Who Stole My Life? Read online

  Breathing deeply, I decide not to go home, but to go on to work. I have had a bad dream. Something went wrong, I woke up on the train in the middle of the dream and for some reason I panicked. That's all.

  So I head back towards the Jubilee Line, determined not to be stupid, and to get to work as soon as possible. I look at my watch. I'm late.

  As I approach the ticket barrier, I slow down. Logically, I know that it's just all been a dream, but it doesn't stop me worrying that if I go through the barrier and down into the station beneath, the dream will come back.

  I walk outside to the taxi rank. I see that the man in the first taxi is the driver who so kindly came to my assistance a few minutes before and I climb into the back of his cab.

  "How y'feeling now? Are you okay, pal? You took some turn back then. Best take it easy today," he says, turning round to face me, genuine concern showing on his face.

  "I'm okay. Thanks for helping me. It was kind of you. I appreciate it. Really."

  "No problem, pal. Just glad to help out. So, where do you want me to take you then?" the man replies in a half cockney, half Scottish accent.

  "Canary Wharf please."

  "Sure thing. Sit back and rest, mate. I'll get you there as soon as I can."

  I sit back in the cab and watch the thankfully very familiar scenes of London life roll by me as the taxi takes me out of Waterloo and through the streets of London. I close my eyes, and try not to think of what has just happened. Soon I begin to snooze, and it is a while before the sound of the cab driver's voice brings me back to reality.

  "We're almost there, mate," he says.

  I look out of the window, scanning the streets around me for some familiarity. I don't recognize anything.

  "I'm sorry, I meant Canary Wharf, on the north side of the river. Are we somewhere around Greenwich?" I ask.

  "No. Just like you asked pal, this is it. There is only one Canary Wharf. We're here. There's the Mountbatten Industrial Park over there, and at the end of the road beside the river is the National Asylum Centre. You don't want to go there pal. That’s where they had the big riot last week. The buildings are still smoldering from the fire." The driver quips, quickly turning his head towards me as he speaks.

  "What do you mean?" I ask, the strange feeling of unreality that I had on the underground beginning to surge within me again. "Where's Canary Wharf? I can't see any of the skyscrapers?"

  "What skyscrapers?" the driver asks, turning round quickly to face me again, as he continues to drive. I don't answer him, but sit forward on the edge of my seat, gripping the black leather hard with my fingers. I look all around me, desperately searching for a familiar sight.

  The taxi driver pulls over on to the edge of the road, his hazard lights flashing, and waves at the cars behind him to overtake.

  "Are you okay, pal. You look sick again. Would you rather I take you to the hospital? There's that new one down on the other side of East India Wharf? Mind you, it’s full of them asylum seekers, but it’s the closest one to here."

  "East India Wharf," I say, grasping at the familiar name. I know the wharf well. It's a large old warehouse on the edge of the old harbour at the back of Canary Wharf. When Canary Wharf was built it was renovated and now it's full of yuppie restaurants and bars. We often go there for drinks after work on Thursday and Friday nights.

  The taxi drives down several roads bordered by some new but run-down houses. A modern housing estate that is already showing the signs of severe neglect and urban decline. People hang around on street corners in gangs watching as we pass by. Families of all different colors and ethnic backgrounds walk along the streets, disappearing into the red-bricked houses, where young kids play in the gardens amidst rubbish and old washing machines.

  Turning a corner, I immediately recognize the silhouette of the old wharf building. We are approaching it from behind, and as we come closer we swing around the edge of it and come out onto the cobbled yard in front, beside the harbor's edge.

  I open the door of the taxi and step out. I stand with my back to the taxi and the East India wharf building, the water in front of me. I stare at the big empty space where there should be magnificent, towering sparkling pillars of glass and steel. Instead, I look blankly at the vacant sky. The volumes of open air. The mountains of nothingness. And I begin to shake.

  I am scared. More scared than I have ever been before.

  Canary Wharf, the embodiment of modern Britain, that jewel of contemporary British architecture, that glorious monument to Thatcher's Britain and all that is capitalism and wealth and greed, is nowhere to be seen.

  Canary Wharf has vanished.

  Chapter Five

  East India Dock 10.00am.

  .

  I stand in silence. Not knowing what to do. For a moment or two the fear washes over me like a wave. I don't know how to stop it, so I let it roll.

  What has happened to my world?

  Where am I?

  What is happening?

  My right hand is shaking uncontrollably and I look down at it, strangely detached from my body. I see my left hand reach across and take hold of it firmly, calming it, quietening it. The shaking stops.

  The taxi driver’s voice again, coming to my rescue for the second time today.

  "I think you should get yourself off to a doctor, pal. You don't look well…Are you upset about something? Do you want to tell me about it?" he asks, standing beside me.

  "No. " I reply quietly. What should I tell him?

  "No. I think I'll be okay. I'm just having a bad day. A really bad day. And on top of that I think I've just lost my job. Or maybe my job just lost me…" I turn and pat him lightly on the shoulder, trying to smile at him as I walk back to the taxi, and climb into the back of the cab.

