I walk back up the corridor after the man I think I know. I walk past reception, through the main lounge and back into the dining hall. I look around everywhere for him but he is nowhere to be seen. When the smiley Indian care assistant sees me, she asks me if it is pudding I am after but then I spot the old man in the wheelchair. He is sitting by the bay windows that look out on to the gardens. He is still fast asleep. I want to wake him up and ask him if he knows the name of the care assistant who has left him there, but then through the window I spot the man I am looking for outside. He is smoking a cigarette with two other care assistants, a man and a woman.
Standing in the bay window, I watch the man I think I know. He does not do anything interesting. He just smokes his cigarette and chats with the others. When they finish, he throws his cigarette on the floor, puts it out with his heel and follows the others to the main entrance.
I am not very good at walking quickly but I do it faster than I have ever done before, and I reach reception as they are coming through the door. I stand in the middle of the corridor so that they will have to walk past me and when they reach me, the female care assistant says, ‘Everything all right, love? You look a bit lost.’ Looking at Danny Allen, I say in my clearest voice so that I can be sure he will understand me, ‘Sic parvis magna.’
7
Danny
‘So what was it that new patient in G12 said to Danny then?’
‘Sick Paris summat or other, I think. Made no bloody sense to me but it was hard to make out because his speech is a bit funny. It was dead spooky though. Like he was possessed and talking in a foreign language.’
‘But you’re saying he knew our Danny’s name?’
‘Well, that was the really scary thing. After he said that Sick Paris whatever, he looked at Danny and cool as you like said, “You’re Danny Allen. We used to go to boarding school together.”’
‘What? The guy from G12 thought he used to go to boarding school with our Danny? But he didn’t, did he?’
‘Of course he didn’t! Boarding school is where that David bloody Cameron and his cronies go when they’re kids, isn’t it? Do you think if our Danny went to boarding school he’d be here wiping arses?’
‘When you put it like that, I don’t suppose he would. So what did our Danny say to that then?’
‘Well, he was like, “Never seen you before in my life, mate,” and G12 was like, “Danny, it’s me James DeWitt, we went to King’s Scrivener together.’
‘King’s what?’
‘That’s what I said. Had to look it up on me phone didn’t I? It’s only like one of the poshest schools in the country. You know that fella on Antiques Roadshow, him what wears the funny hats and the loud shirts?’
‘I know the one you mean – me Nan loves him. Any time he’s on the TV she’s like, “If only I was forty years younger,” and we’re like, “Nan, no thanks, we’re trying to eat our tea.”’
‘Well, that guy Mr Loud Shirts went to this school that G12 was on about and so did loads of other famous types.’
‘Go on then, who like?’
‘I can’t remember off the top of my head, can I? I just know there were loads of them on that Wiki-whatever-it’s-called. Some of them I’d even heard of too.’
‘And this guy in G12 thought our Danny had gone to that school?’
‘Exactly! And Danny was like, “I’ve never seen you before in my life, mate,” and G12 was like, “How can you say that? We were at boarding school together for seven years, you won” – now, what did he say? – the Charmoody … the Chimwilly … ah, it doesn’t matter. He said Danny had won some school prize or other and then – get this – after school, he said Danny went to Cambridge University.’
‘You mean that university like what that David Cameron and all his cronies went to?’
‘The very same.’
‘So what did Danny say to that?’
‘Well, what could he say? He was like, “Mate, you’ve got the wrong guy,” and then G12 started to get a bit worked up like he was gonna blow his top, so I told Danny to scoot and I’d deal with it. Even after Danny had gone, the lad was still like, “I’m honestly not making this up,” and I was like, “Of course you’re not, love,” because you know how confused some of them are in here, so I said to him, “Maybe Danny’s just got a really bad memory,” and he said, “You don’t believe me, I can tell,” and I said, “Of course, I do, love,” and he said, “Look, how do I know his name if I don’t know who he is?”’
‘That’s a good point though, that is, isn’t it? How did G12 know Danny’s name if he didn’t know him?’
In unison my co-workers, Brenda and Kath, turn to look over the break room table where I’m sipping a mug of coffee, wishing they’d just shut up about the whole thing. I wondered how long it might take for them to get round to asking me this question and thankfully, I have an answer at the ready which is vague enough to make it clear I’m not overly invested in their opinion, while at the same time gently directs the conversation away from me.
‘I dunno, do I? Maybe he’s psychic.’
Kath’s eyes widen. ‘Do you really think so?’ she says. ‘You know what? He did have that air about him.’
‘I’ve heard of stranger things in my time,’ says Brenda. ‘For years we thought my next door neighbour’s great aunt was loopy and then one day, when we’d gone to theirs for a barbecue, out of the blue she turns to me and says, “I’ve got a message for you from Auntie Margaret,” and I said, “What is it?” because I actually did have an auntie Margaret and she said, “You’ve got to stop letting people walk over you.” I tell you what, I felt a chill go through me when she said that because that was exactly the sort of advice my auntie Margaret used to give.’
If I believed in hell – which thankfully I don’t – I think around about now Old Nick would be stoking up the heat in a special corner of his fiery kingdom in readiness of my arrival. To have told a barefaced lie that causes a disabled man to be dismissed as a delusional nutter is at best despicable and at worst outright appalling. But that’s exactly what I’ve done. I nearly had a heart attack when I saw James DeWitt of all people standing in front of me. He was the last person on earth I ever expected to be a resident in a place like this. Bad things didn’t happen to people like James DeWitt; his life was just too gilded. And yet here he was attempting to out me.
In my defence – and I use the term loosely – James’s disability didn’t factor in my decision to lie. When it came to refuting my past, I was an equal opportunities deceiver. He could’ve been as healthy as an Olympic athlete and possessed a mind as sharp as a chess grandmaster and I still would’ve peddled the same old ‘Never seen you before in my life, mate’, line. As far as anyone who asked about my past was concerned, I’d never been a pupil at King’s Scrivener Boys’ School, won a school prize which allegedly marked me out for greatness or for that matter, gone up to Cambridge University to study Economics. My CV was as uninspiring as they came. According to the story, I’d gone to an ordinary comprehensive, achieved half a dozen distinctly lacklustre GCSEs, before launching myself into the world where I had achieved precisely zero. That was the way I told it (in the Nuneaton accent I was born with, rather than the received pronunciation I later adopted) in job interviews, dole office interrogations and even on my first date with Maya. To have told it any other way would’ve meant answering a question I had no interest in: what went so wrong that you ended up here?