You, Me, We Are All Mistakes

5. OCTOPUSSY

CHAPTER 5
A LONE BENCH FOR REFLECTION

Elders may often carry compelling stories should you take a moment to ask, and then two moments to listen.

Ignoring the lifts with their graffiti Nelson took the stairs out of the West Hampstead apartment block. The jarring stomp of a slow climb downwards did nothing to clear his mind. Staring at the crisscrossed pavement slabs he chewed a bottom lip and completely missed the raincoated figure in over-sized sunglasses scurrying away.

Nelson cut across the road absorbed in thought. Whoosh! A rare London cyclist almost struck him.

"Same to you," called Nelson, hurling back the insult.

A late summer dragonfly hovered from a garden into view, the sun glimmered its crystal wings. Assuredly, life in its myriad forms went on.

Am I fooling myself? Is this real or do I just want it to be? If work started on moon-landing propellants in the late 1920s, why take nearly fifty years to become reality? And what in God's name is an International Space Station?

Nelson found Grimaldi's handiwork perplexing.

Is there any connection with Duke's disappearance, because fake or not, why hide anything by choosing the '60s monolith of Swiss Cottage Central Library to conceal your records?

Nelson yearned to call his closest ally and talk all this through.

"Duke, where are you?"

Approaching Finchley Road, Nelson reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out a crumpled one-pound note, venturing to catch his default cherry-red 13 bus towards the West End. Walks in Soho relaxed him and may wrench his heavy mind from missed deadlines, a washed-up journalistic career, bogus memos, and absent friends. Soho was also reasonably distant enough from Fleet Street to minimize any risk of bumping into his editor. Yet just thinking of Clive immediately lowered his mood and slumped his shoulders.

The herd of beasts dutifully arrived, decked in scarlet livery and flaunting advertisements for the latest summer release Bond film, Octopussy, a film Nelson had really wanted to catch.

Now the movie seemed sadly irrelevant and to compound Nelson's doldrums further, each London Transport conductor refused to play ball. Gripping the rear pole to bar entry to each buses' open platform, they claimed to be too full, even as disgorging passengers flocked out at his chosen stop. No room. Up yours. Ding ding.

He abandoned the West End initiative and sat for reflection at a lone bench near the intersection with Fitzjohn's Avenue, raising his eyes skyward. With the Modernist icon of the Swiss Cottage Odeon cinema looming to his left, and his back to the Hampstead Theatre, Nelson scratched the base of his close-cropped head with stubby fingertips.

Come on, am I being fooled, or being stupid? What is going on here? Duke you crazy blagger, what have you uncovered? So, NASA, the UK government, the US government... are they in on it? Can I get back to see the girl in the towel? Is she in on it? I hope so. This is exciting, but is it real?

Nelson's conscience demanded more effort be made to locate his lost friend in the event he was in trouble. He had never made friends easily and growing up in '70s suburbs with no siblings and inattentive parents, he had devoted long days and evenings to the outdoors, slipping into a love of nature as an alternative to loneliness. His abundant natural surroundings had provided plentiful hobbies and pursuits which led him to a chance encounter with this future best friend Duke Kramer, as they both explored a wasteland pond for the ranges of spawn, tadpoles and frogs taking up seasonal residency. Nelson smiled as he remembered pushing through the weeping willows and thick weed to observe a boy his age scooping a hand into the warming waters, watching the clear liquid drip away to catch the morning light. They acknowledged each other, began talking and from that moment the two boys' companionship was instantaneous and long lasting.

So how do I find him?

Nelson was struggling where to start.

I will telephone NASA.

Call NASA!

Come on, yes! Make a trunk call to NASA, in America. Present the name Grimaldi alongside that of Apollo 11, toy with the notion of forty-year delays and add a few dramatic pauses. And does it stand a chance?

Nelson fast-tracked back to his apartment with all thoughts on diagonal paths, none of which led to his editor. As a result he was entirely unaware of his surroundings and the high-tech surveillance that now encircled him.