Friends Like These: My Worldwide Quest to Find My Best Childhood Friends, Knock on Their Doors, and Ask Them to Come Out and Play (20 page)

I also admired my own use of the word “eggsellent” instead of “excellent,” and hoped Ben would assume this was some kind of
special Furry speak, even though eggs very rarely turn out furry.

I was having fun. I realized I’d have to pay for it. I had MPs to earn.

I went outside and got the varnishing brush out of the shed.

“So, what’ve you been up to?” said Ian, putting his pint down on the table. He’d called, out of the blue, and said he was
heading into London for the day. He sounded quite down about it, as if leaving Chislehurst was the worst thing a man could
ever go through. We’d decided to watch the Costa Rica versus Poland match, in a pub just off Tottenham Court Road.

“I’ve been doing a lot of DIY,” I told him, importantly.

“Ah,” said Ian. “Of course. How many Man Points are you on?”

“DIY is
important,
Ian. It is a vital stage in my evolution towards adulthood. Already, I have had several meetings about my guttering, there’s
a ladder in my hallway, I’ve decided to get a canopy and I’ve varnished half a table.”

“You must be exhausted,” said Ian, and I made an exhausted face and nodded. Poland scored a goal.

“Well, how about you? How’s Chislehurst?”

At this, the heavens above Ian’s head opened—angels sang, and he was bathed in a glorious and golden light.

“It is wonderful,” said Ian, his eyes shining. On his shoulder, a small fairy was playing a harp. “It is just
wonderful.
There are the caves, of course—miles of history and mystery…”

I was sure he’d got that off a pamphlet.

“… and the local culture. The high street has several restaurants and pubs. And did you know that Malcolm Campbell, former
Land and Water Speed Record Holder, was born in Chislehurst and indeed is buried in St. Nicholas Parish Church?”

I shook my head.

“I did not know that.”

“Yep. It’s not all about London, you know.”

I looked at him.

“You miss it here, don’t you?”

The golden light disappeared and the fairy on his shoulder popped.

“Yeah, a bit, yeah. There’s only so many times you can visit an Internet café. Particularly when you already have the Internet.
But how about Wag? Have you heard from Wag?”

“I got a postcard,” I said. “He’s in Belgium.”

Ian looked at the TV while Costa Rica had a near miss.

“Who’d have thought the three of us would have such an amazing summer,” he said. “Me in Chislehurst, Wag in Belgium and you
varnishing a table.”

I suddenly got a little defensive.

“I’ve told you—I haven’t
just
varnished a table. And I’m only halfway
through
varnishing it, anyway. I’ve been updating my address book, as well.”

Ian wrinkled up his nose.

“How long does
that
take?”

“Quite some time, actually. I’m going some way back.”

“How far back?”

“Right the way back.”

“To when?”

“To when I lived in Dundee. That conversation we had—the one about being in touch with my roots. The one about only being
able to go forward once you’ve looked back. It struck a chord with me. And then I found this old address book and met up with
some old friends, and it hit me—that’s what I should do. See what the old gang is up to. See how they’re coping with being
nearly thirty. Reconnect with my past. Like you said I should.”

“
I
said that?”

“
Yes,
you said that.”

“It must’ve been that Taiwanese lager. Won’t you just find out that all your old mates work in IT?”

“Why does everyone
say
that?” I said, outraged. “Probably 0.001 percent of the population work in IT.”

“Well, it seems a bit odd to me. All this reconnecting.”

“What? You said I should do it!”

“I meant you should do things like stay in bed watching reruns of
Murder, She Wrote
and
Magnum.
”

“But it’s been
great
—one of my mates has solved time travel. And at the moment I’m pretending to be someone called ManGriff the Beast Warrior
in order to entice another!”

“Well, when you put it that way, I’m a lot happier about the situation.”

Poland scored again, and Ian went to get the pints.

“
I’ve
done it, you know,” he said, setting them down on the table.

“Done what?”

“The schoolfriends thing. I’ve looked them up on the Internet. Facebook, and stuff.”

“Hanne says Facebook is stupid.”

“
Does
she?”

“Why do you look so surprised?”

“She asked to be my Facebook friend last night.”

What?

“Anyway,” said Ian. “I even met one of them for a drink one day.”

“Who was he?”

“Steven Macintosh.”

I love the way whenever anyone tells you about someone they went to school with, they give you their full name. It is at once
unnecessary and vital, conjuring up images and contexts and a feeling of childhood. And everyone does it. Somehow just saying
“a kid at my school” doesn’t work anywhere near as well as saying “Gareth Sawbridge,” or “Michael Kirkland,” or “Sally Watkins.”
It is my contention that if Jesus had gone to a British school in the 1970s or 1980s, the Bible wouldn’t simply make reference
to Mark, Luke or John. It’d be Mark Witherenshaw, Luke Fielding and John Pepperwhite from Bethlehem Junior School for the
Holy. Still, Jesus was a right one for nicknames. Just ask John the Baptist—
he’ll
tell you.

“And what was it like meeting Steven Macintosh?” I asked.

“I was quite surprised I went,” said Ian. “But I suppose I was intrigued. I’d tried once before to get in touch with someone,
but they didn’t reply. And in actual fact, I’m not sure
I
would’ve normally. It’s a bit weird, isn’t it, hearing from someone you’ve not heard from in so long? You just kind of think,
I’ll leave that friendship there.”

I thought back to Cameron Dewa. Had he got my fax? Would he
ever
reply? Was he doing what Ian was suggesting? I had his address—I could always surprise him.
Force
him to meet with me. But he lives in Fiji. Doing who knows what. It would be a hell of a trip just to knock on someone’s
door and ask if they’re coming out to play.

