The A-Z of Us (30 page)

St Paul's Cathedral had been at the top of my father's list. I was secretly disappointed, having had my heart set on Madame Tussaud's or the London Dungeon, which my classmates had all been to, but I'd kept quiet because there was a childish excitement in my father's voice that I'd never heard before.

We climbed the rickety wooden steps, up and up and up. Near the top, I suddenly became very afraid, snatching terrified glances two hundred dizzying feet down to the marble floor below. But I was too afraid to show it, being at that age when boys want to prove that they are tough and independent and able to climb towering staircases without terror, without needing to hold their father's hand.

But I couldn't go on. My knees were jelly, my heart thudding like a small bass drum. Then, at the very moment I thought I might collapse, my father reached down and took hold of my hand, saying:

‘It gets a bit steep for the next bit, perhaps we should help each other…'

And the hand was so large and strong and warm that the terror vanished in an instant.

We walked out from the musty bell tower on to the
narrow curved balcony with its gilt gold railings and I wanted to shout for joy at the panorama of London stretching for ever below us. My father stepped up beside me and lifting me up he pointed out all the famous landmarks of the city – Big Ben, Tower Bridge, the memorial column to the Great Fire of London, and in the far distance, the communications mast at Crystal Palace.

As my father talked, other people around us stopped to listen. Perhaps realizing he had a crowd, my father continued his verbal tour of the city, the city where he'd studied theology, where his first parish had been, telling tales of history, architecture and social intrigue. He took out a pen, and on the small cathedral brochure he drew a quick map, naming all the bridges – east to west – Tower, London, Southwark, Blackfriars, Waterloo, Westminster, Lambeth, Vauxhall, Chelsea, Albert, Battersea, Wands-worth, Putney, Hammersmith, Chiswick and Kew. He recounted how London Bridge was demolished and moved to Arizona, he talked of the Blitz and how each morning Londoners would gaze towards St Paul's to see if it was still standing, how its daily survival gave them hope and belief that the war would eventually end, and that God in His mercy was looking out for them.

The people around us applauded, and I felt my heart swell with pride. My father, suddenly embarrassed, took me by the hand once more and we descended quickly to meet my mother in the shop at ground level. I kept the map of the river for many years, in the bottom drawer of the night-stand by my bed.

Now I look up at the white columns, the silent stoic statues, and above the great dome, the gold cross. As I stand, the bells chime. It's 2 a.m. A massive, absolute peal that seems to shake the very building, the soaring columns, the vast wooden doors, the steps, and the city of London, which trembles at the voice of the Lord.

I shiver. The bells stop.

For a brief moment, London, England, the United Kingdom, the World is silent. Then, from the silence, come six words.

‘Please God, let my father be okay.'

I don't think the voice is mine. But no one else has spoken.

I stand in the middle of Blackfriars Bridge and take out my
A to Z
. I have to decide where to go, I have to find refuge for the night. I recall seeing a hotel on a previous visit across the bridge, but I can't remember which street it was on.

I survey the
A to Z
, the two pages of streets and parks and stations and river, trying to figure out where I've been and where I'm going to go. I need landmarks, I have to figure out a route. As I stare at the map I see Gemma's face, after I kissed her. Her eyebrows raised, eyes wide with a bemusement that was gentle, not angry, her lips parted slightly, as if she'd just spat out a cherry stone.

‘No!'

I have destroyed my one solid landmark in this city, the one edifice I need to orientate myself in the chaos of my life.

Gemma.

My best friend. My relationship with her is the only thing that has made me feel grown-up. The only thing that has made me feel real, feel attached to something beyond my own thoughts, my own interior, imaginary world. She has been the one constant in my life for the last twelve years.

I look out at the shimmering lights of London, a city of eight million people, covering 610 square miles. I stand, feeling miserable and utterly alone, on the cold old bridge.

In this moment, I remember sitting on a dusty step at Volubilis, a ruined Roman city in Morocco. A tour guide approached with a party of Australian tourists.

‘Over there, is a wonderful example of early Etruscan frieze work… above the right shoulder of the man sitting on the step.'

