of day immensely. Cleaners and tube staff going to work, clubbers and drunks going home, the sun fighting its way over the clouds like a smoker climbing the stairs, strange shards of golden light illuminating estate agents’ signs and those high trolleys they move bread around on… Dawn in London was a wonderful thing.
Sparks had a plan. This was his plan, as written down on Sparks’ piece of paper:
ALISON HOUSE PARENT HOUSE
It was a simple plan. To accomplish it, he needed to get some money (MONEY????), a tube pass (PASS!!) and, most of all, to find Alison’s house, and if that was not possible, her parents’ house. This was why he had bought the A-Z and stolen the pages from the phone book.
But now Sparks had to get the money to buy the tube pass. And this is where he began to get ingenious.
If there is a me in this world who seems to be like me in that he doesn’t have two heads or, more pertinently, he is so like me that he has my office and my job, reasoned Sparks to himself as he walked along, trying not to be begged at, then he will surely have other things in common with me. Like a bank account with not much money in it. And if he has a bank account, it doesn’t matter that he doesn’t have much money in it. All that matters is he has the same PIN number as me.
Sparks walked until he found a cashpoint. He stood a few feet away while he adjusted to local cashpoint etiquette – which, basically, consisted of people trying to shove each other out of the way and even grabbing their money off them – and, having waited until the cashpoint was clear, ran up, shoved his card in and tapped out his PIN.
The illuminated display began to flash. It said TAKING MONEY OUT? YOU’LL GO BROKE, YOU SPENDTHRIFT WASTER. IN FACT, IF YOU COME BACK HERE AGAIN, WE’LL CALL THE POLICE. Sparks found this unduly aggressive, but then he found everything in this world unduly aggressive. He tapped in a largish sum of money and waited for what seemed like (and actually was) a bit too long before the machine reluctantly slid out a tangled mass of crumpled and Sellotaped-up notes. Sparks was delighted. He knew he ought to feel guilty at robbing someone who was technically a stranger, but then again that stranger was also technically him. Also , thought Sparks, now I know why I’m always a bit short on my current account . Someone from an alternative universe had clearly been dipping into his money; at least, that’s what he would tell his bank next time he went into the red.
Sparks stuffed the raggedy notes into his wallet before a passing old man could shiv him for them, and hurried off to the tube station. He took out the sheet of phone book and looked for Alison’s address. It wasn’t there and nor was Alison’s number when he called directory enquiries (“Yes? Make it snappy, I haven’t got all day. No such number, bye”), but Alison’s parents’ address was.
Tiring of phone rudeness, Sparks decided to visit them.
There has been a lot about Sparks’ travelling in this chapter, despite various vague assurances that there wouldn’t be, so Sparks’ journey will be dealt with briefly. Sparks went from Finsbury Park to Streatham, via bus from Brixton. On the tube he saw a guitar-playing busker severely beaten up by passengers, and on the bus, some small boys clung to his ankles and tried to take his wallet as Sparks dragged them along.
Shaking the last small boy from his legs, Sparks got off the bus and took out his A-Z. He consulted the phone book sheet, got his bearings and walked off through Streatham which, although previously not deeply rundown, now resembled, say, Hitler’s idea of a perfect South London. Supermarkets were marble cornucopias that sprouted their own produce, cinemas were more like cathedrals dedicated to the work of American midgets, and even the pubs gleamed like galleons. On the flipside, mind, Sparks noted that things were quite expensive and the alleyways were frequently full of people
Sparks had a plan. This was his plan, as written down on Sparks’ piece of paper:
ALISON HOUSE PARENT HOUSE
It was a simple plan. To accomplish it, he needed to get some money (MONEY????), a tube pass (PASS!!) and, most of all, to find Alison’s house, and if that was not possible, her parents’ house. This was why he had bought the A-Z and stolen the pages from the phone book.
But now Sparks had to get the money to buy the tube pass. And this is where he began to get ingenious.
If there is a me in this world who seems to be like me in that he doesn’t have two heads or, more pertinently, he is so like me that he has my office and my job, reasoned Sparks to himself as he walked along, trying not to be begged at, then he will surely have other things in common with me. Like a bank account with not much money in it. And if he has a bank account, it doesn’t matter that he doesn’t have much money in it. All that matters is he has the same PIN number as me.
Sparks walked until he found a cashpoint. He stood a few feet away while he adjusted to local cashpoint etiquette – which, basically, consisted of people trying to shove each other out of the way and even grabbing their money off them – and, having waited until the cashpoint was clear, ran up, shoved his card in and tapped out his PIN.
The illuminated display began to flash. It said TAKING MONEY OUT? YOU’LL GO BROKE, YOU SPENDTHRIFT WASTER. IN FACT, IF YOU COME BACK HERE AGAIN, WE’LL CALL THE POLICE. Sparks found this unduly aggressive, but then he found everything in this world unduly aggressive. He tapped in a largish sum of money and waited for what seemed like (and actually was) a bit too long before the machine reluctantly slid out a tangled mass of crumpled and Sellotaped-up notes. Sparks was delighted. He knew he ought to feel guilty at robbing someone who was technically a stranger, but then again that stranger was also technically him. Also , thought Sparks, now I know why I’m always a bit short on my current account . Someone from an alternative universe had clearly been dipping into his money; at least, that’s what he would tell his bank next time he went into the red.
Sparks stuffed the raggedy notes into his wallet before a passing old man could shiv him for them, and hurried off to the tube station. He took out the sheet of phone book and looked for Alison’s address. It wasn’t there and nor was Alison’s number when he called directory enquiries (“Yes? Make it snappy, I haven’t got all day. No such number, bye”), but Alison’s parents’ address was.
Tiring of phone rudeness, Sparks decided to visit them.
There has been a lot about Sparks’ travelling in this chapter, despite various vague assurances that there wouldn’t be, so Sparks’ journey will be dealt with briefly. Sparks went from Finsbury Park to Streatham, via bus from Brixton. On the tube he saw a guitar-playing busker severely beaten up by passengers, and on the bus, some small boys clung to his ankles and tried to take his wallet as Sparks dragged them along.
Shaking the last small boy from his legs, Sparks got off the bus and took out his A-Z. He consulted the phone book sheet, got his bearings and walked off through Streatham which, although previously not deeply rundown, now resembled, say, Hitler’s idea of a perfect South London. Supermarkets were marble cornucopias that sprouted their own produce, cinemas were more like cathedrals dedicated to the work of American midgets, and even the pubs gleamed like galleons. On the flipside, mind, Sparks noted that things were quite expensive and the alleyways were frequently full of people
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