The sun had finally come out and Sydney Thompson recalled thinking to himself, why not pop out to the pub, walk around a bit. So he did and enjoyed a pint or three or more, and then he found himself looking at his watch.
"Right, well I've got to go," he announced to the bartender.
"In such a hurry? Where to?"
"I'm going to go die, I think."
He laughs a bit, "Well it, it really doesn't matter, now does it?"
He has decided to refuse to concern himself with threats and facts. It's simple, really. He made a decision, and that's that. It's really such a relief. He has no issue dropping £215 to get the very best Eurostar seats from St. Pancras to Calais. He smiles at everyone, which is apparently something people find alarming, but he doesn't mind them.
He's going to Calais.
He's going to find Jake, and he's going to get an explanation. For everything.
While he realizes what happens to him whenever he is unwise enough to follow a few pints with the harder stuff, this is business class, and class is the word, so he orders a double Gray Goose with a twist. The English countryside whirs by at an increasing rate of speed, and the fact it is receding is also making feel even better. He smiles to himself and chuckles at an article in the magazine he picked up back at the station. He chuckles to himself again when he gets his drink, careful not to spill it, savoring its icy burn as the train descends into the tunnel.