Chapter 3

When Siobhan boarded her train for London, she hardly noticed the small package Mike pressed into her hand as they parted. She found her reserved seat and sank into it with a sigh; looking out of the window, saw Mike walking towards the stairs to cross the bridge to the platform he needed. So pragmatic; what was the point in waiting to watch the train out of sight? But as he reached the foot of the stairs, he looked back, turned and retraced his steps and walked along looking for Siobhan’s face. As it happened, she was sitting on the platform side of the carriage. Their eyes met and locked and Mike placed one hand on the window; slowly, she put her hand against the other side. Neither smiled. There was a general slamming of doors, a whistle (an enduring anachronism in these days) and the train began to move; gaining speed it bore Siobhan away ... Mike watched it out of sight.

Siobhan felt a curious emptiness as the train carried her back to London. She gazed vacantly out of the window – even in the tunnel – and she was well past Chesterfield when she thought to open the package Mike had given her.

She held the pendant in her hand, just looking at it, for some time before fastening the chain round her neck and slipping it inside her blouse. It was for her to possess, to feel against her bosom, to look at when she was alone, not for display. She sighed. Any relationship with Mike was inevitably temporary. Enjoyable, yes; even rewarding, but they came from different worlds. There was no future for them, she needed to get back to work and ... not forget him, but put the whole episode into perspective. Besides ... if he really knew her, would he want to know her, who took her clothes off to be photographed for the pleasure of ... who? Mike had one of her glamour shots framed over his mantle. But, if he knew it was her? No. It wouldn’t do, at all, at all. She snorted as she realised she was thinking in the southern Irish lilt of her heritage.

Mike boarded his train for Edinburgh. Normally on such a journey he’d read, or think about the problem he was supposed to sort out. Perhaps play a game of chess against his computer, but somehow he couldn’t focus on anything. He, too, gazed out of the window without actually seeing any of the scenery. He was thinking of the pressure of Siobhan’s lips on his; on the curve of her neck ... the perfect proportions of her face. The ... curve ... of her slim ... elegant ... neck. Surely not. He couldn’t have had the model of his favourite photograph in his house for nearly two weeks without realising it, could he? Besides, Siobhan was blonde ... wasn’t she? Or perhaps ... did she have dark roots to her hair? The more he thought about it, the more sure he was. The realisation was followed by a desire to call her, followed immediately by the sickening realisation he’d never got her mobile number. Not that she’d really be interested in him, of course. No, he’d have to set aside the memories, just be grateful for the time he’d had with her, the things he’d learned...

His abstraction kept him from losing himself in reading or thinking, but didn’t stop him noticing a pretty girl across the aisle from him. With tousled red hair and freckles, her round face bore an expression he could only describe as ‘cheeky’.

When their eyes met, she smiled warmly.

“Hi. Train journeys pretty boring, huh?” There was more than a hint of Scots in her accent.

Mike didn’t respond immediately, but thought about it. “Not always,” he said, “sometimes you can find something interesting to pass the time.”

“Such as?” She raised her eyebrow suggestively.

“Oh...” he drawled, “I usually carry a good book; sometimes I work on my laptop...” then he smiled, “and sometimes I might meet someone that’s good company. You know, a pretty girl with red hair and green eyes and freckles who looks like she might be fun to be with.”

She giggled. “You think you’ve struck lucky, then?”

“Oh, absolutely. There’s an empty seat here, if you’d like to chat a bit more quietly.”

Now you might think (and you’d be right) that there’d been a fundamental change in Mike for him to relate to the girl like that. Actually, there were two elements involved. One, obviously, was Siobhan’s instruction in the art of chatting up the opposite sex, and that was certainly important. But there was also the personal impact Siobhan had upon him. He was at the stage where, unknowing, he was already comparing all other girls to Siobhan; not just physically, either; and they would all come up short. That could work two ways; he could just not take any interest in any of them, or his anxiety could be relieved and permit him to act confidently with them. As it happened, he took the second route. The redhead moved to sit next to him and was soon grilling him about his destination (Edinburgh? Great! My home town!) his occupation (computers? Cool!) and his reason for travelling to Edinburgh.

Mike found out her name was Fiona, that she was twenty-two and taking a Master’s degree in fine arts at Sheffield University. He expressed surprise she’d chosen Sheffield.

“Not that I don’t think my city is great, or that the University isn’t good too, but isn’t Edinburgh special for you?”

“Yes, but ... oh, several things. I wanted to spread my wings a bit. Sheffield offered a well-respected course. I had a pen friend who was going to go there.” She paused there, her expression pensive and a little sad. “He didn’t get the grades he needed, then he wrote to say he’d met someone at home.” She brightened then and added, “But I had a great time, got my degree and stayed on for my Master’s.”

They continued to chat over sandwiches and coffee from the buffet and by the time they alighted at Edinburgh Mike had her mobile number and had promised to call her as soon as he’d finished work the next day.

He checked in to a modern hotel near his objective. It boasted (among other facilities) a well-equipped gym. Mike detested treadmills, though he agreed they had their place in winter and bad weather, but the first thing he did was change into shorts, t-shirt and trainers to go out for a run, followed by an hour in the ‘fitness studio’. As usual, the exercise cleared his head. However, there’s an apposite saying about ‘logic being a great way of being wrong with confidence’. Mike decided that his time with Siobhan was a wonderful gift but that he should tuck the memories away in a safe place and treasure them, setting aside any idea of further contacts.

He had an early night, slept fairly well and made his way to the large, city-centre office, where he endured a lengthy recital of everything the IT manager had tried without success. As he had every intention of following much the same procedures, but without the short-cuts he was certain the IT manager had used but hadn’t mentioned, he eventually managed to interrupt the flow to suggest he needed to take a fresh look at the problem. By lunch-time he’d isolated but not identified the problem. The problem work-station was disconnected from the network enabling the rest to function normally by one o’clock and he took a break for coffee and a sandwich. By teatime, he’d identified that the machine had a serious ‘infection’. He had a word with the office manager and the IT manager.

“I’m pretty sure it was introduced directly – from a stick, CD, DVD, something like that. Not by internet, though that’s just possible.”

“Do you think it was malicious?”

Mike frowned. “Can’t say. Could have been code hidden in an apparently innocuous legitimate programme. Of course, whoever did it should have scanned the media before using it. That’s why you’ve got the scan software, after all. But I’m afraid it’s going to be very difficult to cure.”

“So...”

“So I recommend re-formatting and reloading the software in a clean install. But that means destroying any evidence of what’s been done. Unless you want to replace the workstation and let me take it back with me...”

The IT manager looked worried. His boss wasn’t looking at him, and just said, “I don’t think so. I think this time I’ll just memo to say no media are to be brought in without approval. Folks shouldn’t be playing games or watching videos on work time anyway. I might make an exception for music CDs as long as they’re scanned first ... by you, Jim,” he finished looking, at last, at the IT man.

It took long enough to reformat, reinstall the operating system and update it. Mike left the installation of the other software to the IT man and was back at the hotel by six.

By seven thirty, he was standing outside an unprepossessing restaurant. Ten minutes later, Fiona arrived, very apologetic, took him by the hand and led him inside. The interior wasn’t much more inspiring; a few tables with white cloths, chairs, none of which seemed to match; the lighting perfectly adequate and décor ... clean. Fiona led Mike to a table with a reserved sign on it.

A matronly woman bustled out. “Well, Fiona McClean. It’s been a while since you graced my humble establishment. You’re looking bonny.”

“Mrs. Armstrong! It’s great to see you. You’re looking pretty good yourself. Never a day older.”