Friends Like These: My Worldwide Quest to Find My Best Childhood Friends, Knock on Their Doors, and Ask Them to Come Out and Play (50 page)

“Peter suggested the same thing when I was in Melbourne. I don’t know. I’m not sure I have the energy. He’s disappeared.”

“You should, you know. Just for your own peace of mind. You never know. He could be there.”

“Virtually everyone’s moved on,” I said. “It’s unlikely.”

“Just for your own peace of mind,” she said again, softly.

And one day, just three or four days before my thirtieth, I’d decided I would. I had no expectations. It just felt right to
do it. Complete the journey. See my first house, my first view, my first
home.
At least finish the
tour.

The plane flew low over Magdalene Green—the green I’d grown up playing football on with Ross and Leslie from next door. The
same green with the same bandstand. The hill my dad pushed me down on the girl’s bike he gave me when I was six, letting me
go without stabilizers for the first time, and watching me as I disappeared into a ditch at the end. And there was my house—number
1 Richmond Terrace, a grand and imposing Victorian house facing out towards the River Tay, the house I’d stood outside and
had my picture taken in front of on my first day at school.

As soon as I’d landed, I’d made my way back there, and sat in the bandstand in the middle of the green. I’d sat here with
Christopher Guirrean nearly twenty-five years before, on the day the big Pickfords van came to take our stuff down to Loughborough.
I stood up, and walked towards my old house.

Outside the house next door was a man bringing some shopping bags in from a bright red car. He looked at me for a second,
and then looked away. But I couldn’t stop looking at him. He looked so
familiar.

“Leslie?” I said.

If it
was
Leslie, it was the same Leslie I’d always played football with all those years before. The Leslie that had accidentally let
me watch
Blade Runner
with him and caused me endless sleepless nights as a result. The Leslie that used to make tapes of the Monkees and the Police
for me and slip them through the letterbox.

“Yes?”

It was!

“I used to live next door to you!” I said. “Well—
there!
”

I pointed at the house next door.
My
house.

“Daniel!” he said.

Leslie had bought the house from his parents some years before, and was now raising his own kids in it. One of them was about
as old as I’d been when I’d left Dundee. We drank tea, and I met his lovely wife, and then he said, “Do you want to see your
old house?”

And he went and asked the neighbors, and in we went, and the memories came flooding back. They’d done a lot to the place,
but the one room that remained untouched was my old bedroom…

I looked at the walls… they’d been wood-chip, and I’d loved picking bits of it away, despite being constantly told not to.
I cast my eyes around. Incredibly, my damage remained. I didn’t know whether to be proud or ashamed.

“I feel like I owe you a fiver,” I told the new owners. “All those bits missing from the wall—that was me…”

It was a memory I didn’t know I had, brought back into vivid color right there and then. Just as so many memories had been
these past few months.

I thanked Leslie, and we took a picture together, sitting on the same bench in my old front garden that we’d had our picture
taken on so many years before. And then I walked down the road, to Strawberry Bank, the street on which Chris had lived, and
on which we’d done so much playing. His house was still there. But there was a different name on the door.

And so I turned around, and, after a last walk across the green, I headed back to the airport, and back to my life.

I had officially given up, I decided, two days later, on my way to the corner shop to buy some milk.

But I wasn’t too sad about it. After all—let’s look at the evidence. Tom had said no. Andy I couldn’t meet. And Chris was
who knows where. But I’d managed to find and meet nine out of twelve of the names in the Book. And that’s a score of 75 percent.
That’s an
A.

Plus, there were the bonus balls. I’d be going to Big Al’s wedding soon—and that wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t sent him
a text on a whim. I could hop on a train and see Alex Chinyemba, the karate-teacher-turned-estate-agent, and his many children.
There was Eilidh, the Gaelic translator, living in Glasgow. But all this was, I knew, for another time. Maybe next year. Or
the year after. Because—you know—life
begins
at thirty.

I picked up the milk and wandered to the counter. And then I thought what the hell—and bought a packet of Doritos. Just because
I’m nearly thirty doesn’t mean I can’t buy a packet of Doritos.

And then I made a mental note to pick up some hummus later on.

