PROLOGUE
Headmaster’s Speech, King’s Scrivener Boys’ School, Warwick 16 June 1997
‘Thank you, Chairman of Governors, esteemed guests, governors, parents and last but by no means least, boys of King’s Scrivener upper sixth. Today for you is perhaps the most special of your entire career here at KS, marking as it does the close of a chapter, but also a new beginning for you all, one in which you will no longer be merely scholars but King’s Scrivener old boys. Henceforth you will join a fraternity that from its inception in 1765 has been at the forefront of making our nation great. King’s Scrivener old boys, young men like you, have gone on from this esteemed institution to become leading lights in the fields of science, the arts, law, medicine, finance, education and politics. King’s Scrivener has produced countless medics, academics and scientists at the top of their chosen field of study, along with Booker and Turner prize winners for work in the arts. In the world of politics KS old boys can count among their number members of government past and present, ranging from foreign secretaries to Chancellors of the Exchequer, not to mention two prime ministers.
‘King’s Scrivener old boys have lost their lives in wars to preserve peace, won Olympic gold medals in front of global audiences of millions, and saved countless lives with groundbreaking scientific discoveries. To my albeit admittedly biased mind, I can only conclude that wherever there is excellent work to be done, lives to be saved, history to be made and new frontiers to be explored, you will find a King’s Scrivener old boy giving of his best and embodying the spirit of the school motto, “Sic parvis magna”.
‘In keeping with this tradition, you young men of the upper sixth have produced the single best A-level results this school has ever seen, resulting in a record-breaking number of you heading off to study at some of the world’s greatest educational institutions. To single out any individual on an occasion such as this feels unjust, when you have all done so well. But as you know, it has been a longstanding King’s Scrivener tradition to honour our founding father, Sir Thomas Carmody, by awarding a prize to a single pupil in recognition of greatness across the sporting and academic disciplines. While it’s true to say that past winners of the Carmody prize have included a former head of MI6, a world renowned sculptor and a prominent media proprietor, it’s no less accurate to say that every Carmody prize winner – whether or not in the global spotlight – has gone on to some form of greatness. And so it is with no small amount of trepidation that I announce that the winner of the 1997 King’s Scrivener Boys’ School Carmody prize for outstanding achievement is …’
1
Danny
‘You’re stopping my dole money?’
The employment officer sitting at the desk across from me here at Coventry Job Centre Plus – mid-forties, blond-highlighted hair and a permanent air of ‘This is hurting me more than it’s hurting you’ about her – nods.
‘I’m afraid you’ve left us with no other choice, Mr Allen,’ she says despondently. ‘According to our records you’ve been given several warnings both written and verbal that action would be taken if we failed to receive evidence of you actively seeking employment. That evidence hasn’t been forthcoming, therefore we have no choice but to—’
‘—stop my money?’
‘I know it’s difficult to hear, Mr Allen, but you must appreciate we only ever take action of this kind as a last resort.’
A half smile rises briefly to my lips at the use of the phrase ‘last resort’. It sounds like a holiday destination for people too broke to afford a real trip abroad, a Benidorm for the dejected, a Mallorca for the clinically depressed.
Maya is absolutely going to lose it when she finds out about this. She’s going to go through the roof. She always said this would happen if I didn’t sort myself out, and now it has. This could be the straw that breaks the camel’s back, the end of everything, the end of Maya and me.
‘What if I apply for a job right now?’ I say, grasping at straws. ‘I mean it, any job at all – I don’t care what it is, cleaning toilets, sweeping the streets, you name it, I’ll apply for it. Surely that’s got to make a difference?’
She shakes her head sadly. ‘I’m afraid in terms of today’s decision, Mr Allen, it won’t make any difference at all. The sanction comes into effect the moment you fail to respond to your third warning and I’m afraid it can’t be repealed under any circumstances.’
Brimming with rage, I shove my hands deep into the pockets of my jeans and scatter the contents one fistful at a time on to the desk in front of me: a fifty pence piece, a receipt for two jars of grilled peppers from Poundland, a bus ticket and a crumpled tissue. For her part my employment officer wordlessly evaluates the pocket detritus as if it’s an avant-garde art installation but I can see she understands what I’m saying, she understands completely. With eyes fixed on the pocket debris, she opens a drawer to her left and pulls out two crisp white business cards.
I take them from her one at a time and read them carefully. The first has contact details for Coventry Citizens Advice Bureau emblazoned across it and the second is for a local food bank called Helping Hands.
I am truly screwed.
She straightens up in her chair as if to say, ‘I think we both know that this is the end of the conversation.’ I consider tearing the business cards up as a final act of defiance but in the end even that seems too much like hard work and so instead I tuck them into my jacket pocket, scrape the rubbish from the desk into my open hand and thank her for her time.
Taking a seat on the low brick wall outside the job centre, I roll myself a cigarette. While I smoke it I marvel at sights of the city I call home on a grey January Monday morning: huge grimey lorries loaded with goods from continental Europe, an assortment of cars carrying solitary passengers lost deep in thought, daredevil motorcyclists weaving in and out of the traffic. Across the road a group of young Muslim college girls wearing brightly patterned hijabs are laughing and joking, while on my side of the pavement two young men dressed in sharp suits and reeking of mid-priced aftershave stride purposely towards me, talking intensely about targets and sales figures, barely registering my existence.
I’m going to have to get a job.
I know this but at the same time it feels like I don’t.
I’m going to have to get a job.
Maybe I should say it aloud instead of simply whispering it in my head?
‘I’m going to have to get a job.’
No, it doesn’t make any difference. I still don’t want to work. I don’t want to do anything at all. If I’m honest, all I really want is to be left alone.
There’s no physical reason why at the age of thirty-six I can’t work for a living.
I have two arms, two legs and the body that goes with them. Obviously with the fags, junk food and lack of exercise I’m not exactly what you might call a prime example of physical fitness but if I rocked up at my doctors’ surgery and asked to be signed off work due to poor health, I’m pretty sure they’d laugh me right out of the consulting room.
Equally, it’s not as though I couldn’t find a job if I actually tried. Only last week I saw adverts for vacancies for work in an abattoir, on a building site, six retail ‘opportunities’, half a dozen telesales jobs and a position as a trainee embalmer. There are jobs aplenty if you’re that way inclined. But I’m not interested in any of them and haven’t been for a very long time.