Journey through The Centre Of The Earth

Matthew Winter

The policeman opened the cell door with a conciliatory frown. The joke was over. Apparently they'd been able to contact someone to verify my true identity and I wouldn't have to be held in custody until the hearing. As he led me back to the reception, or whatever they call it, I could feel his stare pressing against my back with its mocking pity. All my theatrical defiance of the night before had been humbled out of me by the loneliness of the cell and I no longer wanted to fight, I just wanted my stuff back and to get home. Trouble was, I wasn't exactly sure where that might be.

All I knew was that I was in a Scottish border town called Eyemouth and all my bearings had been knocked out of my head by the fracturing journey in the meat wagon the night before.

As I stepped out the front door of the station the wind of the North Sea slapped me insolently in the face and the throbbing in my forehead froze still in the glassy light. I'd had hangovers before, but this, this was something new.

Dumping my body on the springy old bed of the hotel, my breath sucked in the whole dusty room. What on earth was I doing here? I'd come here to get a berth on a fishing trawler in order to make some quick cash, then make my way to Mongolia and work as a volunteer in an orphanage. That's right, that's what I was doing here.

I recollected the violent blizzard of the night before that shook these dreams from my hair permanently. A giant man, with no front teeth and a facial scar that ripped a demented purple smile from the top of his left ear to the middle of his cheek, had taken me under his wing. I was gruffly ushered from bar to bar with an indoctrinating slap on the back as this happy maniac carved up the status quo with his soul quaking guffaw.

A comment he made about the conquest of an unwilling grandmother was too much for one fisherman who must've been twice his age and only half his weight. Backs were straightened, chests puffed out and threats were brandished like shining knives. The old man pushed his pint glass into my acquaintances face with one hand, whilst grabbing his shirt with other and sent him flying over a table laden with empties as blood and glass confettied the air.

Later that night as I attempted to let the tsunami of beer within me join the splashes of the North Sea, I was stopped by three surly policeman and given an on the spot fine. In my foggy state of mind I thought it wise not to give my real name as I couldn't afford to part with the cash. Not convinced that my real name was 'Jacob Jacobson' the policeman deftly picked my pocket which contained my wallet, stuffed with ID. I was manhandled into the van, swabbed for DNA, finger-printed, hand-printed, mug-shotted, charged with conspiracy to pervert the course of justice (a very serious offence; they took great pleasure in telling me) and slammed in a cell.

Recalling this fiasco I found strength in the resolve that I had to get out of this town. From the window of the bus I stared out at the melting snow, spattered about the hills of the valley like toothpaste in a sink, and wondered what future might await me back in Edinburgh.

Shuffling aimlessly along Palmerston Place in the west end I found a bench propped up against the north wall of St. Mary's cathedral that beckoned my weary bones. The bench became an easel upon which I sketched the utter hopelessness of my situation. With no money, no job, nowhere to stay and now a potential criminal record I would never qualify for the permanent residency visa. I was bereft of even the desire to move.

I remembered back in Wollongong showing my little brother on a globe that if we poked one of my Gran's knitting needles straight through the centre of the earth that it would poke through on the other side somewhere in Scotland. I imagined that giant needle now pushing up tufts of dirt in front of me and, where I looked, I noticed something sparkle through the grass.

On closer inspection I discovered it was a set of keys. Obviously containing house and car keys, I realised the owner would desperately want them back. Having nothing better to do I decided to hand them in to the church.

I finally found the verger, and his warm countenance was a welcome antidote to the lofty gloom inside the cathedral. He introduced himself as Colin and noticing my accent, asked me what I was doing in town. 'Looking for work', I replied 'What kind of work would you like to do?' 'Well I'd really like to do care work actually, but I've only ever done it as a volunteer' 'It's funny you should mention that' he said with a canny smile 'my sister is the head of personnel at the Royal Edinburgh Hospital. I'll give you her number.'

I called the number and found there was a job closing that day. It's the same job I've worked in since that day in 2004. Needless to say the charges were dropped and I got my residency visa. I know I have found the line of work I was put on earth to do and the place on earth where I am meant to live. Life has unfolded with a colourful elegance ever since.

Now, whenever I'm passing through the west end and I see the three spires of St. Mary's cathedral poking piously above the rooftops, a warm smile balloons in my chest and creases my face with wonder, as I remember Colin and the keys and how it's days like these that make you almost, almost, believe.