Who is Tom Ditto?

by Danny Wallace

  For a second I considered stopping, and laughing, and introducing myself, because how often do you get followed twice in quick succession, but he was big, and he was closer now, so close his foot clipped at my heel and as I stumbled the side of my thigh was barged and I found myself walking backwards in an alleyway off the main drag as this man now inches away, hand on my chest, pushed me, pushed me back, neck craning to see if we’d been spotted, and I realised this wasn’t what I thought it could be, and I pushed back against him out of instinct, tried to turn, but now he had a grip on my neck, and the grip tightened and my head was forced round and forwards, pushing hard towards the wall, my hands rising to protect my face but my body clashing hard against the wall, my hip bone striking and scraping and the first splinters and shots of pain firing down through my legs like a nail through bone.

  thirteen

  The grip tightened, then released.

  ‘Money.’

  ‘What?’ I said. ‘Oh, fu—’

  The first punch was to my kidneys, the second, straight after, a little higher. Back of the ribs.

  ‘Gizzit,’ he said again, as my knees began to buckle and I could open my eyes again.

  ‘I haven’t got—’

  The next strike was harder. Kidneys again. I felt something give, and God, you imagine something like this happening, and you imagine fighting, but really, I wanted to cry.

  The hand was back on my neck, now, and pushed me round, my head clipping the wall, but my legs were going and I didn’t want to see who this was, because if I couldn’t see, maybe they’d just stop or cut their losses or something.

  ‘I haven’t—’

  And then my eyes sparked and the stars came out as he slapped me, hard, fast, loud, open-handed and round the cheek.

  I cowered now; my hands up.

  ‘I’ve got a phone,’ I said, quickly. ‘Here, I can give you my wallet …’

  I searched around in my jacket for it, looking up at him now and for the first time. Blood-red eyes, veins as one. Broad. Thousand-mile stare. On something?

  That was the worst bit. You can’t reason when they’re on something. I’d meet them sometimes, outside the building, waiting for security to let me in. They were friendly, generally, but there were some who’d let the madness take them over. And these were the ones who could turn. Fast. Aggressive. They’d approach, maybe asking for money, maybe asking if I had a light, circling like a shark. If there was one of them you were usually okay. Two and you could have a problem, but you were never sure. If they engaged you in conversation, all you could do was listen. You had to smile. Placate. Give them nothing to be paranoid about. Say nothing smart. Act like everything they say impresses you and everything they say is news to you. Make them feel you believe them, whatever it is, whether it’s about the government or the dole office or the man that gave them those cuts, that broken nose. You calm them, you never contradict or patronise, and while you keep your hands out of your pockets and ready, of course, you give them no reason to dislike you. They’d dislike you if they thought you reckoned you were above them. They’d dislike you if they thought you found them in any way amusing. Funny; funny’s usually a trait people covet.

  ‘I’ve also got an iPod,’ I said. See? Show willing. Offer them something they didn’t know was there. At best they’d think it was just weakness, congratulating themselves on their cleverness for finding the right target. At worst, pity and maybe just a slap for fun.

  Over his shoulder, London carried on. People shot past the alley, eyes down, headphones on.

  But ‘What else?’ he said, and ‘That’s it,’ I replied, and with a flash of anger he brought another mighty fist down on my cheek, the contact not registering for a second, and then my skin screaming as the shock turned to pain and the taste of hot metal crept over my tongue as blood crawled around my gums and between my teeth.

  ‘Mate, wait,’ I tried, and boom – another open-handed slap to the face and now this wasn’t just for effect, this wasn’t to punctuate his points, this was an attack.

  I just wanted him to go, he felt like a giant and I wanted to be safe, and I reached into my pocket to grab anything, anything else at all to offer him, and I clutched at a fiver and some mints and pathetically held them out in front of me as I stood, bent, no longer a man, no longer someone with a name, just six foot of useless in an alley off the main drag.

  Then: ‘Yoohoo!’

  A girl’s voice.

  Yoohoo?

