1.28 - Compare and Contrast

28.

I'd like to start by assuring you that my life got back on an even keel, that the next few days were spent calmly grinding for XP, and that nothing else weird happened.

I'd like to tell you that.

But I can't.

***

The least strange thing was watching Solly interview my guests. Anna was in bed, looking quite weary, but she said she didn't mind a bit of company.

"How do you change him to assessment mode?"

"By asking him, my dear."

I made Beth stand where I had stood the first time I'd been in that room. "Solly. On a scale of one to ten, how good a person is Beth?"

Solly tilted his head at me and pricked his ears. But then he pottered to Beth and gave her a big ol' sniff. He sat down, panted happily, looked up at her like he was basking in her extraordinary beauty.

"Jackie. You're up."

With Jackie, Solly was a little more circumspect, walking around and around the Liverpudlian, sniffing all the time, looking uncertainly from Anna to me to Jackie. After ten seconds or so, Jackie said, "Sit! Roll over. Sit.” The dog loved being given tasks! “Beg. Shake hands. Good dog! Oh he’s a good boy and a sweet boy yes he is." Solly squirmed on his back while Jackie rubbed his belly.

Solly, ecstatic, looked ready to swap his owner for a younger model, so I put a stop to that whole interaction.

"Ziggy," I said.

Ziggy stood, nervously grinning, one arm rubbing the other. Solly looked up at him with an expression that I could only describe as gormless. And he flopped down onto Ziggy's feet and settled for a nap.

"That's a pass, I'd say," said Anna. But even that little session had taken its toll, so I got the other three out and let her rest.

***

Sunday morning, instead of going to Hough End, I decided to spread my wings. My route took me down two of Manchester's busiest roads, but since most people were still frying their bacon and opening their tins of breakfast beans, it was a smooth, quick ride. To Wythenshawe! Home of Manchester Airport, and the biggest council estate in Europe. In short, a poor area with fantastic connections.

Pause for applause.

I know. Clever.

I parked at the Civic Centre and started walking. There were a couple of places I thought refugees might hang out, and a bunch of parks. Walking wasn't optimal, but I wasn't in the mood for hyper-efficiency. Walking gave me time to think.

The first refugee shelter place was open. I popped in and couldn't find anyone. Odd. I passed through a park and spotted a couple of football pitches where people were putting up nets. Good! If the morning was a blowout I could at least pick up some XP.

The second place was more like a food bank, and it was serving cornflakes and milk to a pretty long line of people. Kids, too. You think you're the only lad short on cash?

I pushed to the front - shocking behaviour, and even worse, nobody complained. People just looked at me through empty eyes.

"Hey there," I said to the upper-middle-aged woman who was in charge of the cornflakes.

"All right, chuck? You hungry?"

"Hungry for knowledge," I said.

"It's thirsty for knowledge. Hungry for success," she said.

"Wow. So I'm hungry and thirsty. I never knew."

Not sure why, but this made her laugh. "You want to bend my ear? Go ahead."

"I'm looking for all the Ukrainians," I said.

"They'd be in Ukraine, mostly, I reckon."

"4 million fled," I said, repeating a headline I'd seen that had actually taken my breath away.

"Not to here."

"What do you mean?"

She gave me a sharp look. "You read the papers?"

"Just the headlines. That's enough to put me in a black mood. Try to avoid the whole politics thing, to be honest."

"Why do you want a Ukrainian then?"

"Making a documentary," I said.

She emptied out the last cornflakes and tore open a new box. They were some own-brand stuff, but they looked all right. She passed the box to another volunteer, wiped her hands on her stomach, and gave me her full attention. "We don't like immigrants in this country. We don't want them here. That woman who was Prime Minister, she used to drive a van around London telling immigrants to go home. That woman won a general election. This one now, she wants to put up a wave machine in the English channel to stop migrants coming across in their poor little boats. Every time a little boat capsizes and the migrants die, they crack open a six-pack of bubbly. The good stuff. That's the country you live in, and you'd know that if you read more than the headlines and the sport."