I was fumbling around in my pocket, though, when I noticed something absolutely extraordinary. Something you will not believe,
but something which I promise you is true, and is easily verifiable, should you ever find yourself in the British Library
with a few moments to spare…

On the front page of the
Evening Standard
—the
front page!
—was a picture. A picture of someone
very
familiar. Someone from my childhood. Someone in the Book. And what’s more, it was someone I hadn’t yet met…

I bought the paper and literally
ran
home.

And then I literally ran back again because I’d forgotten the milk and Doritos.

“Cameron! It’s Danny! What are you doing tomorrow night?”

“I don’t know! Nothing! Why?”

“Meet me at the Richmond, on Earls Court Road, 7 p.m., tomorrow. Do. Not. Be. Late.”

It was the night before my thirtieth birthday. November 15th, 2006. 6:59 p.m. Cameron Dewa walked through the doors of the
Richmond on Earls Court Road.

“What’s going on?” he said.

“We have to meet a man,” I said. “A man who’s going to meet us round the corner.”

“Who? Why?”

“History requires it,” I said. “It’s to do with a man from our past.”

We walked round the corner and met the man. Cameron didn’t recognize him. Nor did I. Because he wasn’t the man from our past.
He was the man I’d paid money to in order to
see
the man from our past.

I handed a small brown envelope over.

He handed me one in return.

I turned to Cameron.

“What date is it?”

“November the fifteenth.”

“Remember this date,” I said. “Because this is the date we do what we always said we were going to do.”

Cameron looked at me blankly.

I took a deep breath.

I opened the envelope.

I took out the tickets. The tickets I’d paid for on eBay.

“We’re going to see Michael Jackson,” I said.

Cameron’s face lit up like I have never seen a face light up before.

“WHAT?”

“Yeah!”

“AMAZING!”

“Definitely.”

“INCREDIBLE!”

“Okay, people are
looking
at us now…”

And that is how Cameron Dewa and myself got to achieve our only childhood dream, the night before my thirtieth birthday, in
Earls Court, London.

Michael Jackson was closing the show at the 2006 World Music Awards, in front of Lindsay Lohan, Usher, Paris Hilton, Beyoncé,
a few thousand people, and—right at the very front, just eight feet away—me and Cameron Dewa.

It was
brilliant.

Michael Jackson even nearly sang his songs. He spent most of the time waving, and being surrounded by tiny, jumping dancers.
But he was there. The thirteenth name in my book. The extra, added, unofficial member.

Next to me, a burly Asian lad with a single white satin glove was in tears.

“What are you crying for?” I said. “He’s right
there!
”

“He’s just so amazing,” the lad said, and one of his mates pissed himself laughing.

“I don’t suppose you know the current address of the Michael Jackson fan club?” I asked, as the opening chords of “Thriller”
sent the crowd into a frenzy.

“Eh?” he said, wiping away another tear.

“Do you know the current address for the World of Michael Jackson?”

“Oh—yeah. It’s
michaeljackson.com
…”

Of course it was. Times had changed.

“Why?” he said, and I put my pen away.

“I’m just updating my address book,” I said.

Cameron and I jumped into a black cab at 11:15 p.m. If we timed it right, we could be back home, with Lizzie, by midnight.
We tore through the streets of London by moonlight. The river looked amazing. Big Ben was bright, the Millennium Wheel lit
up, and we crossed the bridge. I’d been over this bridge thousands of times before. Turning right at the end would take me
to the East End, the place I’d lived throughout my twenties. But things were different now, in a dozen different ways. We
turned left.

“That was so cool,” said Cameron. “That was like being a kid again.”

“What time is it?” I asked.

“11:43,” he said.

“We’re going to make it.”

And at 11:57, me, Lizzie and my childhood friend Cameron were standing in my kitchen, back at home, holding a bottle of champagne
and counting down the seconds.

And at twelve midnight, I, Danny Wallace, turned thirty.

The next morning, Lizzie woke me bright and early with my birthday cup of tea.

“Come on, old man!” she said. “Come with me! Close your eyes!”

I did as she said and followed her into the hallway.

