicking idly through my emails.