  The whole world stopped. Silence. No car moved, no bird sang.

  I stole a glance, my hands still up … the man turned, shocked, ready for another fight …

  Big blue parka. I LOVE VEGANS. Phone out in front of her. The unlikeliest of angels.

  ‘Big smiles.’

  The world burst into action again. She was recording. I didn’t know how to feel. Relief, that help had arrived? Humiliation that it had arrived like this? The man hid his face. Turned away. Realised it was too late. Turned back to intimidate. Shoulders up, chest out.

  ‘Oh yeah, that’s good, that’s a better shot,’ said the girl, backing away, backing into the street, where now there were more people, not many but more, and they could be witnesses, they could have cameras too. A woman had to stop in her tracks then go round her, sighing, oblivious, like she was the most important woman in the world and her hurried walk home the only thing that mattered.

  ‘Yeah, come into the light,’ said the girl, backing off, but no fear in her voice. ‘Nice one.’

  He had my iPod. He’d grabbed it from my pocket the second he’d seen it. The wallet and balled fiver he’d leave. He wasn’t taking them on camera. He wasn’t doing anything else on camera, either. He tried to shrug his head into his shoulders, and swaggered off, hood now flipped down, past McDonald’s and on, people curving around him, sensing his mood, avoiding his eye.

  I staggered to my feet, one hand on the wall behind me, stabs of pain from my back as I shifted my weight.

  ‘Are you okay?’ said the girl.

  Bruised cheek was the worst of it. Red on the other side where he’d slapped me. Slapped! Who gets slapped? Mind you, who says yoohoo? Rib-ache, too, but otherwise I think his moves had been designed to intimidate, not hurt or show.

  I looked at the girl in the seat next to me as the taxi hit a sharp left on Amwell. Great. Speed bumps for the next three miles. Slow, slow, quick quick slow. The cab driver’s foxtrot.

  ‘You were following me again,’ I said.

  ‘Complaining?’

  ‘It’s a bit weird.’

  ‘You are complaining!’

  ‘No. No, not this time, no.’

  We’d grabbed the first cab we could. I just wanted out of here. I just wanted to go home. The girl had climbed in with me. It seemed fair enough. My ribs ached, but I was grateful to feel anything. Shock would come soon, I suppose. Weirdly, right now, I felt pretty good. Adrenalised.

  ‘I’d only been following you since you left the pub,’ said the girl.

  ‘Well, how did you know I was in the pub?’ I said.

  ‘I followed you there.’

  ‘Yeah, so you’d been following me for longer. How long had you been following me?’

  ‘Only since work.’

  I sighed.

  ‘And how did you know where I work?’

  ‘There was the fact that you’ve named your crotch.’

  This girl was mental. Well, why not? Why not share a cab with a mentalist, who claims to be able to tell your name by looking at your crotch?

  And then she pointed at the ID dangling from my belt.

  My name in big blue letters.

  ‘Couldn’t help but notice last time we – you know – met.’

  ‘The last time you followed me,’ I said.

  A thought struck her and she turned to me, very seriously.

  ‘Hey, I googled you. I’m so sorry to hear about the whole Jam Nazi thing.’

  Jesus.

  ‘Yeah, that was unfortuna
te.’

  ‘There are some great videos. Have you seen the one where they—’

  ‘I’ve seen them all, yeah.’

  ‘We should call the police.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, realising, remembering. ‘God, of course. Christ, it’s so crazy …’

  ‘What?’ she said.

  ‘You just don’t expect that kind of thing to happen round here.’

  I hadn’t thought about the police. My head wasn’t yet clear. But of course we should phone the police.

  ‘We’ll do it from your place,’ she said. ‘I’m your witness.’

  ‘And you’ve got the video.’

  ‘Oh, I wasn’t videoing,’ she said. ‘I was just implying I was videoing.’

  ‘What the hell is your name, anyway?’

  She smiled.

  ‘Lincoln Racksmackle,’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m Pia,’ she said. ‘My name is Pia.’