I... I knew she wasn’t joking, but she must have misread some article. A wave machine on the English channel? That was James Bond villain stuff. "Right, okay, but we love Ukraine. We're supporting them."

I'd unleashed something. "Oh we'll send them guns and bombs and tanks - "

"No tanks," someone in the queue said.

"I'll have yours then," said the person behind.

The volunteer wasn't amused. "But we won't take their women and children, keep them safe. You go home and do a google about evacuees and the Blitz. Look at the policies then. Look at them now. Compare and contrast."

"Were you a history teacher?"

She lost a bit of her righteous indignation. Looked a bit sheepish. "30 years."

I shook my head. "Look," I said. "I don't want to live in ignorance. But be honest. If I read these stories and know what's going on, will anything change?"

"Probably not."

"And how depressed am I going to be?"

"Very."

"That's what I thought."

I thanked her and left the building. I let my feet go wherever they wanted. It had been a pretty upsetting experience. Not just the conversation, but also the line of people waiting for a bowl of cornflakes. And it seemed like my dream Ukrainian powerhouse centre-back wasn't lollygagging around Wythenshawe just waiting for me to turn up. And from what the woman had said, it wasn’t like Britain was awash with refugees from other countries, either. Maybe I’d stick to 5-a-side places and the Sunday Leagues.

As I was pottering around, looking at all the second hand stores, betting shops, pound shops, and pubs, I saw him.

I saw him.

He was about 200 metres ahead, turning left behind some buildings.

I exploded into a sprint. I'd always been an average runner - mid-pack, not quite suited to any particular distance. But then again, never before had I been so motivated.

Usain Bolt holds the world record for the fastest 200 metres of all time - 19.19 seconds. I beat his so-called achievement by at least 8. When I turned the corner I felt a twinge in my side and stopped to catch a bit of breath. But there he was! Up ahead in his old-fashioned suit, his extinct hat, his too-long old man socks. He was turning left again.

I burst forward again, saw him go through a doorway, followed - he could only have been a sofa's length away!

I hadn't spared much thought to what I'd do when I got hold of him. Punch his teeth out one by one? Ask him who the devil he thought he was? Thank him and ask him for more?

But he wasn't there. To the left and right of me were rows and rows of people. I had run halfway along a central aisle. There was no chance he'd slipped into one of the rows - every single person in this room was black. Every eye in the house was trained on me.

My confusion didn't last long. I turned and looked up at the pulpit. The pastor, a friendly, serious-looking man in a brown suit, beamed at me. "Come on, then," he said, with a heavy accent.

"What?" I said.

"I asked for a volunteer to draw the winner." He pointed to a little box at the front of the church. "And you stormed in. That's what we like to call an act of divine providence." He grinned at me again. He had great teeth.

"But," I said, spinning around looking for old Nick. He was not there. "But."

The pastor waved at me. "Come on."

I glanced at the front of the church, warily. "Are you going to make me eat Jesus?"

The pastor rocked back, pointed his head to the beams, and laughed hard. "Nobody is going to make you do anything. But I would greatly enjoy watching you pick a name from this box."

That's when I knew what was going to happen. I knew what was going to happen and I didn't want that thing to happen. But I almost had no choice in the matter. I picked up my feet and dragged myself to the front. There was a little box on the table. I was about to stick my hand in when I decided that if I was going to take part in a pantomime I might as well commit to it. So I went to the other side of the little table and faced the congregation. I swept my gaze from left to right. Lots of men in suits, women in bright, patterned dresses, tons of children. I looked around to see if I could tell which one it was going to be.

I dropped my hand into the box, and let my fingers grip a piece of paper. I moved that one to the side of the box, then fished around the opposite side. I brought my hand out. "James Yalley," I said.