wheeling my suitcase back towards my house, stopping at the convenience store on the way so that I could buy some milk and make myself a cup of tea when I got there. Strangely, instead of worrying too much about the loss of my phone – which was insured against theft, at any rate – I was more disappointed that my long-awaited moment of human contact hadn’t quite panned out the way I’d been hoping.
Just then, I heard footsteps approaching again. Running, this time. And the same panting, irregular breath. It was my mugger. He ran straight past my bench, ignoring me, then stopped suddenly, looked this way and that, and ran a hand through his hair.
‘Shit,’ he was saying. ‘Shit!’
‘What’s the matter?’ I asked.
He wheeled round.
‘Uh?’
He looked at me more closely and registered, I think, for the first time, that I was the same person whose phone he had just stolen.
‘What’s the matter?’ I repeated.
It took him another few seconds to assess the situation and to decide that I was not just trying to wind him up. Then he said: ‘I’m lost, man. I’m completely fucking lost. Which way’s the station from here?’
My heart swelled when I heard these words.
‘Well there are two stations. Where are you trying to get to?’
‘Central London, man. I’ve got to get back to London pronto.’
‘Then your best bet is Watford Junction. It’s about ten, fifteen minutes from here. Keep going straight down this road – back towards the Lower High Street – then hang a left and keep straight on till you get to the big junction with the ring road …’
‘The ring road, yeah? Where all the traffic lights are.’
‘That’s right. Then you cross the ring road, and you go past the entrance to the Harlequin on your right, and the big Waterstone’s …’
‘OK – OK – I know the Harlequin, I know my way from there. That’s fine, man. That’s great. I’m sorted.’
‘Pleased to be of help,’ I said, smiling at him directly now – but this was a mistake, because it just made him scream, ‘And don’t look at my face, man, don’t you dare look at my fucking face!’ before turning and running at an athlete’s sprint towards the edge of the Field and the road that led down to Lower High Street.
I must have been seriously jet-lagged, because I wasn’t thinking straight. As I trudged over to the convenience store, all I could think about the mugging was ‘This will make a good story to tell to Poppy’, and in fact I was so pleased to have this story to tell her, so pleased to have a ready excuse for contacting her this morning, that I spent the time quite happily composing a quirky, downbeat text message about the episode in my head. It wasn’t until I reached the store and rested my suitcase outside that I realized I couldn’t send her a text message, because I no longer had my phone, and also, because I no longer had my phone, I no longer had her number, or any means of contacting her.
So, that was that.
I went inside to buy the milk.
7
As I pushed open the front door of my house, I expected to feel the dead weight of piles of junk mail behind it. But there wasn’t that much. Maybe a dozen envelopes. To be honest, I would have expected more than that, after an absence of three weeks.
Leaving my suitcase in the hall, I scooped up the letters and carried them into the sitting room. It was freezing in there. Needless to say, there was no sound of a radio drifting in from the kitchen, no smell of freshly brewed coffee wafting through the hall. Caroline and Lucy were – as I’d known they would be – more than 200 miles away. Maybe they had written one of these letters, all the same. When they first went away, Lucy used to write to me quite often – every couple of weeks or so – usually enclosing some drawing, or collage, or piece of writing that she’d done at school. But the letters had been slowing down lately. I think the last time I’d received one had been in November.
Just then, I heard footsteps approaching again. Running, this time. And the same panting, irregular breath. It was my mugger. He ran straight past my bench, ignoring me, then stopped suddenly, looked this way and that, and ran a hand through his hair.
‘Shit,’ he was saying. ‘Shit!’
‘What’s the matter?’ I asked.
He wheeled round.
‘Uh?’
He looked at me more closely and registered, I think, for the first time, that I was the same person whose phone he had just stolen.
‘What’s the matter?’ I repeated.
It took him another few seconds to assess the situation and to decide that I was not just trying to wind him up. Then he said: ‘I’m lost, man. I’m completely fucking lost. Which way’s the station from here?’
My heart swelled when I heard these words.
‘Well there are two stations. Where are you trying to get to?’
‘Central London, man. I’ve got to get back to London pronto.’
‘Then your best bet is Watford Junction. It’s about ten, fifteen minutes from here. Keep going straight down this road – back towards the Lower High Street – then hang a left and keep straight on till you get to the big junction with the ring road …’
‘The ring road, yeah? Where all the traffic lights are.’
‘That’s right. Then you cross the ring road, and you go past the entrance to the Harlequin on your right, and the big Waterstone’s …’
‘OK – OK – I know the Harlequin, I know my way from there. That’s fine, man. That’s great. I’m sorted.’
‘Pleased to be of help,’ I said, smiling at him directly now – but this was a mistake, because it just made him scream, ‘And don’t look at my face, man, don’t you dare look at my fucking face!’ before turning and running at an athlete’s sprint towards the edge of the Field and the road that led down to Lower High Street.
I must have been seriously jet-lagged, because I wasn’t thinking straight. As I trudged over to the convenience store, all I could think about the mugging was ‘This will make a good story to tell to Poppy’, and in fact I was so pleased to have this story to tell her, so pleased to have a ready excuse for contacting her this morning, that I spent the time quite happily composing a quirky, downbeat text message about the episode in my head. It wasn’t until I reached the store and rested my suitcase outside that I realized I couldn’t send her a text message, because I no longer had my phone, and also, because I no longer had my phone, I no longer had her number, or any means of contacting her.
So, that was that.
I went inside to buy the milk.
7
As I pushed open the front door of my house, I expected to feel the dead weight of piles of junk mail behind it. But there wasn’t that much. Maybe a dozen envelopes. To be honest, I would have expected more than that, after an absence of three weeks.
Leaving my suitcase in the hall, I scooped up the letters and carried them into the sitting room. It was freezing in there. Needless to say, there was no sound of a radio drifting in from the kitchen, no smell of freshly brewed coffee wafting through the hall. Caroline and Lucy were – as I’d known they would be – more than 200 miles away. Maybe they had written one of these letters, all the same. When they first went away, Lucy used to write to me quite often – every couple of weeks or so – usually enclosing some drawing, or collage, or piece of writing that she’d done at school. But the letters had been slowing down lately. I think the last time I’d received one had been in November.
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