  I made for the bathroom while Pia – who I found a very unsettling presence – made herself a cup of tea.

  I kept an ear out, in case I heard drawers being opened. I don’t know what she’d find in there to steal. A few takeaway menus. A quid or two.

  I stared at myself in the mirror. When had I stopped trusting people?

  Oh yeah, that’s right …

  Man, I was going to be bruised. I’d always wondered how I’d react if I was mugged. I suppose at least now I knew. I’d put my hands up and collapse.

  I found an extremely old bottle of TCP and some cotton wool.

  ‘Why are you doing it, Pia?’ I called out, dabbing at the one area the man had broken skin. ‘Why follow? Why me?’

  ‘You should know,’ she said. ‘You went to a meeting yourself.’

  ‘Yeah, but I didn’t go for that reason. I didn’t go because I was missing something.’

  ‘That’s exactly why you went.’

  ‘I went because of my girlfriend.’

  ‘Who was exactly what you were missing.’

  In the living room, she now sat with her feet up and an open tin of Christmas biscuits I didn’t even know we had.

  ‘You smell nice,’ she said, and then pretended to vomit.

  She was very confident, I’ll give her that.

  ‘I like your place, though,’ she said, looking around. ‘Oh, and there’s the woman herself …’

  She pointed at the mantelpiece. A picture of Hayley, the day we moved in. Hair in a scrunchie, collapsed on the sofa, surrounded by boxes.

  ‘Do you know her?’ I said. ‘From those meetings?’

  ‘I know her a bit. As much as you can know anything at those things. I’m not sure she knows me.’

  ‘Did you know she was going to do what she did?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I stared at her for a second or two.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Yes, I knew from day one. She walked in, and I knew. She was so into it all. Full of ideas. She’d been to other meetings. She wasn’t doing it to help herself.’

  ‘Why, then?’

  ‘I’m not sure if there was something wrong with her,’ she shrugged. ‘Something compulsive. Because she kept pushing it.’

  ‘But did you know she was going to run off?’

  ‘I think she wanted to … win. She wanted to show her commitment to it. That she’d drop everything and become someone else. I think she was doing that for Andy.’

  Andy?

  ‘For him? What, you mean – she found him beguiling, or something?’

  ‘Andy is not beguiling. I’ve been round Andy’s house. He lives near that big Lucozade sign in Brentford. He’s got an extension cord on the floor with eight Ambi Purs plugged into it. It’s like walking into a field of toxic lavender.’

  She made the vomit face again.

  ‘You should chill,’ she said. ‘I mean, she didn’t drop you, technically, did she?’

  ‘Did you ever talk to her about it?’

  ‘I never actually spoke to her. I listened at those things. That’s what I thought it was all about. Listening. Not pushing your own agenda.’

  ‘How often do you do it?’

  ‘What?’ she said.

  ‘Follow. Copy.’

  ‘It’s only if I find someone interesting. I find you interesting.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because of what happened to you. I wanted to know what it would do to you.’

  I shook my head at her, still standing, looking down on her.

  ‘I think it’s you something’s happened to. Because you’re a proper fucking oddball.’

  ‘You should try it.’

  ‘Try what?’

  ‘Following.’

  I laughed, bitterly. Yeah. Sure. Definitely.

  She reached into her giant parka pocket and brought out the half-bottle of rum she’d bought the other day. She twisted it open, took a swig. How do I get rid of her?

  ‘Has she been in touch, at all?’ she said. ‘I mean, considering what she’s done to you, it’d be cruel not to.’

  ‘Once. Yes. A postcard.’

  ‘Can I see?’

  I thought about it. I hadn’t shown this to anyone. I’d stared at it a lot, though. Stared at it at night. I’d emailed Calum about it. He called me, sounded concerned for me, suggested a trip over to Dublin to clear my mind, but I told him I needed to stay in London. I had to be here just in case. But just in case what? She called the landline? She suddenly reappeared? Calum told me to take care, that he was thinking of me, to call him straight away if anything happened. Said he had a presentation to prepare for a conference in Utrecht next week, otherwise he’d have been on the first flight over. I could hear his kids in the background, Peppa Pig finishing up, his life calling him back. I felt silly. This was humiliating, and it was childish, and I felt small.