I turned to look at where the guide was pointing, only to hear a commotion from the tourists.

‘He's moved.'

‘Which shoulder?'

I realized the man sitting on the step was me. The tour guide smiled my way, apologizing for using me as a reference point, a Meridian line, a ‘You Are Here'. I smiled back. For a moment, then, I felt vitally important. I was the centre of everything.

‘Fuck!' I shout, and throw the
A to Z
hard into the river. It falls through the orange light from the street lamps, pirouetting once, then hitting the water with a small splash. A wave gulps, swallowing the book of maps beneath the Thames.

For an instant, I think about throwing myself after the book. I imagine the cold ancient water hauling me down, into the swirling darkness. No one would know. Until it was over. I smile, bitterly. I will never jump into the river. I am not strong enough.

Beyond, the dome of St Paul's shines more brightly than the moon. To my left, a train eases itself out of Blackfriars station, seemingly reluctant to begin its journey at this early hour, yawning with fatigue at having to trundle forth into the weary depths of the night. I see the figure of the driver, hunched in his cab, and wonder whether he too, on this September night, is feeling the extreme cutting loneliness of the big city. Above the cab, I read the illuminated destination, which makes me laugh out loud, a self-pitying exhale.

Brighton via Gatwick Airport.

Brighton. I never want to go back there, to the place and time before I managed to fuck it all up. Brighton is now on my hit list, my own personal axis of evil (which includes very few places, to be fair – just Norfolk Virginia, Casablanca, Canberra, Belgrade and Switzerland).

The train rattles slowly by, most of the brightly lit carriages empty except for a few seats occupied by people guarding large suitcases and roller luggage.

Gatwick. It's impressive that trains run at this hour to the UK's second biggest airport.

Gatwick.

I pick up the holdall and run for the first time in four months, towards Blackfriars Station.

*

The 3.06 Thameslink service from Blackfriars arrives ten minutes late at Gatwick Airport, stopping at 4.02 a.m. I am surprised to find the south terminal inhabited by several groups of holidaymakers – flights seem to be leaving all through the night.

I check my bank account at the ATM machine. I have £77 in my current account, and £2,025 in my savings account. I sit down on the row of seats opposite the Quickflight Shop. The board on the wall announces numerous potential aeronautical bargains. San Francisco £199, Cyprus £89, Kuala Lumpur £319. The shop will open, according to the sign, at 5.30 a.m.

I do not sleep. I do not reminisce. I stare at the list of flights to the world's favourite holiday destinations, and I picture myself in every one. Then I panic. Where is my passport? I open the bag, and rummage quickly. To my relief I locate the brown envelope containing my life's documents. I empty the envelope onto my lap.

My passport lies, smugly, with its reassuring burgundy cover. I flick through the other papers – my driving licence, the now-defunct rental agreement for the flat on Norfolk Place. And a letter with the
Daily Times
letterhead. I look at it. It's my commissioning letter for Venezuela.

To whom it may concern,
Ian Thompson has been commissioned by the travel editor to
write an article about Venezuela for the
Daily Times,
which
has a circulation of over 1 million. Any assistance you can
provide him will be credited in the newspaper
.

I go to the toilets and open the bag once more. In the musty, overheated cubicle I pull out my black combat trousers, my linen shirt and my worn pair of Nike walking boots and put on my armour once more.

I sleep for the first hour, missing pre-breakfast drinks, much to my annoyance. What is the point in flying Business Class (the letter from the
Daily Times
procured me the usual upgrade) if you don't avail yourself of all the luxuries on offer? The stewardess smiles sweetly and informs me that she will be more than happy to bring me a cocktail of my choosing if I can wait for a minute or two. I wonder for an instant if I should ask how I might feel ‘more than happy', when most people can't admit to being ‘happy', but already the hot croissants are being handed round, along with more champagne, so I shake my head and ask for two glasses of bubbly.

‘To catch up.'

The stewardess's smile becomes less sugary. She hands me two glasses of Lanson, and turns on her attractive heels.

