He tapped the screen. Loading page. Nope, no connection. He tried the same thing again. If the definition of insanity was doing the same thing over and over in anticipation of a different result, he would have been locked up for his own safety, with the key long since thrown away; almost from the moment the train had crossed the border into Wales, his signal had fallen off a cliff, and so he had no choice but to endlessly tap the ‘refresh’ button when the conductor had informed him that, no, their train did not offer a premium wifi service.
It was Wednesday. There were things to be done on Wednesdays; emails to send, things to book. In exasperation, he drummed his fingers on the apparently useless perspex screen of his tablet with one hand, and snatched the optimistic bluetooth headset from his ear with a dextrous pincer-like clasp of his fingers, which he neatly stowed in his bag.
Of all the places in the world, why did it have to be Wales? Apparently, his mysterious correspondent didn’t care for his work schedule.
At the thought of this Mr. Jig, whoever he was, Jamie shuffled in his seat slightly. He wished he’d brought the letters with him, just to double-check he’d got the date, time and location right, except he had put the damn things in the shredder the moment he’d received them. Of course, he’d typed up a transcript of each on his tablet, which he had saved online – and was now of no use to him whatsoever. With nothing else to do, he half-looked at his own reflected image in the carriage window and half at the increasingly gloomy-looking weather outside. The greatest irony of all, that, in Wales of all places, it was impossible to get access to The Cloud.
They drew into Pryrush. He’d already heard a couple of people requesting the stop, and so hadn’t bothered to do so himself. Perhaps he was still pretending to himself that it was any ordinary day, and he was just packing up at the office. With a sigh and a stretch, Jamie stood up and began collecting his things together. All in all, it was an efficient, three-point movement, in which he closed his tablet case, stowed it in his messenger bag, and twirled the strap over his shoulder before alighting.
There were a few others. Actually, there were a few others. He frowned gently as he cautiously joined them on the platform. His fellow travellers looked as out-of-place as Jamie presumed he did himself, and all appeared to be travelling alone – there were eight of them in total. He’d heard accents on the train and, though he was no good with accents, he would have sworn that most of them were even less local than his own. It certainly was a motley crew that fate had drawn to Pryrush that night. Eyebrows raised, he headed into the waiting room, as instructed.
It was cute, he guessed, in a rural vintage kind of way, but he wrinkled his nose and tried to push away the instinctive thoughts of giving the place a good going-over with a hoover. The dim, antiquated lighting, which came in the form of cheap-looking candelabras on the walls with useless bulbs, did nothing to disguise the dust, and gently reflected off the nearby cobwebs. Even the photographs, which appeared to be of local scenery, were worse for wear, with their frames violently askew, and in the case of one which could just about be made out as a landscape of some country crossroads, violently cracked. The atmosphere was just ruined by a regular ding emanating from the counter, where one of the arrivals’ wrinkled hands was exploring all of the possibilities of the service bell.
Ding.
Ding.
Ding.
Jumpy enough without the old woman calling for attendance when it was obvious nobody was there, Jamie casually turned around to find some peace and quiet back on the platform, only to find that the wind had audibly picked up, and it had begun to make good on the rain it had been promising all day. Typical. Rolling his eyes, he took a seat in the waiting room. Hopefully it would all be over soon.
Ding.
