Joe sat in the black cab with a light duffle bag of his limited belongings on his lap. The cabbie was whistling along to a pop song on the radio as he dexterously navigated the narrow streets of London. On the other side of the cab, the silent man sat, legs crossed with his left arm resting on the back of the seat. Joe knew the man was blind yet he could not shake the sense that he was being continuously observed. They were en route to Euston station, destination Edinburgh. Joe thought back on his youth and the odd couple of times he had ventured past Hadrian's wall for a rugby game or a ski trip up Cairngorm mountain. A lifetime ago he ruminated.
He personally had no Scottish blood, which he felt some remorse for as he felt a strange connection to Scotland in his heart. The moors, the glens, the isolated castles and the acquired pleasure of bagpipes. Like any man, he had watched Braveheart and had the tearing of his own heart as Mel’s wife was murdered before him. He had learned to hate the English during that film, siding with William Wallace as they took a fatal last stand. The philosophical side of him questioned why he had such a visceral reaction and tried to equivocate that all counties, peoples or tribes were liable to oppression and genocide. Yet, emotionally, the murder of Marion was unforgivable.
Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author's preferred platform and support their work!
He linked that emotion to his own relationships and sighed, alighting from the cab onto Eversholt street. Rationalising emotions was an impossible task he concluded, they're simply potent bags of force that make up a personality, a chemical madhouse to ensure that life never remains too dull.
With that realisation in mind and the further understanding of his drive to outrun his past he passed beneath the archway into the hustle and bustle of Euston station. People bedecked with suitcases, newspapers and bags of takeaway grub rushed around like a river of humanity. In the middle of the rapids his guide stood like a lonely rock, neither buoyed nor dislodged by the rapids of life.
A bass grunt and then they were off again, gate to Edinburgh ascertained. Joe was about to raise the issue of tickets but before he could say a word they were waved through the gate without fanfare. Joe admired the way the blind man so easily found his way without apparent aid and soon they were comfortably sequestered in their first class seats. Next stop, Scotland.