"How can I beat him?"
Simon looks at me like I'm joking. "However clever you think you are, he is much, much cleverer. You can't do it yourself. You need help. And you need to decide your game plan. Are you going to run? Are you going to hide? Or are you going to set a trap...?"
Simon has toppled me from my chair and now he is kicking me when I'm down. I decide to take flight of our little meeting. There is no good news. I can't take any more. Spartacus had better get to me quick before I jump from London Bridge.
I shake Simon's reluctant hand and thank him for his time, tell him to thank his mother for her kind hospitality. Clearly, he is distraught that I'm leaving. I'm one of his projects, and ideally he'd like to stick me in a jar so he can prod and experiment on me.
Simon starts talking again just as I reach the stairs. "There is one thing that has troubled me more than any other," he says. I stop to wait for him to continue. He takes his time. The guy starts picking his nails. I feel like I'm sat in the cinema waiting for the credits to finish just in case there might be an extra scene. "I still don't know why he didn't manage to finish you off the first time..."
I walk up the stairs, much colder and narrower than on the way down. I need to get out of here quick.
DAY THIRTEEN 13TH JUNE 2018
This isn't the sort of establishment I usually frequent. It isn't the sort of place I usually spend my money.
It is unexpectedly busy, mainly with lone wolves perched on high stools, gazing out of the window and, presumably, people-watching. Don't people work anymore? There are forecasts of doom and gloom ahead, but two years after the Brexit vote more and more people are in work, so how come so many are idling with me in this coffee shop in the middle of the day?
I'm reminded of when Emma was a toddler; we were social butterflies on the cafe scene back then. Not fancy places like this, more out of principle than the expense, but anywhere that sold a cheap tea and an orange or blackcurrant. Mainly on the weekends, when I gave Jenny some much-deserved time to herself. It wasn't that I craved lukewarm tea from a polystyrene cup, it was just that Emma was so much better behaved when we were in public that I sometimes couldn't wait to get out of the house, break up the day. We'd sit on opposite sides of the table and just talk.
“What do you call a spider with six legs?” Emma asked, when she was probably about five.
“I don't know. What do you call a spider with six legs?”
“A six-legged spider.”
“Makes sense.”
Jokes (or at least that's what I thought this was) were wonderful, but I had a responsibility to enquire about her education and understanding of the world (didn't I?).
“So, do you know who Jesus is?”
I recall that Emma crinkled her nose and looked to the ceiling. “Yes, I do. Jesus died.”
“That's right-”
“But I don't think he really died...”
“No? What really happened to Jesus?”
“I think he's in prison...”
Another time, Emma excitedly told me about a man who was bringing animals into the school for the children to observe. "Do you think he'll bring a tiger, Dad?"
"Too scary. I don't think he'll be allowed to bring any animal that might eat the children," I said, logically.
"How about a giraffe?"
"Too big. He won't be able to fit one in his van."
"Well, I know he won't bring any dinosaurs, because the dinosaurs are all dead."
I nodded my head, impressed.
"Plus, they're way too big and scary."
By then, I'd already stopped reading those books on parenting from the library. I realised you didn't need any instruction manuals. You just had to talk and, most importantly, listen.
Waiting in turn now like a good little boy at the school canteen, I then order two coffees. The young girl behind the counter asks for my name. Oh, I think, this is nice.
"It is Marcus," I reply. "And thank you for asking. People just don't talk enough these days, don't you think? Everyone is always so busy, busy, busy. So, what is your name?"
The young girl looks at me blankly. Her face gives away little, but if anything, she shows a torrid mix of concern and disgust. I glance down at my fly to make sure nothing is hanging out. At least she isn't laughing. Still looking at me, the girl writes my name on a cardboard cup. It crosses my mind that I should apologise for my outrageous mistake, that maybe I should leave a tip for any offence I might have caused, but thankfully, it is just a fleeting thought.
I pay the money, wait for the coffee and leave the shop as quickly as I can, with a whole lot less coinage jingling in my pocket than when I walked into the shop.
I walk at pace, for it is crucial I reach my destination before the coffees go cold. I'm aware that there is a trend for cold coffees, but I'm old-fashioned (and maybe just old); surely the whole point of a coffee is that it's a hot beverage? The plastic lids are wet from the overflowing drink; the warm fluid trickles down the sides of the cups. My pace is a careful balancing act, for there is no point getting to my destination quickly if there
