Epicentre

Berwick-upon-Tweed is a bonny toon aen the border ay Scotland an Scroteland. It’s best ken fur its salmon fishing, which is some ay the finest in th’ world (Yemen hae naethin aen it), but that’s no always been the case. Back in the day Berwick wis nationless; it wisn’ae really Scottish an it wisn’ae really Scrotish, kind ay like a bairn born between twa races back when ither radges cared aboot such pish.

It started with the Scots getting intae a rammy with the auld Sassenachs back in 1018 when brave Owain the Bald, proud king ay Strathclyde pushed the English back intae Northumbria. There efter Berwick an the surrounding toons wis the centre ay an almighty tug-au-war. Sometimes the respective governments tried tae entice the borderland kin, sometimes they tried tae batter them intae submission, but they remained in a kind ay heidless state an in that vacuum came the Border Reivers.

Now terrible things grow in unchecked neuks, like the deamhans that crawled oot ay darkest pits ay hell when there were no gods or angels keeping a watchful e’e. Sick ay being pillaged an burned by marauders the borderland kin turned an what they metamorphosed intae was enough tae scare any invading radges back intae their mither’s wame.

The Reivers wis the kind of warrior ye wid’nae find anywhere else but that wis naething compared tae their wummen. There’s a story of a famous Reiver’s wifie who wis so het-heided at her empie larder she served her guid-man his spurs fur supper. ‘Get oot an go Reiving or ye can eat yer buits next,’ wis the message she wis sending him.

Fascinating as this area might be it kind ay loses its charm when yer’ve been staring at the erse end ay it for two hours.

‘Hello this is the train manager speaking,’ the tannoy sais distortedly, ‘I’m sorry about the continued delay to your journey. This is because of cables that were stolen from one of the signals. We hope to be on the move as soon as possible however whilst you wait we do have a fully stocked catering carriage, including a selection of hot cold drinks such as, tea, coffee, water, orange juice…’

‘Shut yer gob ye bawbag.’ Prof. Adam Dewar spat. ‘I should’nae even be here.’

No he should’nae; the train should have been checking it’s way intae York right about now, but that’s no the reason he shouln’ae be here. His heid felt ten times to big an the blood pressure wis trying to squeeze it back down to size with a thump, thump thump, which is what happens when ye get as steamin as a stoater on twelve tinnies of Special Brew. But that wisn’ae the reason either.

This decision wis one he’d ne’er made before, to make the trip intae the belly ay the beast, London. Adam shuddered at the thought. He wouldn’ae have done such a stupid thing had something no clicked in his heid which said ‘Why didn’ae you go to King’s College an take the fruits ay ye hard earned labour, ey?’

An auld Prof. Dewar thought ‘Why shouldn’ae I? It’s always Harkins an Cox an every other flavour of the month media hoore who’s hogging the limelight. Why shouldn’ae I get my moment in the sun?’ So he packed his bags, got half cut, passed oot an then jumped on a train.

He read the invitation again,

‘Dear Professor Dewar,’ the letter introduced itself, ‘We at the King’s College Quantum Mechanics department have been strong proponents in your work in Sapcetime Superfluids, believing it has the potential to greatly expand the scientific community’s understanding of the Universe.’ Very complimentary Prof. Dewar thought, though if he wanted his erse licked he could have just bought a dog an covered his crack with jam.

‘You may be aware that working with our Applied Physics department we conducted an experiment to prove your Fluid Time Dilation theory – I won’t bore you with the details as I’m sure you have heard about it on the news,’ He had not, Prof. Dewar preferred to do something more useful than read the papers, like pick dirt oot ay his bellybutton, ‘– which, although needs repeated testing, gives great credence your work. It has made international headlines as I am sure you are aware,’ he was not, ‘and we would therefore like to invite you to be a part of media conference we’ll be hosting,’ the polite suck up gave the date, which was today, and the time, which was 4pm.

Prof. Adam Dewar looked at his watch

’11:03am.’ It lied.

His watch wisn’ae as sensitive as their great Laser Interferometer Clocks but that didn’ae mean it wisn’ae lying.

‘I hope you can make it.’ The letter finishes.

So did he; even though he couldn’ae really admit tae himself, he wanted tae be part ay this moment in history, his moment in history, the moment he had inadvertently caused, no by his work, no by his theories, but by his actions, ay getting on a train tae London.