As his breathing returned to normal Hutchman reached the main road and caught a bus going into the town center. Darkness was falling by the time he got off near the imposing town hall. Store windows were brightly lit and the pavements were crowded with people hurrying home from work. The crisp, pre-Christmas atmosphere brought on another of the unmanning attacks of nostalgia and he found himself thinking about Vicky and David again. Look what you’ve done to me, Vicky.
He asked a news vendor how to reach the railway station, set out to walk to it, then realized he could not risk going to any transport terminal, and that to consider it had been a dangerous lapse. I wanted to ride home in comfort, sitting in a window seat, humming “Beyond the Blue Horizon”, he thought in astonishment. But I’m the ground zero man, and I can never go home again.
He walked aimlessly for a while, twice turning into side streets when he saw police uniforms. The problem of getting out of Bolton was doubly urgent. Not only had he to escape from a tightening net, but the deadline he had given to the authorities was drawing closer. He had to journey south and be in Hastings before Antibomb Day. Could he travel in disguise? A flash recollection of Chesterton’s invisible man caused him to halt momentarily. The uniform of a postman would make him effectively invisible, and a rural postman’s traditional transport — a bicycle — would probably get him to Hastings in time. But how did one acquire such things? Stealing them would only serve to make him more easily identifiable…
In one of the narrow side streets he saw a yellow electric sign of a taxi company, and in the window of the office beneath it was a notice which said: “DRIVERS FOR SAFETY CABS WANTED — NO PSV LICENCE REQUIRED.”
Hutchman’s heart began to thud as he read the hand-lettered card. A taxi driver was just as invisible as a postman, and a vehicle went with the job! He walked into the dimly-lit garage beside the office. A row of mustard-colored taxis brooded in the half-light and the only evidence of life was the glowing window of a boxlike office in one corner. He tapped the door and opened it. Inside was a cluttered room containing a table and a bench upon which sat two men in mechanic’s overalls. One of them was in the act of raising a cup of tea to his mouth.
“Sorry to disturb you.” Hutchman put on his best grin. “How do I go about getting a job as a driver?”
“No trouble about that, mate.” The mechanic turned to his companion, who was unwrapping sandwiches. “Who’s the super tonight?”
“Old Oliver.”
“Wait here and I’ll fetch him,” the mechanic said in a friendly tone and Went out through a door which led to the back of the building. Encouraged and gratified, Hutchman studied the little room as he waited. The walls were covered with notices held in place by drawing pins and yellowing Sellotape. “Any driver who is involved in a front-end accident will be dismissed immediately,” one stated. “The following are in bad standing and must not be accepted for credit card journeys,” said another above a list of names. To Hutchman, in his state of intense loneliness, they appeared as indications of a warm, intensely human normalcy. He entertained fantasies of working contentedly in a place like this for the rest of his life if he got away from Hastings in one piece. Getting his job, being accepted into the cheery incidentrich life of a cab driver, assumed an illogical and emotional importance which had nothing to do with escaping to the south.
“Cold day,” the remaining mechanic said through a mouthful of bread.
“Certainly is.”
“Fancy a drop of tea?”
“No thanks.” Hutchman’s eyes stung with pleasure as he refused the offer. He turned as the door opened and the first mechanic came in accompanied by a stooped, white-haired man of about sixty. The newcomer was pink-faced, had a prim womanly mouth, and was wearing an old-fashioned belted raincoat and a peaked cap.
“Hello,” Hutchman ventured. “I understand you have openings for drivers.”
“Happen I have,” Oliver said. “Come out here and I’ll talk to you.” He led the way out to the garage area and closed the office door so that the mechanics would not hear the conversation. “Are you a PSV man?”
“No, but it said on your notice that…”
“I know what it said on the notice,” Oliver interrupted pettishly, “but that doesn’t mean we don’t prefer good professional men. These nasty little so-called safety cars with seats looking out the back window have cheapened the whole trade. Cheap and nasty.”
“Oh.” It dawned on Hutchman that he was dealing with a man who regarded taxi-driving as a calling. “Well, I have a clean ordinary licence.”
Oliver scrutinized him doubtfully. “Part-timer?”
“Yes — or full-time. Whatever you want.” Hutchman wondered if he sounded too anxious. “You do need drivers, don’t you?”
“We don’t pay a wage, you know. You get a third of your take, plus tips. A good man does well out of tips, but a beginner…”
“That sounds fine. I could start right way.”
“Just a minute,” Oliver said sternly. “Do you know the town?”
“Yes.” Hutchman’s heart sank. How could he have forgotten one of the basic requirements?
“How would you get to Crompton Avenue?”
“Ah…” Hutchman tried to remember the name of the main road he had driven along with Atwood, the only one he knew. “Straight out to Breightmet.”
Oliver nodded with some reluctance. “How would you get to Bridgeworth Close?”
“That’s a tricky one.” Hutchman forced a smile. “It might take me some time to get to know all the streets.”
“How would you get to Mason Street?” Oliver’s womanly lips were pursed in disapproval.
“Is that out toward Salford? Look, I told you…”
“I’m sorry, son. You just haven’t a good enough memory for this kind of work.”
Hutchman gazed at him in helpless anger, then turned away. Outside, he stared resentfully at the unfamiliar configurations of buildings. He had been rejected. His brain held information which was going to change the entire course of history, but a prissy old fool had looked down on him because he wasn’t familiar with a haphazard pattern of streets in an undistinguished… Pattern! That’s all it was. A man did not have to grow up in a town to get to know its layout if he had the right sort of mental disciplines.
Glancing at his watch, Hutchman found it was only a little after 5:30. He hurried to the nearest main thoroughfare, located a large stationery store, and bought two street maps of Bolton and a white correcting pencil. While he was paying for them he asked the sales assistant where he could find a copying service still open. The girl directed him to a place two blocks further along the same street. He thanked her, went outside, and shouldered his way through the crowds, reaching the office-equipment supplier, who did copying, just as an unseen clock was chiming the hour. A dapper young man with wispy fair hair was locking the door. He shook his head when Hutchman tried the handle. Hutchman took two five-pound notes from his pocket and pushed them through the low-level letter slot. The young man picked them up cautiously, studied Hutchman through the glass for a second, then opened the door a little.