Snippet #1834516

I check my watch again. Ten minutes late. What a joke. Irritated, I snatch my phone out of my pocket and tap out a quick message to the Administrator: 'NO SHOW.' Hopping off of the railing, I shove my mobile back into the pocket of my jeans and take a final glance around the square. The mid-morning rush is wel under-way, and people are milling about everywhere carrying plastic bags stuffed with goods. A group of people not much younger than me slouch past with burgers pushed into their mouths, greasy paper wrapping glistening in the sunlight. I weave past the and make my way towards an equally busy side-street, a nice short-cut route back to the train station. I stuff my hands into my pockets. I'd never admit it but I was looking forwards to getting on another case again, a proper case, and the no show had left me a little disheartened. It would have been a nice change of pace, something more like the old days. Sour-faced, I barely glanced at the craggy-faced woman playing a violin at the corner of the square. A crowd of about twenty people had formed, the odd few tossing a spare coin or two into an open trunk. A labrador, dark brown fur, turned its head lazily to watch me pass it, huge hazelnut eyes glimmering. My mind turns back to Outcross. It's not that I miss being a Navigator, how could I? I just miss the excitement that went with it, even the comradary. I thought that this might have been an opportunity to recapture a little of that old magic. I guess that's not what the world has in store for me, though.

I brush past a short guy dressed in a purple anarak. He waves a paper, The Metro, in my face but I use a gentle hand to move it aside and offer him a polite, if insincere, smile. I take the left turn immediately afterwards and find myself instantly dislocated from the noise and bluster of the busy streets behind me. A sign, once white but now smeared with grime, tells me 'ACCESS TO SERVICE PERSONNEL ONLY'. I walk past it and continue down the alleyway unmolsted. I come out the other end with the station looming in front of me. A bright blue streak of light with the stations name emblazoned in bright, striking white letters. I take the sub-way, wrinkling my noise at the sour smell that lurks in its depths. No matter how clean the glossy tiles appear that smell persists. It takes me a few minutes to push my way through the crowds. I get stuck behind an old lady, shuffling along with her bony hands wrapped tightly around the frame of her walker. Every time I try to edge past her another shape blocks the gap and I have to slip back into line. When I finally mount the steps at the other end the fresh air is more than welcome. For a second I find something ironic in thinking of the air as fresh, what with all the cars cramming the roads and going nowhere, exhausts blowing out hot air and the drivers letting off steam in the isolated enviroments of their vehicles. My frustration perisists though, and I amble my way into the station. This time I am forced to pay. It's too busy to go skipping the barriers, and the guards this end of the line are sharp and young. I press my Oyster card to the pad and, on the beep, shuffle through like so much meat on a converyer belt. I take the steps two at a time, too the irritation of a well-dresed suit, mobile pressed to his ear. I have a sneaking suspicion that if he were to lower the phone, I'd get the briefest impression of the phones ridge left on his cheek, right across where the capilaries in his skin have burst in a rose-blossom patchwork.

It takes precisely three minutes and seven seconds for the train to arrive. I didn't even glance at the clock. For once I actually counted. It's a calming technique I read on a newspaper a week or two back. It doesn't work. The train rolls in with a hiss of metallic brakes and a whoosh of air. People begin their vanity shuffle towards the doors whilst at the same time the people inside set their shoulders to push their way out. My phone vibrates. Distratced I pull it out as I join the surge forwards. The doors open, the mumblings of 'excuse me' and 'sorry' begin. With my hood drawn up over my head, I seem to generate a little field around me that the respectable, well-bred working community are reluctant to enter. I glance at my phone.

'RE-ROUTE. BBC TELEVISION CENTRE.'

The door closes and I rest my head against the glass. I have to pull back when the train starts rolling forwards, rubbing its grime across my head. I rub it off with my sleeve, and am left staring at a black wall of white tiles.

---

The television centre is air-conditioned to the point that, even beneath my jumper, I'm shivering. Near seems unperturbed though, instead she glances towards her phone every couple of seconds. I recognise her from the news, of course. Would never have figured her for the Outcross type. Now that I'm standing in the same room as her I can see it though. Calm, professional. The only clue to her anxiety is the severe look in her eyes. She's exactly the sort I can imagine the Administrator placing behind a desk. I realise that I've taken an instant dislike to the woman. I'm torn between feeling guilty or not. She's a bit clipped for my tastes, but my problem isn't with her. Not really. It's not even with Twenty, the mysterious American ditz that decided not to show too our meeting. Of course, thats not the whole story. Again, it's not her I'm really mad at, either. I didn't have milk for my morning coffee, I recall. Perhaps that was the catalyst that set off the day as a bleak, moody one. Settled beneath my big, black rain cloud, I turn my attention back towards my phone.

I find the message more numbing that exilierating. I know it's a bad day when a text from a pretty brunette girl can't shake my spirits up a bit. I guess it's because I'm stuck here. Nestled between a bunch of well-polished terminals with only a quiet and un-receptive Near for company, the place feels more like the kitchen of a youth offenders institution than the control room for the BBC's television centre.

I get the feeling it's going to be a long day.

By the time that Twenty arrives, band in toe, I'm so absorbed in trying to distract myself with my phone that I don't realize for the first few seconds. Not until Near clips her heels across to the door and starts speaking. Her voice sounds stern. The bells start ringing again. I slip my phoneback into my pocket, reply unsent, and take a few seconds to study the new crowd. I spot Twenty easily. She's short, dark hair. Not what I expected, but somehow, it fits. I can all too easily picture her standing at a busy junction, holding a map of London and scratching her head. Asking that red-faced buisseness man on the phone what way the sqaure was, only to receive a roll of the eyes as if she were talking another language entirely, before resuming chattering into his phone. I stifle a laugh. Yeah, I could see that all too easily. Arms folded across my chest, I move closer to the group.

"Debonair, huh? Did he take the scenic route as well?