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EPILOGUE
THE WALK HOME
June 2007 – Stockwell, London
They stepped out into the early-morning night. Although it was
cold, the city retained some trace of the day’s warmth. The dark
grey streets and pavements were lit by the orange glow of the street
lamps – the city just about still alive. A group of girls in high heels and no coats spilled drunkenly from a night bus onto South Lambeth
Road, laughing as they tottered away towards Clapham. A cyclist
sped past on his way north, to the river. A pair of foxes crept around the Stockwell War Memorial, running away when disturbed by a pair
of newly acquainted voices.
‘So tell me all about you then, Tom Murray,’ one of them said.
‘What do you want to know?’
‘How old?’
‘Twenty-five.’
‘Twenty-six. Good. Now, recent history. School. University, if
applicable. Work and, err, any notable holidays since the year two
thousand. A point for each.’
‘A point?’ Tom said.
‘Yes. It’s a game. You say something about yourself, you get a
point.’
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‘And what do points mean, in this game?’
‘You’ll have to see.’
‘Christ,’ Tom said. ‘You’ll have to give me a moment to think.
Can you go first?’
‘Happy to,’ Esme said, stepping around a kebab, dropped and
abandoned in the road. ‘So, school. I went to the King Richard
Grammar in Knighton, which is near Leicester.’
‘Benjamin Britten High School. Lowestoft.’
‘Most easterly town in Britain.’
‘Correct.’
‘That means I get an extra point. Next. University. I went to
Oxford. Studied English Language. Then an MA in child speech
therapy at UCL.’
‘Blimey. Get you, eh?’
‘Yes. I am terribly clever,’ she said, mock pompously.
‘Clearly. Anyway, shouldn’t it be “reading”? That’s what they always
say, isn’t it, at those places. “I’m reading economics” or something.’
‘Yes. But I’m not a horrendous arse like those people. Also, if
we’re talking about word choice, we might need to think about you
saying “blimey” to express surprise. Unless you’re actually sixty and
look very good for it?’
‘I normally say “fucking hell”. But given the circumstances . . .’
‘What circumstances? Is there something I don’t know about
happening here?’
Tom cringed a little. ‘You like to take the piss out of people,
don’t you?’ he said, as they walked under a streetlight, which briefly illuminated Esme’s face as he turned to look at her.
‘Yes. And I thought you were avoiding bad language? Given the
circumstances,’ she said, mockingly. ‘Anyway. What about you?’
‘Oh. I just studied music in Hertfordshire. Not very exciting.
Big ex-poly. No nice buildings covered in ivy, either. Half glass and
shiny. Half 1970s asbestos and vinyl.’
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‘So you’re a musician, then? That might result in a point deducted.
After Matt I said no more musicians, what with the touring and
everything.’
‘Well, I’m more of a static musician.’
‘I don’t have a clue what that is.’
‘I teach a bit. Play in a couple of covers bands. Though what I’d
really like to do is compose for films or something.’
‘Fine. A static musician should be fine. Only half a point off.’
‘Very gracious of you. And presumptuous.’
‘You were the one who brought up the circumstances. Anyway,
so next is—’
‘Hang on,’ Tom said, stopping Esme before she could move onto
her next mental cue card. ‘I have one.’
But he didn’t. Instead Tom was playing for time as they
approached Vauxhall Tube station and the perilous network of roads,
crossings, paths and cycle lanes that surrounded it. Avoiding having
to explain more of himself or his recent past. The best way to do that, he figured, would be to turn back the dial on Esme’s life, discover
more about what made her her, rather than reveal the things that made him him. At the sound of their footsteps a rat scuttled from the pavement into a drain. One of his phobias piqued, he squeezed
her hand.
‘Scared of rats. Good to know,’ she said. ‘Extra point to me.’
Tom feigned a laugh and said, ‘So, I want to know more about
your university days. Clubs, societies. All that sort of thing.’
‘There’s not much to say, really. Met a couple of interesting
people. One is sometimes on the telly.’
‘Who’s that?’
‘Laura Sutcliffe. She writes about politics for the Telegraph. Massive Tory, but she’s nice. If you watch those programmes when they
talk about politics and tomorrow’s papers you’ve probably seen her.
Pretty blonde girl. Gets quite shouty.’
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‘I think I know her,’ Tom said, able to both immediately bring Laura Sutcliffe to mind, along with a couple of the things he’d called her while watching Newsnight. ‘So what else?’
‘I don’t know. Joined the uni wine society. But I really couldn’t
afford to keep up. Couple of reading groups. And drama.’
‘Footlights?’ Tom said, impressed.
‘That’s Cambridge. So minus one point.’
‘Crap. Is that sacrilegious?’
‘Only if I could give a toss. Anyway, no. It wasn’t the proper
drama group. That’s basically for boys who intend to become stand-
up comedians or guests on crappy panel shows. Mine was a little
amateur group. We did stuff like Death of a Salesman, The Importance of Being Earnest. One year we took a show to Edinburgh, where I learned that the most terrifying words in the English language are
“come and see my one-woman show”.’
‘You were on the Fringe?’
‘The very fringe of the Fringe. One of the many hopeless hopefuls struggling for an audience. It can be a bit like “if a tree falls in a forest, does it make a sound?”.’
‘If a play happens without an audience, did it really happen?’
‘Exactly,’ she said. ‘But that’s it, really. Uni. Then work.’
