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The taxi idled quietly on the narrow Ipswich street, its engine ticking beneath a sky the colour of dirty porcelain. Brian stepped out of his terraced house carrying only one bag — hard-edged, weatherproof, over-prepared for a city run.

The driver was in his fifties, tan jacket, football on the radio turned low. He didn’t turn his head as Brian slid into the back seat.

“So where are we heading today?”

Brian looked out of the window, then said, “Point Nemo.”

There was a pause. The driver didn’t turn around. He shifted slightly in his seat, adjusted the mirror with two fingers.

“That means one of two places,” he said. “Stansted or Heathrow. I’m guessing Heathrow.”

Brian gave the smallest nod. “You guessed right. T5”

The taxi pulled away from the curb.

They drove in silence for ten minutes. Brian stared ahead, eyes flicking past the hedgerows and roundabouts as if searching for some pattern in them.

Eventually, the cabbie spoke again. “So. Point Nemo.” he said, like he was tasting the words.

Brian didn’t answer.

The cabbie didn’t push. He let it sit there. A few more miles passed. Then, softly:

“Well. This’ll be the first leg of many, then.”

Still no answer. Just the sound of tyres on wet tarmac.

A little while later, as they approached the airport, the driver reached into the flap of his sun visor and pulled out a battered business card. He handed it over without ceremony.

“My email’s on there. If you make it... send me some photos. Always wondered what it looked like.”

Brian took the card, looked at it briefly, then tucked it into his coat.

As he stepped out at Terminal 5, the driver turned round for the first time. Studied him, just for a second.

“You look like someone who’s really going there.”

Brian nodded.

“I am.”

29:T78b,

The driver was in his fifties, tan jacket, football on the radio turned low. He didn’t turn his head as Brian slid into the back seat.

“So where are we heading today?”

Brian looked out of the window, then said, “Point Nemo.”

There was a pause. The driver didn’t turn around. He shifted slightly in his seat, adjusted the mirror with two fingers.

“That means one of two places,” he said. “Stansted or Heathrow. I’m guessing Heathrow.”

Brian gave the smallest nod. “You guessed right. T5”

The taxi pulled away from the curb.

They drove in silence for ten minutes. Brian stared ahead, eyes flicking past the hedgerows and roundabouts as if searching for some pattern in them.

Eventually, the cabbie spoke again. “So. Point Nemo.” he said, like he was tasting the words.

Brian didn’t answer.

The cabbie didn’t push. He let it sit there. A few more miles passed. Then, softly:

“Well. This’ll be the first leg of many, then.”

Still no answer. Just the sound of tyres on wet tarmac.

A little while later, as they approached the airport, the driver reached into the flap of his sun visor and pulled out a battered business card. He handed it over without ceremony.

“My email’s on there. If you make it... send me some photos. Always wondered what it looked like.”

Brian took the card, looked at it briefly, then tucked it into his coat.

As he stepped out at Terminal 5, the driver turned round for the first time. Studied him, just for a second.

“You look like someone who’s really going there.”

Brian nodded.

“I am.”

2a:Tbc3,

He had crossed half the world to get here.

There had been no issues at Heathrow, no delays at Santiago, no trouble catching the connection to Hanga Roa, Easter Island. Each leg had gone as scheduled. People were polite, planes were clean, and Brian passed through them like fog through wire mesh. Nothing touched him.

He had made the arrangements weeks in advance. The vessel was booked. A fishing charter, modest size, long range. The captain’s name was Ernesto, and the emails had been brief but professional.

“Yes. We can make the trip. It is rare. Expensive. But possible.”

When Brian arrived at the dock, the boat wasn’t there.

He stood for fifteen minutes, then thirty. Locals moved back and forth — unloading crates, coiling ropes, arguing about fuel. A younger man finally approached him, wiping his hands on a rag. Brian showed him the name: Ernesto Muñoz. The man made a face, nodded once, and walked away.

Ten minutes later, a different man emerged from behind a storage shed — stockier, in his late forties, with a face like a carved knot of wood. His shirt was half-unbuttoned and stained with salt. He squinted at Brian.

“You’re the Englishman,” the man said. Not a question.

Brian nodded. “I was expecting Captain Muñoz.”

The man gave a sharp, mirthless smile. “Muñoz changed his mind.”

Brian blinked. “What?”

“He doesn’t want to take you. Said it’s too far. Waste of time. He’s not going.”

“I’ve paid.”

“He’s refunding you.”

“I don’t want a refund. I want to go.”

The man shrugged. “Then you wait for another captain.”

“I don’t have time to wait,” Brian said. His voice was quiet but hard. “I’ve come too far. This isn’t optional. I need to get there.”

“To Point Nemo?”

“Yes.”

The man folded his arms. His eyes weren’t mocking — just skeptical.

“That’s not a normal place to go.”

“I’m aware.”

There was a long silence. Other crewmen nearby were listening. Someone muttered in Spanish, too low to catch.

Brian took a slow breath. His voice lowered further.

“I’m not doing this to be eccentric. I’m not trying to go off-grid. This isn’t indulgent. I need to get there.”

