The man put the flapjack into one pocket and the orange juice carton into the other. Then he jammed the apple between his teeth, crumpled up the paper bag and threw it onto the floor in the doorway of the hostel. “See ya,” he said, and then broke into a sprint as if he had to be somewhere else.
Arthur walked to the tube station and down into the underpass. There was music from a man playing the flute and, farther along, a woman strummed a guitar with an upturned trilby hat at her feet. He dropped a fifty pence in front of each of them and followed the stream of people heading into the depths of the station.
He fed coins into a shiny machine, which spat out a ticket. He felt lost, not just because he had never been on an underground tube train before. He thought that he’d find clear answers in London, but there were yet more layers. Did he want to keep peeling them away, like a giant onion, or should he leave them alone?
The map on the tiled wall in front of him couldn’t have been any bigger. It was clear with strong black letters, but he just couldn’t fathom it out. He’d watched an engineer once open up a telephone box on the street. Inside was an inexplicable (to Arthur, anyway) tangle of colored wires. This map looked similar, though even more complicated. He wanted to reach out and trace his finger around the lines to find where he was going because his eye kept following a line and then getting lost. Everyone around him seemed to know what they were doing and where they were going. They glanced at the map, nodded and then strode off with purpose and confidence. He in turn felt very small and insignificant.
He tried to follow the route to King’s Cross again, but he couldn’t work out where to change. By now he wondered if he should just jump on some random tube train and see where he ended up, or go back outside and wait at a bus stop.
But then, “Hello,” a friendly voice said in his left ear. “Having a bit of trouble?”
He turned to find a young man standing beside him, shoulder to shoulder. He had his hands dug deep into the pockets of his low-slung baggy jeans. A good few inches of his red underpants were on display over his waistband. His T-shirt might’ve been black and white and had The Killers emblazoned on it, but his smile was wide and friendly.
“Ah, yes. I’m afraid I’ve never been on the underground before.”
“First time in London, then?”
“Yes. I’m not used to finding my way around. I need to get to King’s Cross to get a train home.”
“Do you live far?”
“Near York.”
“Lovely. Well, King’s Cross? It’s not a difficult journey—just a couple of changes from here. Do you have a tube ticket?”
“Yes.”
“Let me have a look, then.”
Grateful for the young man’s kindness, Arthur took his wallet from his back pocket. He was about to flip it open to retrieve his ticket when it vanished from his hands. Poof. The man was running away at full pelt and was immediately swallowed up by a sea of people.
In what seemed like slow motion, Arthur stared at his empty hands, then after the man in disbelief. He had been robbed. He was a bloody idiot. Newspapers reveled telling stories about the type of person he was—a gullible pensioner. His shoulders drooped involuntarily, defeated.
However, his sense of foolishness was soon overtaken by a surge of anger. There was a photograph of Miriam in his wallet. She was smiling and had her arms wrapped around the kids when they were little. He didn’t have a copy. How dare this man take advantage of him? The anger rumbled in his stomach and then careered up his chest and burst out of his mouth as words. “Stop. Thief!” he yelled as mightily as he could, surprised by how loud it was. He shouted again.
He began to run.
Now Arthur couldn’t remember the last time he had asked his legs to work in this way. It was probably two years since he had broken into a sprint for a bus, but that hadn’t mattered if he missed it or not. Before that, he had no idea. Maybe tearing after the kids on a beach? He was a plodder not a runner. But it was as if his legs had a mind of their own. They were not going to let the thief get away with it.
Any thought that his legs might wobble or could give way flew out of his head as he picked up his pace after the man. He shouted out polite Excuse me’s and Coming through’s.
He negotiated his way around office workers carrying papers and briefcases, past Japanese tourists sporting saucer-size sunglasses and peering out from behind huge maps. He passed a girl with violet hair whose friend had green hair and several studs through her eyebrows. All of them showed little or no interest, as if they witnessed an elderly man running after a thief every day.
“That man has stolen my wallet,” Arthur shouted to no one in particular, pointing at the man. He sped on. His heart thumped in his chest and his knees jolted with each stride. The gray walls of the tube station, plastered with posters for the theater and opera, went by in a blur. Weaving and stumbling a little as his legs tired, he continued his pursuit.
But suddenly the passageway out of the tube station surged with people. His target had seemingly gone. This is no good, Arthur told himself as he stopped for a moment to catch his breath. Just let it go.
He was about to stop, to give up, when he saw a flash of red underpants—a good tracking device. He willed his legs to continue. Go on, Arthur. Keep going.
He had a flashback to when Lucy and Dan were young. They were on holiday and Miriam stood at an ice cream van buying cones. The children were playing tag, slapping each other on the arm or back and then pelting away. Lucy ran with her hand outstretched to whack Dan on the leg but he swerved out of the way. He moved backward in small jumps, each time jerking out of the way of Lucy’s swipes. Farther and farther until he was at the edge of the pavement, then in the road. Lucy continued toward him, focused, oblivious to anything but her annoying brother and trying to tag him. A car drove past, then another, perilously close. An articulated lorry began to rumble toward them. Arthur stood rooted, unable to move as the events unfolded so quickly. He was twenty-five feet away. He shouted for Miriam but she didn’t hear. She licked raspberry sauce from around the rim of a cone. Arthur found an inner strength, almost a superpower that he hadn’t thought possible. Without knowing how he got there, he found himself yanking on Dan’s and Lucy’s arms, tugging them from danger. Superman. Dan glared, indignant. Lucy gave her brother a triumphant slap as Arthur all but threw the two of them back onto the pavement. A tear ran down his cheek. Unaware, Miriam bustled up and offered them each an ice cream. Only he knew what dreadful thing could have happened.
Tapping into that experience now he pushed his way out into the sunlight. Blinking against the brightness of the sun, he stumbled forward. The white light faded so he could make out a red double-decker bus, trees and a crocodile of schoolchildren wearing yellow high-vis jackets. “Stop, thief,” he cried out again.
The man was making good ground now; his strides were long. The space between them widened. Still Arthur ran. His heart and feet pounded. Uneven flags, upturned chip shop trays, empty crisp packets, feet, passed by. Then a pain hit him in his chest. Oh, God, no. He stumbled and came to a standstill. His heart felt as if someone was grasping it in their fist. Miriam’s voice was in his head. “Just let him go. It’s not worth it.” He knew when he was done. He tried to think what was in his wallet—his Visa card, ten-or twenty-pound notes, photos. He was lucky he hadn’t been stabbed.
As he stood panting, another young man loped toward him. He was dressed similarly to the thief in baggy jeans. He wore a green hooded top with a hole in the shoulder. His nose was freckled and his hair was the color of rusty nails. “Has he stolen something from you?”
Arthur nodded. “My wallet.”