  But why not show this girl? That didn’t matter. She was all but a stranger.

  She read it to herself.

  ‘The weird thing is,’ I said. ‘I think it’s lyrics from a song.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I was in a cab and I heard this song and I googled the words but she must have changed them a bit.’

  ‘She’s sent you song lyrics?’ she said. ‘Instead of an explanation? Oh, you should totally start doing it yourself.’

  I put my hand over my eyes and smiled.

  ‘You should,’ she said, and I sank down onto the sofa, another laugh coming from nowhere.

  ‘Who do you want to be, Tom?’

  I crossed my legs then crossed my arms.

  ‘Stupid question.’

  ‘Who would you like to be like?’ she said, passing me the bottle.

  ‘Honestly?’

  ‘Honestly.’

  ‘A million people. Axl Rose. Bradley Cooper.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Stop it. I’m not a child,’ I said, a quick swig of rum and then the cap back on, twisted shut, tight. ‘I can’t just be like those people. I’m not even sure why I said Axl Rose.’

  ‘Okay, someone from real life, then,’ she said. ‘Who do you know that you’d like to be like?’

  I was humouring her. I don’t know why. To make sense of it all? To talk to someone? To think of something else? To have a conversation?

  ‘From real life?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say any of the people I know in real life are particularly … inspiring.’

  ‘Because of how they are or because of how you engage with them?’ she said, taking the bottle, immediately untwisting the cap, flicking it across the room.

  She offered it to me. I put my hand up to decline.

  ‘Medicinal,’ she said.

  I relented.

  ‘Come out with me,’ she said. ‘Right now.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘We’ll follow someone. I’ll show you. It’s fun.’

  ‘You’re out of your fucking mind.’

  ‘There’s a whole world out there. Billions of people doing billions o
f things. Do you honestly think that not one of those billions of things is better than what you’re doing right now?’

  ‘What I’m doing … what I—’

  ‘You’re saying “this is it?”, are you? “This is all I want? Keep your billions of interesting activities and pastimes, not one of them can interest me?”’

  ‘That’s not what I’m saying at all—’

  ‘What do you think Bradley Cooper’s doing right now? Do you think it’s better or worse than sitting in your flat after a botched mugging without a girlfriend you’re not sure is your girlfriend, probably already thinking you’ve got to get up at quarter past three or whatever mental time you’re supposed to get up?’

  ‘That’s a good point,’ I said. ‘I should probably rest. How about Axl Rose? I wonder what Axl Rose is—’

  ‘What does Hayley think you’re doing right now? And what would show Hayley?’

  She pointed at the photo on the mantelpiece. Held up the postcard.

  ‘What would piss her right off?’

  Ah, my weak point. Well played. Because yes, maybe it was time to hit back. Hit back even if she couldn’t see it. Pia saw she was onto something.

  ‘You. Out there. That would piss her off. You, showing her how to do it. Then getting on with your life.’

  Bottle to my lips.

  But no.

  ‘Much as I’d love to see how you follow people about,’ I said, handing it back, ‘the resting thing sways it for me, and—’

  ‘Why rest when you don’t do anything? What are you recovering from? At least do something to rest from!’

  ‘Pia, I’ve just been beaten up.’

  She smiled.

  ‘That’s a very passive activity. You even let someone else do that for you.’

  She stole a laugh from me.

  ‘One hour,’ she said.

  ‘I shouldn’t leave the flat! I should be calling the police and—’

  ‘Come on. Come with me! Give me one hour. I know it sounds crazy, but you have to see.’

  I thought about it.

  No.

  Maybe?

  ‘You owe me.’

  ‘Well … I need milk.’

  ‘We’ll get milk. We’ll go out to get milk. If anyone tries to attack you again I’ll duff them up. Come on. I saved your arse tonight.’