The postcode

Dermots face was blank as he inclined his head to a downward angle of 45 degrees. Nobody on the tube makes eye contact and doing so would likely bring unwanted attention. As the tube pulled away with a jolt, Dermot is vaguely aware of slipping further inside his own subconsciouness.

Dermot begins to replay his day at work. Work, a monotomy that is reflected and amplified by that of his souring relationship with Eimar. 'But where did that note come from'?. Trapped insdie his own mind as his journey begings to pass him by, Dermot thinks back to all the times he might have left his miserable work station, leaving his coat unattended, did anyone come near to his personal work space? who could have left that note in his pocket?

Nothing. Within an eight hour shift at Kennsington Building society he had not left his coat unattended, no one had encroached within his personal space and none of the other drones had even bothered him throughout the eight hours of hell. Even his lunch had only been a trip to the sandwhich shop round the corner.  Yet there it was. In his pocket and crushed inside his sweatly hand. A call to arms, a hint at a different life. Working on mortgage applications as he did, Dermot even knew roughly which area of London the postcode referred to. But he wasn't going to go there, was he?

Weighing the sum total of his life hee knew deep down that he couldn't live through the uncertainty of youth and early adulthood again. It had been a difficult enough journey to reach this stage in his life he was at now and big changes were not something he could cope with. As the he came back from his subconcious ramblings he snapped back into focus with a resolute decision that he would not be changing any aspect of his life significantly, he was too scared and vulnerable to take the leap of faith that the note in his pocket required.

As he flowed out onto the platform with the surging mass of his fellow comuters he took in his surroundings. Something was not right. He looked round in a panic. Not only had he changed lines twice without realising, but he was now looking at Finchely Road station.

As he pulled the note from his pocket he knew what it said. 23 NW3 8LU. Finchely Road put him in the right area for the the postcode. Dermot felt the icy tingle of a bead of sweat running down his back, what had led him here, and away from home, away from the dull but safe niche he had carved out with Eimar?

The End

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