I leave the deserted office, walk to the North British Railway Train Station and board the train. I’ve dispatched word of my impending arrival to the Edinburgh office.
I disembark at Waverley Station and find John Falcon on the platform. There are no words spoken, only a brotherly embrace by two people who survived colossal trauma and recognise how lucky they are to be still alive.
The carriage journey to 26-27 Queen Street is in silence, and I look at John’s black armband, “Hugh’s funeral service is on 18th August.”, I said. The words feel hollow, and reality hits. Five people are dead, thirty staff are sick, and the remaining staff’s morale is hanging by a thread.
James Mackenzie welcomes us inside, “Deepest condolences.”
“Yes, and it’s now worse. James, I need to talk to you.”, I said, signalling him up to his office and explaining the details of the letter from Carey & Fortis.
“They do pick their moments.”
“They sense victory.”
“Well, the whole point of this Edinburgh venture is to support Glasgow during rough times, and vice-versa?”
“You are learning fast.”
James hands me over a letter, “This will help.”
I skim the letter, “You won the Stevenson contract?”
“The whole lot.”
“Do they know yet?”
“They find out tomorrow.”, said James, reaching for two whisky glasses.
“Excellent.”