12

On the commuter cart, Mick found himself squeezed between Percy Tattersall, who was heading to the city to meet with a book supplier of his, and Potter Peters.

“How’s it going, Percy?” asked Mick.

“I’d be fine, if it weren’t for the birds.”

“Birds?”

“Damned bird keeps flying into my house somehow and crapping everywhere. Haven’t caught it yet. But when I do…”

Potter Peters was a builder who worked for Stacey Morgan, and he always used to make a trip to Little Flitwick to see his old mother. She’d moved into a retirement complex in Full Striding now, though, so Mick deduced that Potter was trying to go visit her and then get back in time for work. He was cutting it fine, though. Getting back to Sunhampton in time to start his daily labors wouldn’t leave him a lot of leeway.

Mick took out his book on fingerprinting and tried to read it. He wasn’t worried about being unsociable; on such an early commuter cart, the last thing folks wanted was to chat. Percy Tattersall was reading a book of his own, while Potter was resting his head back on the chair, snoozing with his mouth wide open. He’s got a filling on a tooth on his lower right, Mick noted, practicing his eye for detail. The other folks on the benches across from Mick were sleeping, too. He had never been in an enclosed space with so many snorers before.

Try as he might to concentrate on the chapter about taking fingerprints from reluctant suspects, Mick found his thoughts getting away from him. Mainly about the upcoming interview, but also about his niece, Zip. All he kept thinking was, I’m a lousy uncle, forgetting her birthday like that. And I never have time to go see her. Or do I never make the time? Not the same thing, but which is it?

He turned his attention back to the book, but it wasn’t working. Mick might have been a lot of things, but above all else, he was a man who knew when to give up a pointless exercise. Closing the book, he put it back in his knapsack and sat with his thoughts as the cart made its morning journey along the Easterly roads.

Full Striding had eight guard stations, but according to his invitation letter, the one Mick needed was called Elmshore. A problem there, though – there was Elmshore West and Elmshore East. Even worse, they were on opposite sides of the city. If Mick chose the wrong one, he’d be late.

Why didn’t they make it clearer in the damned letter? he thought.

Taking the invitation letter out again, he read it for the twentieth time.

Dear Mr. Mulroon,

The Full Striding Guardship is pleased to invite you to attend interviews for the Sleuth Class program. Please arrive at the Elmshore guard station at eight o’clock prompt, ensuring that…”

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Damn them, it was almost like they were setting him up to fail. Mick knew there were limited spaces on the program, and that some folks already had an advantage. If you had a guard or a sleuth in your family, then you were likely to get on the program. If your father was a politician or your mother was a rich merchant, for example, then guess what? It wasn’t crazy to assume you’d get a place.

Mick had never been a conspiracy theorist. He didn’t, for instance, believe Jack Cooper when he claimed that chili farmers were growing their chilies to be less spicy, hoping to appeal to a wider market. No, forget all that nonsense. Mick preferred dealing with facts, and if a conspiracy had facts to back it up, then it wasn’t a conspiracy at all. Today, however, he couldn’t help wondering if some people got an invitation letter with the full station name written on it, and others, people like him, received a vaguer version.

Well, it was no good standing around. He walked away from the cart station, letter in hand, and headed through the Full Striding gates and into the city. Almost immediately, he felt like he was about to be swallowed up. The roads were so wide here, the buildings so tall. He couldn’t think of a single place in Sunhampton that had four floors, yet in Striding they seemed to be everywhere. Just there for instance, a stone’s throw away to his left, was a carpet tile store with four floors. Who in Easterly needed so much choice for carpet tiles that they had to have four floors worth? No, Mick didn’t like it. Not one bit.

It wasn’t just the size of the place. What about the noise? What a racket everyone was making, especially for this time in the morning! There were horses pulling carts along the side of the street, their feet clomping like anvils and the drivers yelling every second or two. The apartments on his left and right must have had artificed windows to make them quiet. Mick had heard Lewis Cooper chatting about that with Connor Perry. Connor was similar to Ma, with his poor sleep problems, only the postmaster’s issue was sunlight getting into his house. Lewis had made him some magic curtains, or something, and Connor was thinking of getting the window frames artificed to drown out sounds.

Breaking him from his thoughts, a big procession of workers streamed past, chatting and joking with each other as they headed in the direction of the Striding Tinkerworks factory that loomed at the end of the road. Their voices joined into one loud, continuous buzz like that of a beehive.

Give me the peace and quiet of Coiner’s Way any day, he thought. He wanted to become a fully-classed sleuth, yes. He wanted the class token and to get a salary for guard work, but he wouldn’t have wanted to work in a city. No, sir.

Deciding to seek a quieter street to figure this out, Mick took a left turn onto an avenue called Saxon, then took a right onto Folder’s Pass. This led him to a dead end wall where someone had drawn a rude picture in waterproof chalk.

Such navigational errors weren’t usual for him. Back in ‘hampton, he could have walked around town blindfolded and not taken a single misstep. This was the city, though, a labyrinth of streets almost designed to get people lost.

Going back the way he came so that he was on Saxon Avenue again, he stood under a streetlamp and took out his letter. When he looked at it this time, he was surprised to see that it had changed. Not a lot, mind. It was so subtle an alteration that someone less attentive might have missed it.

Sure enough, when he was standing under the glow of a streetlamp, the word ‘East’ had been added to the, ‘Please arrive at the Elmshore guard station at eight o’clock prompt.” When he stepped away from under lamp, the word disappeared.

Must have been some kind of test, he reflected. They used streetlight-activated ink as a test. Weed out the weak folks from the program. After all, if you couldn’t even get to the right station, then should you become a detective? Then again, it was a fifty-fifty choice between Elmshore East and West. You could just as easily get to the right place by luck. Not a bad metaphor for life, actually, he reckoned.