Richard by Ben Myers

Author:Ben Myers [Myers, Ben]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780330537988
Publisher: Pan Macmillan
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

As I’m trying to make sense of the timetables a shape intrudes upon my peripherals. A shape and a voice coming at me from the diagonal. Even before I see him I can feel the familiar purposeful movements of a fan, of someone who claims some sort of ownership over my existence.

‘Richey?’

I turn to the shape, to the voice.

It belongs to a young man. Fairly anonymous-looking. A record-collector type: spectacles and a tatty jumper. Doc Marten boots and a brown leather bag covered in button badges slung over one shoulder.

Hearing my name like that catches me off guard and yanks me back to my self. Back to the old world, the old ways.

My first thought: typical. Just as I’ve finally come to a decision.

My second thought: deny everything.

My third: I’m tired. Tired of everything, but mainly tired of myself.

My mouth doesn’t work so I just stare at him and as I do I see that same flicker of disappointment cross his eyes that I’ve seen a hundred times before. The sinking realization you get when you meet someone you have only previously ever seen onstage, on television or in the pages of a magazine.

‘Sorry to pounce on you like that,’ he says, less sure of himself now. ‘I’m a friend of Sally’s.’

Sally, Sally, Sally.

My mind slowly clicks through its rolodex of names and faces. Seconds pass before it finally settles on a face I can remember. Sally in New York.

Sally from the fan club.

‘Oh, right. How is Sally’

My voice sounds blank, perfunctory. It offers a statement rather than a question.

‘She’s great. Still a bit mental.’

The young man blushes and apologizes again.

‘Sorry. What I meant was, she’s still the life and soul of the party . . .’

But I’ve already clammed up. I have nothing to say. Nothing.

I crave anonymity, peace. I want to be absolved of all responsibility for other people’s feelings. I don’t want any of this. All I want is to turn and run.

I want to turn and run as hard as I can, out of the station, down the street, and keep running until I can run no more.

‘Right.’

‘Hey, how’s the band? What are you working on?’

‘Some new songs. Things like that,’ I say vaguely, my gaze slowly wandering everywhere but the young man. The fan.

Then:

‘It was great to see you. Say hi to Sally for me, I’m afraid I’m in a bit of a hurry. I’ve got to . . . return some videotapes.’

I know it’s my paranoia, but I imagine I can feel his eyes upon me as I turn and walk away, can feel them at my back like knives. They’re stabbing at me and saying: you arrogant bastard.

I imagine that now when he goes and sees his friends in the pub, or tomorrow at college, or at his job, he will be able to tell people that he met Richey from the Manic Street Preachers, and when they ask him what he was like he’ll be able to reply with a dismissive shrug: He was an arrogant bastard.

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