Esme led Tom onto Vauxhall Bridge. It was almost 3.45 a.m.
and still a sporadic stream of traffic passed them by. Night buses,
black cabs and bikes. Small groups of drunk young people carrying
bottles and cans. A stumbling, staggering, kebab-carrying man in a
suit, who would likely spend the remainder of the weekend regretting
his decision to stay out.
When they reached the middle of the bridge, Esme stopped and
looked east to the Gherkin and the mass of cranes, busily working
away at pushing new teeth into the city’s old mouth.
‘OK, I’ve thought of another question. Then I promise it’s your
turn again. You need the points,’ she said. ‘When I moved to London
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it was going to be a temporary thing. Maybe a year. Maybe less if I could find a job back in Oxford.’
‘And what happened?’
‘I suppose you just get stuck here, don’t you? Decent job. Decent
wages. You get used to flat sharing. Then gradually you begin to take
it for granted. The other week I got annoyed because Leicester doesn’t have a Pret. I’ve been in London for four years now.’
‘I know what you mean. Except the flat-sharing bit.’
‘You live on your own?’
‘Yeh, a little studio. It’s not much. But I have a nice landlord who
doesn’t jack the rent up every year.’
‘Hmm. OK, you get a point for that.’
‘Thank you. How many am I on?’
‘I think that brings you back up to zero.’
They fel silent for a while, staring out at the quiet, dirt-brown
river. Then Esme slowly nuzzled herself into the small crook between
Tom’s upper arm and his chest.
‘I suppose it can be quite pretty though, can’t it?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘Do you want to carry on playing then?’
‘Not really,’ Tom said as Esme stepped away, took his hand and
led him the rest of the way across the bridge.
When they reached Millbank on the other side, she let go of
his hand. His spirits fell a little. But he tried not to read too much into it.
‘We’re nearly at mine,’ she said. ‘So I think we might have to
dispense with holidays and go straight for the bonus round.’
‘What’s that, then?’
‘One interesting fact each. It doesn’t have to be a secret. The only
rule is that it can’t be obvious. Like, no saying “I have brown hair
and size nine feet”.’
‘Okay,’ Tom said, a little apprehensively, knowing as he did that
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the most interesting facts about him were exactly the things he couldn’t tell her about; the fear of his recent history still raw.
‘You first, though,’ he said quickly, before she could throw a
question his way.
‘Fine. Well, how about the fact that I am Hungarian. Both my
parents are from Budapest.’
‘That is interesting. No accent.’
‘None. Mainly because I grew up in Leicester, didn’t visit Hungary
until I was ten, and didn’t meet a single other Hungarian person throughout my entire childhood.’
‘That’ll do it.’
‘I’m more Hungarian by nature than by nurture. Mum and Dad
don’t real y bother with any traditions except Christmas and State
Foundation Day.’
‘When’s that?’
‘Some time in August. Normally they just set off a few fireworks
and eat this kind of Hungarian trifle thing,’ Esme said, steering
Tom around a corner and onto Denton Road – a street of pretty,
white stucco-fronted houses with long, decorative, black and white
chequerboard walkways leading to impressive front doors. All the
lights in the houses were off, except for one at the very top of a
three-storey house.
‘You live here?’ Tom said, with some surprise.
‘Yes. But it looks posher than it is. I have a room on the second
floor of what was once a decent sized house and is now three fairly
small flats. Anyway. You’ve not told me your interesting fact yet.’
‘And I’m not going to,’ Tom said. ‘Until we see each other again.’
Esme feigned shock and anger.
‘Minus a million points. Literally.’
‘I don’t even know what the prize was.’
‘You would have loved it. But instead here you are trying to
engineer a date.’
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‘No—’
‘Because I would’ve said yes without the blackmail.’
‘Nice to hear. But still.’
Esme stopped when they arrived at number 34, its numbers peel-
ing away from the pillars that flanked the porch. She took a step up
and turned to face Tom, who was looking down at his shoes. He
felt something burning inside of him. Some premonition of how
important this woman was going to be to him. And with that some
instinctual need to be honest with her. To start things off in the right way and to continue like that forever.
‘This is it then, Tom Murray’ she said. ‘You’d better give me your
number—’
‘There’s something I need to tell you,’ Tom said, interrupting her.
‘What?’
He had been ready to say it. To admit that he was a recovering
alcoholic, and that he had been in a hospital bed two months ago,
recovering from a suicide attempt. But then he saw Esme smile.
The kiss could wait. There was something greater at stake. They had
time for that. Years and months and days and hours stretched out
ahead of them.
‘Well?’ Esme said, laughing to herself.
‘Actually, no,’ Tom said. ‘It can wait.’
‘You sure?’
‘It’s nothing really. I’ll tell you next time I see you.’
‘So we’re seeing each other again then, are we?’
‘Yes,’ Tom said. ‘Tomorrow wasn’t it?’
‘Was it now?’
‘Yes. I’m fairly sure we agreed tomorrow.’
‘And what if I’m busy?’
‘Plans can be cancelled,’ he said. ‘That’s the great thing about
plans.’
Esme looked at him askance, but still smiling.
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‘Fine. You’ve won me over. What are our new plans?’
‘The park, I think. We can arrange a time when we’re both up.’
‘You’re on.’
‘Perfect,’ he said, waiting, hoping.
‘Still no kiss though,’ she said.
With that, Esme Simon squeezed his hand and said, ‘Goodnight,
Tom.’ Then she turned away, walked the few steps to her black front
door and disappeared into a hallway busy with bicycles and pizza
menus.
There, outside her house, he tried to commit to memory every
single thing that had just happened, before he left to begin the long
journey home to Camden, not noticing Esme watching him from
her bedroom window on the third floor.
The End
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