(fifty pounds, plus tip). But I knew – even though it was just putting off the evil moment – that I couldn’t go home just yet. I still needed a little more time to gather my strength. So I wheeled my case behind me again as I turned left off the Lower High Street and walked up Watford Field Road. When I reached the Field itself, I sank down on to a bench. The wooden slats were wet and I could feel the dampness seeping through my trousers and underpants and into my skin. It didn’t matter. My house was only about half a mile’s walk from here, and I would go there in a few minutes; but in the meantime, I just wanted to sit, and think, and watch the people walking by on their way to work – to check, I suppose, that I still felt some kind of bond with these people: my fellow humans, my fellow Britons, my fellow Watfordians.
It was tough going.
Someone must have passed by my bench every thirty seconds or so, but nobody said hello, or nodded, or made eye-contact. In fact, every time
For those who don’t know Watford Field, it’s a scrap of parkland, probably no more than about 200 yards along each side, not far from the main thoroughfares of Waterfields Way and Wiggenhall Road, so that the traffic noise is pretty much constant. It’s not exactly an oasis but I suppose that any green space to which you can beat a retreat is to be valued these days. After a while I began to feel oddly settled there, that morning, and despite the cold and the damp I sat there for much longer than I’d been intending. As it got later, of course, fewer and fewer people seemed to pass by. Soon it got to the point where I hadn’t seen a soul for ten minutes. And it was more than an hour since I’d spoken to anyone – if you can count my mumbled farewells to the taxi driver as speaking, in any meaningful sense. It was probably time to give up and face the forbidding emptiness of my house.
Then a man appeared, rounding the corner from Farthing Close and coming towards me. And there was something in the uncertainty of his progress, the hesitancy of his bearing, that made me think that this might be the one. He was probably in his early twenties, wearing a navy-blue fleece and stonewashed drainpipe jeans. He had a shock of thick, curly black hair and what seemed to be the beginnings of a moustache – tentative, like everything else about him. He was looking around him in apparent bewilderment, and twice, before he reached my bench, he stopped and turned, and looked into the distance, as if checking out alternative roads he might have taken. Obviously he was lost. Yes, that was it – he was lost! And what did people do when they were lost? They stopped to ask for directions. That was what he was going to do. He was probably trying to get to the railway station on the High Street. Or maybe the General Hospital. Both were nearby. He was going to ask me how to get there, and we were going to have a conversation. I could even imagine how the conversation would go. Even before he had spoken to me, I was rehearsing it in my head. ‘Where are you trying to get to, mate? The station? Well, High Street station is just round the corner, but if you’re heading for London you’ll be better off going to Watford Junction. 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 …’
I could hear his footsteps now, accelerating rapidly, and also his breathing, which was irregular and urgent. I saw that he had nearly reached me. And that he wasn’t looking quite as friendly as I thought he would.
‘Then you cross the ring road,’ I silently continued, none the less, ‘and you go past the entrance to the Harlequin on your right, and the big Waterstone’s …’
‘Give me your phone.’
The voice in my head ceased abruptly.
‘What?’
I looked up and saw him glaring down at me, his face a compound of malevolence and panic.
‘Give me your fucking phone. Right now.’
Without another word I stuffed my hand into my trouser pocket and tried to extricate my mobile. The trousers were tight and it wasn’t easy.
‘Sorry about this,’ I said, wriggling and struggling. ‘It doesn’t seem to want to come.’
‘Don’t look at me!’ the man shouted. (Actually he seemed more like a boy.) ‘Don’t look at my face!’
I’d almost managed to extract the phone from my pocket. It was ironic: my last model had been a super slimline Nokia which would have slipped out easily. I’d gone for this more chunky Sony Ericsson because it was better for playing mp3s. I didn’t think it was appropriate to explain this right now, though.
‘Here you are,’ I said, and handed him the mobile. He snatched it off me violently. ‘Was there anything else you wanted – I mean like … cash, credit cards … ?’
‘Fuck you!’ he shouted, and ran off down Farthing Way, in the same direction from which he’d come.
It had all happened in a few seconds. I flopped back down on the bench and watched his receding figure. I was shaking slightly, but soon became calm again. My first instinct was to dial 999 and call for the police, but then I realized I no longer had a phone to do it on. My second instinct was to start 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.