And then there was Ben Ives. Would he have replied if he’d thought those emails were from me, and not ManGriff the Beast Warrior?

Meeting Simon and Mikey had been easy—because Anil had been there. He’d given things a sense of normality. A sense of happy
coincidence. We could all just pretend that I’d happened to be in Loughborough and kind of bumped into everyone.

Maybe Ian was right. Maybe this
was
weird.

“But did you at least have fun with Steven Macintosh?” I asked, hopefully.

“Put it this way,” he said, taking a sip of his pint. “He now works in IT.”

On the way out of the pub, I texted Hanne.

“Have you eaten any eggs today?” I wrote.

“What?” was the reply.

“Oh, never mind, I’ll just check your Facebook.”

“It is a BUSINESS UTILITY!” she shouted.

“I suppose you’d say the same about your Take That screen-saver too.”

Ha.

My journey back from the West End was on a tube train packed with men with Polish flags painted on their faces and one lone
Costa Rican. The World Cup was in full swing and London was a happy place because of it. At each stop on the way to King’s
Cross, more fans would join straight from the pubs. Or, at least, more Polish fans. I sat next to the Costa Rican most of
the way home, for vital moral support. I even tried to look a bit Costa Rican.

At King’s Cross I left the station happy and lager-relaxed, though thinking about Ian’s experience with Steven Macintosh.
Was that really what it was like for everybody? Did it
have
to be like that? My BlackBerry buzzed in my pocket, alerting me to new messages.

I got it out and looked at it.

New emails.

The first made my heart leap slightly.

It was from Ben Ives.

To: ManGriff the Beast Warrior

From: Ben Ives

Subject: RE: YOUR “ARTICLE”

ManGriff, hi. Thanks for your mail. But I am not sure a physical per formance piece by your girlfriend would be appropriate!

LOL, sorry.

B.

Gah! Oh well—I would have to try a different tack. Ives still wasn’t on to me. That was good. That was something. I’d been
slightly dispirited by my meeting with Ian, but at least ManGriff lived on. I started to think of what I could do next, but
all thoughts of mischief left me instantly as I looked at the next name on the list…

Because it was a name I just hadn’t been expecting.

The name was Cameron Dewa.

I immediately clicked it open.

Daniel! Hello!

Our housegirl in Suva forwarded me your fax! How funny to hear from you! Where in the world are you? What are you doing nowadays?

I couldn’t believe it! It was Cameron! And he sounded pleased to hear from me! I wrote back immediately.

Cameron! I’m in London! Where are you?

The wait was excruciating. I began to walk up the street, towards home. By the time I’d reached the kebab someone had left
on the corner, my BlackBerry buzzed with Cameron’s reply…

Wow! I’m in London too!

I stopped in my tracks. What?! Cameron was in
London? Fijian
Cameron? Cameron I’d last seen in
Loughborough?
He was
here?
I looked around, just in case he was somewhere to be seen. That sounds stupid now I tell you, but how many times could I
have walked past him in the street and not known? How many people might we know in common? Where does he live? What does he
do? Why had we never met up? There were too many questions—too many exciting things going through my head! I hit Reply…

You’re in London!? How come? Where?? Doing what?

But I needn’t have asked. I scrolled down and saw his email had been sent from Dutch Rabobank, London…

I dialed 118 and gave them the name…

“I’ve got the number for Dutch Rabobank on Thames Hithe in London…”
said the lady, and I hung up, because I had what I needed…

Thames Hithe!
That was… that was
close.

My BlackBerry buzzed. A reply. I was hungry for more news. Cameron! Cameron the banker! He could be doing
anything
there! A high-rolling financier! A dealmaker and a dealbreaker! A suited and booted head of international and legal affairs!
I clicked it open.

I work in IT.

Right. Don’t tell Ian or Hanne.

I read on…

Hey—if you’re in London too, we should meet up sometime!

I smiled, and laughed, but I didn’t reply. Because I was already looking at my watch and checking how long it would take to
get to the river.

I could be there in fifteen minutes.

I
jumped out of the shuddering black cab and there it was: Dutch Rabobank.

A large, glass-fronted building inches from one of the busiest roads in London. There were people every where. Important-looking
people, wearing important-looking shoes, striding about, importantly. Through the windows I could see men hurriedly walking
into rooms with sheets of paper in their hands. Women throwing their hands up in the air and talking loudly on their headsets,
probably to other banks, in Tokyo and New York and Rome. They all looked quite angry. And I’d thought the Dutch were laid-back.

I stood back and studied the building. So this was where Cameron undertook his IT work—fixing computers and solving problems
and generally keeping the banking world from melt-down, after which I imagined dams would rattle and burst, buildings would
topple and meteorites radically change course and aim for London.

I’d moved with great speed and stealth upon hearing Cameron’s news. A quick trip home to raid the Box for a few items of Cameron-specific
paraphernalia and then into a cab. If a meeting happened, and it was awkward, I’d decided, I could always literally pull something
out of the bag, as a kind of Show & Tell element to the proceedings. But deep down I also knew that I was bringing with me
proof. Proof of our friendship. Proof that we’d liked each other. Proof that we had a history. Just in case the new, grown-up
Cameron wasn’t as keen on meeting the new, grown-up Daniel as I was on meeting him. I was, as you may have worked out by now,
keen to meet him—so keen that I didn’t want to wait until we’d fixed a date. I’d decided that
now
was the time. Now was the moment to strike. But I didn’t want to just hang around outside his work and then surprise him.
That would be too stalkerish. No. I had a
far
less stalkerish plan: an anonymous note.

Yes. That was
much
better.

“Excuse me,” I asked a man standing outside. “What’s the closest pub to here?”

“That,” said the man, proudly, “would be the Peepy Cheeks!”