I Was Born for This(69)

If I could have any superpower, it’d be invisibility.

‘Are you sure you want to stop here, lad?’ Gary asks. ‘It’s a bit busy, ain’t it? Won’t someone recognise you?’

He’s right. I’m not disguised at all. In fact, I look completely like myself, since I’m all made up for the recording – skinny jeans, hair done, under-eye shadows concealed, wearing a signature hoodie.

But I’m going.

I’m going to get my knife back.

‘I’ll be fine,’ I say.

Jimmy KagaRicci @jimmykagaricci

Arrived. Coming to find you angel @jimmysangels

Okay!! I’m in starbucks!! Or I can meet you somewhere else??

‘D’you want me to wait for you, lad?’ Gary asks.

‘No … no, I think I should be fine from here,’ I say. I can just get another taxi when I’ve got the knife. Don’t really want Gary asking any questions, to be honest.

I pay Gary what I owe him and then get out of the car.

Just before I shut the door, he says, ‘Whatever’s troubling you, it’ll go away.’

I look back at him and say, ‘What?’

He taps his fingers on the steering wheel. ‘I know it can’t be easy being someone like you. D’you have friends around you? People to support you?’

I mumble something about being fine and close the door. Enough of that.

I start by just walking, my hood pulled as far as it’ll go over my forehead and my phone clutched in one fist. But it doesn’t work.

There are people everywhere. Walking to and from the station, getting in and out of cars and taxis, crossing the road, standing around.

A swarm.

Can’t remember the last time I’ve been around this many normal people at once.

I get a few glances at first. A couple of people catching my eye and realising. Once I’ve walked ten metres or so, someone behind me murmurs, ‘Doesn’t he look like Jimmy KagaRicci?’ Once I’m nearly at the station steps, someone in front of me points and says, ‘Oh my God, that’s Jimmy from The Ark!’

I try not to look and I walk faster.

I’m inside the station.

Someone behind me pulls on my arm, forcing me to a halt. I turn, even though I know I shouldn’t, and it’s a girl asking for a selfie.

‘I can’t, sorry,’ I say, and pull my arm away, only to be faced by five other girls, holding their phones. Someone is videoing. They’re asking for selfies. They’re talking to me. I need to get out.

Another group appear – boys and girls. A woman and her daughter. A group of men in their twenties.

I start just posing for selfies. Like it’s a fucking reflex.

I can’t just leave. I can’t just say no.

They start cramming closer to me. Someone reaches out and brushes their hand down my arm. I feel myself flinch and I hope it doesn’t show.

I’m shaking too.

I’m starting to panic.

Deep breaths.

Don’t let it show.

Don’t let it start.

‘Can I have a selfie, Jimmy?’

‘Your music got me through the whole of school.’

‘What are you doing here?’

‘I really love you.’





I look up from the very intense game of Rolling Sky on my phone to discover that there is a huge swarm of people converged in the middle of St Pancras.

It can only be Jimmy.

Didn’t he bring a bodyguard with him? What was he thinking coming here by himself? He’s probably one of the most famous people in the entire country, for God’s sake.

What do I do?

Should I try to help?

Should I find a station guard? Security?

Yes. Yes, they’ll be able to help.

I grab my bags and rush out of Starbucks, looking around wildly. Passengers, but no security guards. No policemen, either. Oh, fuck. Do I have time to walk around and find one?

I look over at the group of people again. It’s huge now. It’s a human tornado and he’s at the centre. I can’t see Jimmy at all, so I don’t know for sure whether he’s in there, but a couple of twelve-year-olds walk out of the group staring at their phones and screaming, so I’d say it was a pretty good guess.

I take a deep breath and pull my hood up firmly over my head.

And then I walk straight into the human tornado.

I get cries of annoyance and rude comments as I barge past people, but my height and my boniness does have its advantages. My elbows are probably my greatest weapon. I accidentally gave my brother a black eye with my elbow when I was eight.

It takes a solid minute, and I do end up on the floor at one point, but I’m eventually propelled into the centre of the group, where Jimmy is facing away from me, taking a selfie with someone. I tap him politely on the shoulder and say, ‘Er, Jimmy?’

He turns round. The panic on his face is unmistakable, though he seems to be doing slightly better at containing it than in the bathroom yesterday. His eyes are wide and he’s biting down hard on the insides of his cheeks.

Is he even going to recognise me?

‘Angel,’ he says.

I guess he is.

And then he says, ‘Help me.’

Help him.

I put my arm round his shoulders and shout, ‘OKAY, JIMMY HAS TO GO AND CATCH A TRAIN NOW!’ I start pulling him out of the crowd, but people are following, snapping photos in his face, shouting at me and him. Someone shouts, ‘Who the fuck are you?’ and I say, ‘I’m … his bodyguard,’ which is probably the most unbelievable statement anyone has ever made, since I have the body shape of a twig and look three years younger than I actually am. Probably should have gone with ‘manager’, but too late now.