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.”