“Keep them closed! Now… open them!”

I opened my eyes.

And there, before me,
another
childhood ambition realized.

“It’s a Chopper!” I said. “You got me a bloody
Chopper!
”

It
was
a bloody Chopper. Beautiful, sparkling and fire-engine red. The bright yellow word CHOPPER down its side. The low-rise seat.
It was
everything
I’d ever wanted as a kid. If it had come with an Evel Knievel suit I would’ve probably exploded.

“Do they still
make
these?” I said, gazing at its wonder.

“Special edition!” said Lizzie.

“Special
edition!
” I said. The two words lent it such glamour.

I hugged her, tight.

“I have to go to work,” she said. “You’ll get your
real
present, tonight…”

I raised my eyebrows.

“Are you being saucy?” I said.

“No,” she said. “I’m being literal.”

And with that, she went to work.

I lay back down in bed and turned my phone on.

The text messages started immediately.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY MATE. It was from Peter Gibson.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY! Lauren.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY BROTHER! AND THANKS FOR THE MARS BAR YOU LEFT AT THE CORNER HOTEL! That one was from Wag in Australia.

SEE YOU AT THE PARTY MATE! Ian.

And then the phone rang.

“Are you near a radio?” said Hanne.

“Yeah—I’m still in bed.”

“Lucky you—I’m at work. Turn it on right now!”

I turned it on and heard Hanne give some kind of signal.

Nick Ferrari on LBC took a deep breath.

“And a very happy birthday to a very lucky young man indeed—Danny Wallace turns thirty this very morning! Happy birthday from
all of London, Danny!”

I smiled.

My sixth birthday had just been topped.

That night, on the top floor of a bar in Islington, they arrived.

My friends.

New, and old, and much older than I’d ever have dared hope for.

Ben Ives was still in LA, of course, but I’d sent him an invite anyway, and he’d sent me a birthday email in return. Tarek
had recording commitments in Berlin. And Akira… well… Akira was in Japan, solving cancer.

But as I stood there, at the door, welcoming people in, I watched, honored, as Michael Amodio and his girlfriend Nikol entered
the room…

“We’re
engaged!
” he said. “You’ve
got
to come to the wedding!”

“I will!” I said. “I promise!”

And then Cameron Dewa, still high after seeing Michael Jackson the night before, walked in with
his
wife, Nadine.

“Potaaatoooo!” he said, and then spent a few minutes explaining to Nadine precisely
why
he’d been saying “Potato” so much lately.

Anil Tailor arrived, and moments later, Lauren walked in.

Timelord Simon Gibson had sent his apologies—he was busy opening up a new Toby Carvery and probably solving more mysteries
of the universe while he was at it. But then, just as I was handed a pint by someone at the bar, in walked Neil Findlay.

“We only seem to meet at thirtieth-birthday parties,” he said. “But happy birthday!”

“Happy birthday, mate!” I said, before realizing that was quite a strange thing to say, as it was
my
birthday. I wanted to tell Neil what an effect his party had had on me. How it had come at just the right time. But suddenly
there was a tap on my shoulder.

“I’m wearing my shirt again!” said Ian, proudly.

“It’s brilliant,” I said, happily. “It is a
brilliant
shirt! The people of Chislehurst should be proud!”

“Yeah—though—I
am
thinking about moving back to London,” he said. “Even
they’ve
started turning on the shirt…”

“Get a drink. This is Neil…”

And as Neil and Ian walked off together, I turned and bumped into Hanne…

“Happy birthday,” she said, hugging me. “Old man…”

She handed me her present. I opened it. It was a display cushion.

“Ian said you
loved
these…”

“Love is a strong word,” I said. “But I’m ready for one now, I think…”

“You actually sit on them?”

“They’re not for bottoms,” I said.

She smiled.

“I also got you some Doritos,” she said, and I stood back, and I looked around the room, and I saw all my friends, and I felt
so
lucky.

“Having a nice night?” said Lizzie, putting her arm round me.

“The best,” I said.

“Good. By the way, this is Tom…”

I looked at the man with her.

“Hi, Tom…” I said, and then slowly, I realized
which
Tom it was…