His shirt was now glued to his back with sweat as his aching legs stumbled into the station and his eyes and ears were greeted by the bustle of people, colours, crowd noise and the chiming tannoy overhead followed by the muffled, incomprehensible female voice of anonymous, distant instruction.
His wide eyes darted up and down the large noticeboard, after a few seconds picking out the flashing words: EDINBURGH – 1014 - PLATFORM 6S. He drew a deep breath and readied his body for the final dash, the straps of his backpack digging deeper into his weary shoulders. He slapped the flashing button to open the doors, glimpsing to his right to catch the gaze of the driver, staring down the side of the train to see his final passenger board.
Panicked breathing soon turned to slower, longer breaths of relief as he scanned the cabin and picked out an empty two-seat position and sat down by the window, setting his heavy backpack on the aisle seat next. His right hand reached down instinctively to feel for the familiar square shape in his jeans pocket. A lightening bolt of panic and fear shot from his chest right down his body and turned the soles of his feet cold.
He frantically yanked back the zips of his backpack and raided every corner of it. Nothing. He tried every compartment again. Still nothing. It’s not in there, rule out the backpack. His jacket pockets. Nil. Nothing. Down the side of the seat. No. Again, out of vague hope and desperation he felt his jeans pockets. His legs began to feel alien without that small, handheld companion. The required item of acceptance in modern society. The life-device, the gateway to the world through a small glass screen encased in plastic so lifeless yet so terribly personal and vital. Hundreds of photographs, contacts, emails. “Did I log out of my Facebook account??!!”. Like a miner without a torch. Lost, alone and helpless as the train thundered down the track, further from wherever his phone might lay.
Half an hour passed of racing thoughts punctuated by occasional jealous glances at a couple sitting at the table seats in front, tapping away happily at their glowing buddies. No such ill fortune for them. Society accepts them. A man without a phone? Today??! Persona non grata. An outcast. Dead.
He leaned his sorry head against the window, exhaled, and for a few moments allowed his mind to drift. Staring at the cliffs, the north sea, a distant tanker. He recalled playing on the sand with his little brother at Rosemarkie beach. Soft focus, grainy memories. A clement late afternoon, a lifetime ago. The two of them wandered along the shore to an area of rockpools and tall wispy grass that swayed in the cooling breeze. Nobody knew exactly where they were. They would wander back the way they came, in their own time. Nothing troubled the mind other than the sensory engagements that wrapped them up in the there and then. The seagull caws, crab claws, limpet shells, skimming stones and every forward footstep was a new feeling, another moment savoured. The foaming lip of the sea rolled calmly over. He closed his eyes and the warmth began to return to his feet. As he curled his toes for a second he felt the sand between them.