I rode down on the tubes. Even those had changed immensely in 16 years. These were electric and ran on silent rails, the air was clearer than I remembered and that blue-gray haze that always hung over the city was gone. I wondered if London’s famous pea-soup fog was still coming in. It was warmer than I remembered, too.
People seemed the same. Dressed in jeans and t-shirts, wearing expensive coats, watches and carrying cell phones and devices Khalid had told me were called i Pads. I wanted one but they cost hundreds of Euros. No one used pounds anymore.
I had 10E in my pocket. I was afraid to risk anymore of my meager funds than that.
I took the station nearest to Tom’s flat and got out a goodly distance from his gated avenue. No one bothered me as I trudged up the side lanes marked for bikes. The trees were taller and shaded more of the lane, sixteen years had made quite a difference in their appearance.
It took me an hour to reach the guardhouse and I didn’t know the man sitting there reading a dog-eared book; he seemed annoyed when I asked if Mrs. Watson still lived there.
“Who?”
“Tom Watson’s wife? Camilla Mowbry Watson?”
He stared at me. “The drug lord got murdered at the Airport? She goes by Cammy Mowbry now. Coppers hounded her for years so she changed it.”
“Does she still live here?”
“Nope. Moved about five years ago,” he went back to his book.
“Where to?”
“Dunno. Somewhere in London. I look like the ‘effing post office? Who are you anyway?”
“Nobody,” I turned and retreated the way I’d come, my shoulders slumping in defeat.
The rest of the afternoon, wandered the streets until I found the abandoned lot that had been a movie stage. Covering at least five acres, there were hundreds of buildings all tucked behind a seven-meter chain link fence. I knew exactly where the hole was in it and found my way to the Quonset hut that was the Director’s domain. Forty feet long, the rear quarter had been converted into a studio office with a shower, sauna, and small kitchenette. There was no electricity but the water ran. Cold.
I had a sleeping bag on the floor, Coleman lanterns, and an AGA fueled cook stove. Several extra AGA cans were stacked to the side for use in cooking and heating. Two heavy-duty coolers held cans, drinks, and perishables. Garbage was stacked neatly in rubbish bins lined in plastics.
I searched the cabinets, the closets and under the thin ground mattress. I found nothing. I wasn’t secure enough to have left anything in this place as I had at the boy’s school.
There were old movie posters on the walls, the last one I recognized was the one Tom, and Cammy had taken me to on my birthday. I sighed. I was still only about ten years old in my mind although my body said otherwise.
Towards teatime, I was ravenously hungry and slipped out by a very different route. This time, I went overhead, climbing the rooftops and dancing lightly across the ridge caps and flat roofs of warehouses until I spotted lights and open signs on a take-out place. I slid easily down the drainpipe to the sidewalk and read the posted menu. It was a MacDonalds, imported from America and the best thing about it were the prices. I could eat there for a week on what would have been one fish and chips meal.
I walked in and studied the overhead menu. The pimply faced teenager behind the counter asked, “What’ll it be, mate?” He stared at my face as if he’d never seen a human before.
“Those real?”
“What?” I was puzzled.
“Your eyes. They real or contacts?”
“You mean the color?”
“Yeah, dude. Not colored contact lenses?”
“They’re mine.”
“Cool. What’d you want?”
“Mac double. Fries. Large coke. Apple pie.”
He named a ridiculously low price and I handed over a 10( , received change and my meal on a tray. He told me to have a nice day and come back in a bored tone. I went to a corner table and ate the whole meal. It was almost tasteless except for the fries; they were crisp, hot, and salty. I nearly went back for more.