This isn't like me. Usually, on a travel writing assignment, I am reserved, careful not to make a fuss or abuse the abundant hospitality on offer. But on this Friday morning, I don't care. I have nothing to lose.

While I pick at the omelette, which is gratifyingly fluffy and light, I wonder, not for the first time in my travelling career, what would happen if the passengers seated in the higher numbers ever found out about the disparity between the food offered on either side of the cotton
drape that divides Business from Economy like West from East Berlin. There would be a 1989-style Gorbachev revolution. Flat-bed seats would be ripped up and the individual DVD players hurled on to the airport runway.

I ask for another glass of champagne.

From across the aisle, a young father glances over at me, eyes narrowed. He is evidently concerned that I am a problem drinker, on course to alcoholic obliteration, and as such present a clear and present danger to the peace and tranquillity of his travelling family – a little girl and a baby, who at this moment is nuzzling covertly at its mother's breast. It is, I can't help but notice, a very pretty breast. Like Molly's. My girlfriend. My ex-girlfriend. The woman who has ruined my life.

You think you know everything, and then you realize you know nothing.

I have to focus, I have to avoid thinking. I stare at my omelette and decide to cut it into the smallest pieces I can, tiny forkfuls, which I stab, minutely, one by one. I put on my headphones and glance at the film, which seems to be something starring Al Pacino and a gun. But I feel so weary. I down the last of the champagne and close my eyes.

The exuberance I'd felt at the gate when they'd told me I would be upgraded has vanished. I feel queasy. I wonder whether eggs and champagne are the best combination at 35,000 feet. I try to focus forward, to imagine what will happen on landing, to possess and control the future, as an antidote to the confusion and chaos of the past. Usually, I am good at this forward strategizing, it helps me complete my assignments on time, it's vital to plan every hour of every day in the destinations I visit.

San Francisco. I know the city relatively well, having been there three times before. I can find a cheap hotel in the Castro. I can eat for next to nothing in the Mission. I can spend my days walking, maybe catch the ferry over to Sausalito, or rent a bicycle and cycle over the Golden Gate Bridge into Marin County.

My return ticket is for three weeks' time. It's a perfect plan, to head to the city of Kerouac and Armistead Maupin, to gather myself, breathe in the big Pacific air, and map out what I will do next. And there is, I tell myself, always the chance of meeting a beautiful Californian girl, and an immediate fast-forward to a wedding on the Bay within a year. Perhaps this is what is meant to happen all along. Perhaps this is the first step on the final, glorious route to Ian Thompson's Perfect Future.

The plane hits turbulence, the seat belt sign flashing. My stomach leaps into my mouth. I grip the armrests. Usually I don't mind shaky plane rides, I can think my way out of the airplane to my destination, or to some pleasant memory that usually involves a naked woman. But at this moment, I feel terrified.

The plane lurches again, dropping through an air pocket. I feel immensely sick, a dizziness that is familiar – I am back at St Paul's, twenty-three years previously, with the earth rushing towards me. The plane dips, somebody screams. I grip the armrests tighter.

No one knows I am on this plane. No one knows I'm going to America. And no one cares. Molly doesn't want me. Justin Wilson thinks I'm a fool. And I've destroyed everything with Gemma.

My parents will care, I know that. But my father has
Parkinson's. Before long he will be incapacitated. My mother has more to worry about than her moneyless, friendless loser of a son. I am on my own.

My fingers dig into the metal armrest. The plane plunges again.

Why am I running away? Why is this always my first instinct, to get on a plane and flee? To seek out the anonymity of foreign places, to crave the irresponsibility of being a stranger in a strange land? Why do I always do it? Why can't I face myself?

The engines roar as the 747 climbs steeply, the sound almost deafening. The young girl opposite is cowering in her father's arms. The pretty wife is white with fear as she cradles the screaming baby. I turn to them and say:

‘It's okay. I'm a travel writer, I fly all the time. These 747s have amazing computers, they can fly through anything. It'll pass.'

I sound calm. The woman nods.

‘It's perfectly normal.'