Rail Line between Duirnish and Inverness
8- 45 a.m.
April 17th
Even under the shelter the niggling drizzle had blown at Peter Mason. When the train did arrive, fifteen minutes late, it was gone eight am. The train journey seemed to wind on forever. He bought tea and biscuits from a trolley, which surprised him at that time in the morning. Mason was bored and cursed the straw picking ceremony for transport. His mind turned to Stanton as he waited for the scalding hot, watery tea in the too thin cardboard cup to cool, cursing his hunger for opening the short cake packet, leading to thirst and ultimately burnt fingers and a scalded mouth. Stanton had chosen to hitch; the slowest possible means. Mason wondered why? Did Stanton know something or was he just avoiding any camera spots? Stanton was the oldest, he looked it; maybe his face was registered in places?
Mason mused on the British Navy submarine drop off. There was influence in the mission he was sure. Though they’d only given them thirty pounds cash and a fake credit card, though a working one. Because his train was pre-booked he had the ticket. It was all very well organised.
Thirty quid though. He smiled, cheapskates, this had to be a government funded kill, but why have them enter that way? It didn’t add up. Mason took a speculative sip at the tea and winced. Still too hot a small wave of tea burnt his fingers as the train jump stopped and jolted into the next station in what seemed an unending chain of ‘dree’ stops.