Of course, later on he would tell the police and anyone who would listen that what had happened was symptomatic of a larger problem—disaffected youth, fear of stabbings, the bystander effect, the growth of unmanned train stations, the loss of conductors, a society obsessed with smartphones and social media… anything that would take the attention away from his own small role—his action, or inaction, when it had mattered most. It all happened so fast, nobody could have seen it coming, he would say, to the point where he almost believed it. But in truth, the writing had been on the wall from the moment he boarded the train.
John got on the DART at Tara Street that evening and immediately felt he had made a mistake. He could read it on the faces of the other passengers. There were furtive glances being exchanged as he made his way down the carriage and an unhealthy dose of paranoia washed over him. He needn’t have worried, well needn’t have been paranoid at least. The source of the disquiet soon became apparent to him.
It was youths. A large group of them, down the far end making their presence felt. Youths. It was strange how the word had such undertones
