Phillens didn’t know why he had bothered to bring his
coat. The bright sun asked again. Plus the sky, a soft
gradient of azure, light and spectrum blue, with not a cloud
in sight.

In either case, the questioning had led him to drape the
coat over a shoulder. But then the shoulder drape had
brought the issue of a warm microclimate. So folded and
slung over an arm became the alternative.

At least the sour fizz drop was stopping him from
getting too deep into the coat business. That and having to
cross yet another road. This had to be the sixth one along
this stretch; appearing beyond a shop to his right like the
others. Descending curbs like them too. Plus half-road,
half-kerb cars; stepped-back houses; and more of that
deep, soulful, cloudless sky.

A similar set of streets ran away towards the sun on the
further side of the road Phillens was travelling along. But
they were shorter and, from the two that he had spied so
far, ended at north-facing houses. Then again, at least he
had completed a street crossing without a near-miss with
any vehicles. One in as many streets was enough. Three
in three would have been too much.

In the case before last it hadn’t been a vehicle, but a
Father Christmas chap. Without the boots, red and white
jacket and cap. But with a beard, sunbeam-smile and an
oncoming trolley. A frantic jump step to the right had got
Phillens to safety. Only to find himself a step short from
going into a herd of school children who would have left
him for dead.

Or felt like it, he noted, stepping onto the far bank of the
asphalt river and continuing along the next pavement. Now
that he had crossed canal number six, he was going to
have to pay more attention to the street names. Although
he wasn’t sure if it had been canal six or seven. Montarion
had said that Don-Julise was the seventh. But was that if
you were coming from Ginsberry Road or the direction of
the Bridge? And numbers didn’t mean a thing if every door
you passed was either a restaurant, aquarium, barbers, or
corner shop with not a number in…

Well, it was on a corner, he frowned, only the far side of
yet another street crossing. One he hadn’t the faintest idea
how he had reached the edge so quickly after the last
called Fer-Julise. A shop with window displays that were
not the latest properties of an estate agent. But did have a
curve of seats like the waiting area of a barbershop. What
looked to be a tortoise-paced goldfish was cruising across
the nearest window; whilst Phillens took out the seenbetter-
days card Montarion had given him the evening
before last.

A card that also had a luminescent goldfish.

James & Jones: Intuitive Consultants.

Phillens had to look again. The second bit may as well have been
spraystencilled on as an afterthought. Not only on the card but
both illuminated shop signs too. A hoot from a piccolo train
reached his ears. Only they didn’t run any more, and not
from the inside of a shop.

In fact, he couldn’t remember opening the door to go
inside in the first place. Or the interior looking so spacious
that a ball could travel in comfort from one side to the other.
Not to mention the bright summer’s holiday music whilst the
piccolo train flowed its way through tunnels, over viaducts and
past leafy stations…

“Can I help you?” a voice asked.

Phillens almost choked. Ask wasn’t the word; yawned
more like. The yawner didn’t have a counter, but a base of
operations; with three mirror-smooth screens and a pilot’s
chair. Indeed the train left the ground, and soared above
the owner’s chair via a Millau-style bridge; accompanied
by another whistle and hoot from the window-swimming
goldfish; its bright outline mirrored on the side of the lady’s
sunglasses.

“I can put you back outside if you want,” she continued,
pushing a sweep of viola hair behind an ear. “Or even
Ullista Road if you’re worried about not making the bus.”

“Sorry, it was, the train,” he began.

“The train?” the lady half-raised an eyebrow. “Sure it
wasn’t a bus?”

“That train,” Phillens said, pointing at the pink and
green locomotive now in the midst of a loop-the-loop.

“Oh…” the lady said, following the loop then lowering
the eyebrow. “I suppose it’s an unusual sight on the first
appointment.”

“Too right,” said Phillens, turning back to the lady. “Did
you say first appointment?”

“You didn’t come last Wednesday,” the lady leaned
forward. “Or the Wednesday before that. The pipsqueak
assured me that he had taken everyone’s names down; all
two of them.”

“But I was - led to believe - that it could be sorted in
one appointment.”

“Montarion should know better,” the lady said, pressing
a keypad. “We’re not a practice.”

“…You know M-Montarion?” Phillens managed to gasp.
But the lady was holding up a mirror that had the same
liquid effect as one of the screens. “Confirm name, status
and whether you want to go ahead,” she said as Phillens
stared, not at his reflection, but a flock of hot air balloons
gliding over a park.

“Phillens Martens. Unsure, but wish to go ahead.”

“Well done,” the lady said as one of the screens
brought up Phillens’s face, an Unsure tag and top three
choices of toothpaste? “At least Mont’s briefed you on how
to answer. So many can’t get past status.”

“You mean, that was a test?” said Phillens. Since when
did he like mint-laced banana and he only used the sparkle
gel as it didn’t set his mouth on fire.

The train, halfway through a double island crossing,
hooted as if in answer; whilst a door slid open to the right
of the desk.

“Room eleven,” the lady said, passing Phillens what
looked to be a crystal golf-ball. “Listen as well as speak.
And be truthful.”