Shoot thy neighbour when he's gone

I only met Mr Kim twice. He sat opposite me on a delayed train from London, leaned over and engaged me in conversation, and I was too polite to refuse.

A South-Korean, and a deeply devout Christian, I learned within seconds. He showed me pictures of his wife and children, and told me the story of their lives, the twists and turns, the hard work and devout lives, the travel, and how he felt they were being shaped by god, that they would continue to go where ever Jesus lead them. He quoted from the bible he held gently in his lap thoughout, the family photos as a bookmark, and I felt a slight unease that perhaps he was trying to convert me, but then I relaxed and listened.

It emerged he was to become my neighbour, opening a business selling thermal acupressure massage beds in the empty shop down the road from me. He showed me the brochures and I blinked at the prices, several grand a pop. I had my reservations about Newhaven as a prime site for this, I ventured. But he had a gentle determined conviction. 'You must come', he said, 'and try when it opens. You can have a free demonstration' and he extolled the virtues of the system.
When I said I suspected I was not quite in his target market, it being slightly beyond my means, he said, never mind, I should come anyway.

I didn't, though my regular running route went past his window.

The second time I met Mr Kim I was hurrying through the darkened muted halls of Schipol airport, on a late night transfer. The shops were shuttered and there weren't many people about. I was slightly lost and slightly panicked, not quite sure I would make the gate. A voice called my name and I turned and almost turned back, not recognising anyone I knew. A small, dapper, be-suited Korean man, recognition in his eyes, came into focus but I could not place him. Persistent, smiling, he spoke, and quoted the bible, and slowly the train journey surfaced in my memory.

How is your business going, I said, apologetic and slightly guilty for my implied suspicion in not having taken up his invitation. Slow he said. He was not sure what his next move would be. But I should come soon he said. And then we parted, each walking towards our departure gates, I calmer than before.

I never did. I was injured and didn't run and the next time I passed, the 'TO LET' signs were up. Every time now, I think of him, and his faith and quiet conviction, and wonder where he and his family have ended up. It may be nowhere dramatic, but I wonder anyway.