I only see the face briefly. I turn around, and he has disappeared amidst the crowd of people. I have a nagging thought, though, one that only develops and gets stronger, that the polite, smiling man with the cap was him.
DAY TWELVE 12TH JUNE 2018
Richard's disapproving face sits on my right shoulder. He doesn't say anything, just widens his eyes and raises his eyebrows. I know he'd cast out a line and reel me back in like a fish if he could.
I shouldn't be here, just as I shouldn't have been snooping around in the library five days ago. These stones are best unturned. Let sleeping dogs lie. He'd come out with all the lines, for sure. But I either go through the official channels (which, of course, is what I'm expected to do) or I do it myself. So here I am, on the outskirts of London, passing the identical houses with freshly cut green lawns (fading yellow from the relentless sun) and then stopping to glance at the piece of scrap paper in my hand. The hairs on my arm bristle as I wipe my forehead.
Don't be that one. Please, don't be that one.
I glance again at the number on the piece of paper. It is that one. Of course it is that one.
The lawn has been dug up and replaced with tired , grey concrete slabs. An old, rusty bicycle with a punctured tyre has been discarded on the floor. I glance around for an abandoned washing machine or a stained mattress, and I'm surprised when I can't locate one.
Somebody appears through the glass panel of the front door and, although their outline grows larger, they don't appear to be in any rush to actually answer the door.
"Oh," I say, when the door is finally opened, "I was hoping to find Simon here."
An elderly lady looks me up and down and then narrows her eyes, as if to see me properly. Her face is wrinkled and rubbery, like a pair of testicles that have sat in the bath for too long. "We all have hopes, dear," she says. "But when you get to my age, you're old and wise enough to realise hardly any of them ever come true."
She stands to one side to let me enter. I'm befuddled by this. The woman hasn't even asked who I am, or what I am doing here. I'm not hot on health and safety, but even I can identify some potential risks. Before I can put my words in the right order to make my point, the woman shouts at the top of her voice. "Simon! There is a man here for you! I have no idea who he is, but he's a middle-aged white guy, if that helps?"
I tell her my name on the assumption this will help identify who I am.
"And my name is Janet," she replies, without a flicker of a smile. We remain looking at each other in the hallway until, frankly, it becomes a bit awkward. It does not appear to cross Janet's mind to give Simon the name of his unexpected visitor. I bounce on the tips of my toes. There is a light bulb moment. "Downstairs, dear. Silly me. Head straight down to the basement. I gave him advance warning that you were coming; you never know what he might be up to down there now, do you?"
I brush away some cobwebs with one hand and clasp the stair rail with the other. I can just about make out the brick wall through the darkness as I continue my descent. The wooden steps audibly creak under my weight. I am relieved when my feet touch the bottom. There is light. I look around. My mouth opens. I don't know what I expected, but it wasn't this. Even my lowest expectation wasn't of something quite this weird.
The basement spans the length and breadth of the house. It is a bat cave. Lights flicker and fade on computer screens. Disbanded books lie on the concrete floor, UFO posters cover the walls. I spot a dartboard in the far corner. Breathing in, I 'm greeted by the odour of dirty socks and two-day old pizza.
A chair swivels around. My first thought is of the Timotei advert, the one where the beautiful young woman seductively flicks her long luscious hair to appreciative gasps from viewers in their homes. This young man sat in front of me, though, has greasy, straggly hair down to his waist. He adjusts his black, horn-rimmed square glasses and looks up at me. Takes a second look. Perversely, I suddenly feel important. The man springs out of his chair and walks soundlessly towards me, holding out his hand.
"Nice to meet you," he says, grinning. "It is kind of odd, you know? It feels like I already know you and yet we haven't actually met. It is kind of like having a best friend you only know from the internet. You know?"
I don't know, and so I'm not sure what to say. Instead, I nod my head and deliver a reassuring smile. After all, I'm an uninvited guest and, more importantly, it is in my interest to be on my best behaviour. Simon looks around for a chair that is not covered in clutter. This is mission impossible. Failing to find the desired chair, he settles for the one that has the least clutter and flings a pile of books onto the floor with one wild sweep of his hand.
"Mind the mess," he says. "I'm not used to guests in my dungeon, and so I probably don't keep it as tidy as I ought to. This place is hardly a hub of social activity, if you know what