The man looked at him for a moment longer. Then said, “Wait here.”

He came back twenty minutes later with another man — lean, older, sunburned in a way that looked permanent. He wore a cap that said Tamarindo Surf Club, and his knuckles were scraped raw.

“This is Javier,” the stocky man said. “He’ll take you. If you pay triple.”

Brian didn’t hesitate. “Fine.”

Javier looked at him, unreadable. Then said:

“Just know this — we don’t want to go. We’ll go. But we don’t want to. So don’t expect us to be your tour guides.”

Brian met his eyes.

“That’s exactly how I want it.”

2b:T914,

They were 1300 miles out when the engine died.

No explosion. No smoke. Just a low grinding noise that stuttered into silence, followed by a mechanical cough — and then nothing. The boat slowed. Drifted.

Javier stood at the edge of the bridge, staring out at the horizon, his jaw set. One of the crew, a younger guy named Luis, went below deck without being told, cursing softly as he ducked under the hatch.

No one spoke to Brian.

He sat alone near the aft rail, staring out at the place where sky and water blurred. He heard tools clanging below, someone vociferously swearing in bursts. After a few minutes, Javier came over and sat across from him on a crate.

“We’re in the middle of nowhere already,” he said.

Brian looked up.

“And now it’s our lives that are at risk. Not just yours.”

Brian nodded, but didn’t respond.

Javier gestured to the dead engine housing. “You’re still talking like we can push on. Like we should.”

“We’re close.”

“Close doesn’t mean anything out here.”

Brian didn’t flinch. He raised his hand — two fingers held up, like Churchill minus the cigar.

“Your pay is now two times what we agreed,” he said. “You all got a pay rise for your troubles. And that's six times what I agreed with the guy who didn't show.”

The gesture didn’t land with celebration. No one clapped. No one laughed. Javier looked at Brian’s hand, then at his face, then out at the sea.

“I don’t think money means anything anymore,” he said quietly. “Not out here.”

But he gave a small nod. Not approval. Just understanding.

Luis got the engine going again just before sunset.

A sputter, a whine, and then the steady growl of propulsion returning like a heartbeat.

Nobody cheered. Just a few nods. Javier gave Luis a small clap on the shoulder, then went to the wheelhouse without looking at Brian again.

Brian stood alone on deck as the sun dropped behind a cloudless sky. The ocean was still, but not calm — a kind of passive, endless indifference. The wake trailed behind them like a scar.

He closed his eyes, listened to the rumble of the engine, and thought:

What if it doesn’t feel different when I get there?

2c:T5e8,

They were in the kitchen. A Saturday, maybe. Nothing special.

Sam sat at the table with a bowl of cereal going soggy and his phone face-down beside it. The kettle clicked off.

Brian was leaning against the counter, half-listening to something on the radio.

Sam said, “You ever heard of Point Nemo?”

Brian looked up. “No. What’s that, a cartoon?”

Sam smiled without looking at him. “No. It’s a real place. Or... not really a place. It’s a point in the ocean, like the farthest spot from any land. Closest humans are the ones on the space station when it passes overhead.”

Brian frowned. “Sounds bleak.”

“Yeah,” Sam said, still smiling. “But kind of amazing, too. Like — if you got there, you’d be the most alone person on Earth.”

Brian poured tea into two mugs. “That your idea of a holiday?”

“Nah,” Sam said. “Just think it’d be cool. Everyone I know’s been everywhere — Bali, Tokyo, Peru, all that. Nobody I know’s been to Point Nemo.”

He picked up his spoon, then paused. “Maybe nobody’s ever been there. Like, really been. It might just be coordinates in a system somewhere.”

Brian passed him a mug. “It’s a weird place to want to go.”

Sam shrugged. “Exactly. That’s why.”

Then he stirred his cereal. “Maybe I’ll go there one day. Be the first - or at least be the first of anyone I know.”

Brian sat down. They didn’t talk about it again.

2d:Tfd6,

it’s not him it can’t be him they’re wrong they’ve got the wrong name or the wrong face or the wrong jacket they keep saying Sam but I just saw him just half an hour ago no more than that he left the house with tea still in the mug he didn’t even finish it he left the spoon in the sink it’s still there I should’ve cleaned it but I didn’t and now it’s still sitting there as if time hasn’t moved

they said brown jacket but Sam doesn’t even own a brown jacket not that I can remember he’s got that blue waterproof one the one with the fraying zip and Fred from down the road he’s the one with the brown jacket same height too same hair from the back maybe they saw him from behind maybe Fred was walking the same route maybe he was heading toward the shops and maybe Sam had already turned off maybe he went the other way he always cuts through the alleyway always he’s been doing that shortcut since he was twelve I don’t think he’s ever walked on that pavement not in years

they said he had ID on him but that doesn’t mean anything maybe it was the Tesco card with his name on it he lends things out sometimes he’s done it before he even joked about identity theft once he laughed and said if anything ever happened they’d probably pin it on him because he always leaves something behind

they said it was quick
they said he didn’t suffer

but I haven’t seen him how can I believe them if I haven’t seen him how do they know it’s him I need to see I need to go home I need to open the door and call up the stairs and hear him shout yeah what is it because he might still be there maybe he came back maybe he forgot his phone again he always does that he walks out the door then five minutes later it’s back in the hallway all over again maybe that’s what happened this time

I’m not thinking straight
I need to get back I need to check I need to just see the mug the shoes the light still on in his room something

and the thought keeps circling
Fred

of course it’s Fred

same build
same jacket
brown, hooded — Fred always wears that
he walks that route too doesn’t he
takes the same shortcut
the same side of the street
it was raining
maybe he had his hood up
they said they didn’t see his face

they said it was quick
they said there was nothing anyone could’ve done

so maybe
maybe it’s Fred

and before I even know I’m thinking it
I hear it
let it be Fred

and the shame hits instantly
like I’ve stepped outside my own skin

what the fuck is wrong with me

Fred, who helped with the guttering
Fred, who brought biscuits last Christmas
Fred, who lent me that bloody ladder when I wanted to do roofing work

and here I am
praying it’s him instead

what kind of father
what kind of human
even has that thought

but then it comes again
the panic is stronger than guilt
and I think

just not Sam
please
not Sam

just
anyone else

he’s been here too recently
his voice is still in the house
his tea is still warm
his smell is still on the stairs

he’s not gone
I haven’t had time
to let go
of anything

they keep saying Sam like it’s finished like it’s a line in a report and all I want is one reason to believe they’re wrong

let it be Fred
please please God let it be Fred
let it be Fred

2e:Tb93,

They were fifty kilometres out when Brian went to the bridge.

Javier was alone, hands on the wheel, scanning the horizon even though there was nothing to scan. Nothing but blue — pale above, dark below. The sea was calm. Not calm like a lake. Calm like something holding its breath.

Brian said, “I need a word.”

Javier glanced sideways, nodded once. Waited.

Brian said, “Your radar’s accurate to within ten metres, right?”

Javier didn’t answer. He just gave the faintest shrug, like: you already know it is.

Brian nodded.

“When we’re one kilometre out from the exact coordinates, I need you to lower the lifeboat. I’ll be in it. You keep going.”

Javier didn’t speak.

“I’ve had something in my backpack this whole time,” Brian said. “My son’s ashes. He told me once he wanted to be the first. He didn’t mean it like this, but it’s what I’ve got. So he goes first. I’ll follow. Then we’ll scatter him together.”

Still nothing from Javier. Just the low whine of the engine. Brian was braced for a lecture. For the crew’s safety. For his own. For international waters and liability disclaimers.

Instead, Javier’s eyes dropped to the floor. He blinked once. Then he looked at Brian and said, quietly:

“OK.”

That was it. Just OK.

One kilometre from the coordinates, the crew lowered the lifeboat.

No one made jokes. No one grumbled. Luis held the line steady while Javier climbed down with Brian, helped him into the seat, and Brian handed Javier the sealed metal canister — dull grey, marked only with a single letter: S.

They said nothing.

The vessel moved on. Brian stayed back.

He watched the boat grow smaller, watched the wake stretch forward like a path drawn in glass.

The ocean was dead still.

No swell. No breeze. No movement.

As if the Earth itself had paused.

As if the sea had bowed its head in respect for this ceremony.

When the radio crackled, it said only:

“We’re here.”

Brian started the lifeboat engine. The little motor buzzed like a whisper through a cathedral.

He rode the last kilometre full of meaning, cutting gently through the stillness. When he reached them, they dropped the ladder.

He climbed aboard. No handshakes. No words.

Javier handed the canister back to him, gently, with both hands.

The rest of the crew stood off to the side, heads low, hats off.

Even Luis.

Brian walked to the edge of the deck.

He unscrewed the lid, slowly.

The wind never came.

Here he was: 48°52.6′S, 123°23.6′W - the oceanic pole of inaccessibility.

He tipped the canister.

Ash drifted out in a slow ribbon, then dissolved into the bluest nowhere imaginable.

No theatrics. No prayer. Just this:

“You were the first,” Brian said.

And that was all.

2f:T444,

The taxi was parked in the corner of a half-lit lot near Ipswich town centre, just outside Paddy Power. If someone's horse came in, they tended to tip well. The radio was on, but low — just the soft hum of late-night traffic reports and football pundits filling air.

The driver sat with a tea he hadn’t touched.

His phone buzzed.

New email. Don't recognize the sender address.

Subject: Point Nemo.

He opened it.

One photo. Water to the horizon.

No land. No wake. No movement.

Below it, the message:

“It was flat as glass. No wind. No sound. Just sky and water. Like the planet had stopped spinning.”

The driver stared at it for a while.

Then typed a reply.

“You're a proper traveler. Everyone seems to go to the same places these days. Hey, if you need a ride back from Heathrow, bell me."

He thought a moment, then added:

“12 degrees here. Drizzling. Slight wind.”

He looked out through the windscreen.

Yeah.

That sounded about right.

He clicked 'Send'.

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Point Nemo

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