  We sit there for a while. Me not saying anything. The taxi driver giving me some space. I look back out through the open cab door, towards the Thames, and the empty grass covered island where the great tower blocks should be. Where the offices of Kitte-Kat once were. Where I used to work.

  The fear slowly begins to subside, being replaced by a weird, calm, acceptance of this altered reality. I feel numb.

  "I'm John," the taxi driver says, breaking the silence. "What's your name?"

  "I'm James," I answer.

  "Well James, I don't want to interfere, but I get the feeling that you are a bit lost? As if things are not what you expected them to be? You look confused…"

  "You could say that," I reply.

  Sensing that John wants to start asking lots of question I just can't answer, I pull the door closed and turn away from Canary Wharf. "John, can you take me into town?"

  As he starts the engine and we move off, I thank him for his concern, and for caring.

  "No problem James. I've seen it all, pal. Everything. Mine's an interesting life. I get to see lots. But a man should never lose the will to help others. After all, without our fellow man, we're nothing."

  He may have seen a lot in his time, but one thing is for sure. This honest, likeable, decent man has never seen Canary Wharf. Not as I have.

  "So, where do you want to go now?" he asks, as we leave the wharf area behind us.

  "How about back to Waterloo. I think I'm just going to go home and see my wife."

  We drive back through the estate, then skirt around the edge of what can only be described as an enormous internment camp or prison. But big. Very big. With rows and rows of brick houses and several large look-out towers inside it. Smoke is rising from the corner behind one of the walls.

  "The National Asylum Centre. They almost destroyed it. Ungrateful bunch. Still, shouldn't be too harsh. ‘There but for the grace of God’, and all that…" the driver says, feeding me a stream of information and interspersing it with questions about why I'm not feeling well, and why I lost my job.

  "New employment laws." He continues, "That’s what I blame. Bloody government doesn't know what it's doing. No stability any more. Do you know, my brother-in-law turn
ed up for work the other day, and the company he had worked for the day before was bankrupt. The company had ceased to exist overnight."

  If only he knew. I look out of the window. The panic has gone. The fear has subsided, but I know it’s just beneath the surface. Waiting to explode. For now though, the fear has been replaced by a feeling of numbness.

  The voice of the taxi driver blends into the background, and I stare blankly at the world outside. A world I recognize, but not completely.

  I notice now that it's different. But not in a way that is immediately obvious. I have the feeling that all around there are subtle differences, small changes, but even though they are there, I can't point to them straight away.

  Something inside my jacket vibrates. I reach inside and pull out a mobile phone. My mobile phone. Only it’s a different color, and the ring tone is one that I would never normally choose. Too flashy by far. And, now I look closer, I notice the design is subtly different to the old one I have. I look at the display to see who is calling.

  -'Richard'-

  Who?

  I answer the phone, putting it to my ear.

  "James… are you there?" a high-pitched voice screams at me. "Where the fuck are you?"

  "Hi. ..Richard? I'm in a taxi."

  I don't know who Richard is. I don't recognize the voice. I have never spoken to this man before in my life. But before I can think of what more to say, the voice shouts at me again.

  "James, listen, I don't know what you are playing at, but if you don't get here in the next 30 minutes, you are fired. Out on the street. Get it? We've worked on this deal for years. It’s the biggest one we've ever had, and if you fuck it up, you are history. This is YOUR presentation for Pete's sake. YOUR client. We're all here, waiting for you. You're fifteen minutes late…Where are you?"

  I have no clue as to what Richard is talking about. My gut reaction is to switch the phone off, and ignore whoever the hell Richard is.

  On the other hand, this man at the other end of the phone seems to know me. In fact, he knows a lot about me, about where I should be, and what I am meant to be doing. Obviously something very wrong has happened to me, and if this man knows me, then perhaps he can tell me what is going on.

  And then I hear myself saying:-

  "Richard. I'm sorry…This morning has been very strange…I'm on the way to hospital just now. I was mugged on the way to work… And I've lost everything. My bag, my notes, everything...," I pause. There is silence on the other end of the phone. Then the voice again, though this time, not so loud.

  "Mugged?...Are you okay?"

  "Yes, but listen. I think I must be a little concussed. I'm having difficulty remembering some things…and I've lost the address where I'm meant to be meeting you. Where are you?" I say, hoping he will fall for my excuse.

  "Shit, James. SHIT. This deal is worth ten million euros. Ten million euros!..." Silence. "Listen, get over here as fast as you can. I'll stall them. Can you still do the presentation? Bastard, this is a real mess. Listen, I'll text you the address now. Get the taxi driver to bring you here as fast as he can. I'll wait for you outside the building. We'll take it from there. And hurry up. Do the presentation, then you can go to the hospital afterwards if you need to. Get your priorities right man. If you want to die, you can die later. Anyway, if you don’t win this deal, we're all dead."

  Click. It's nice to have such a caring boss.

  A few seconds later my mobile rattles again in my hand, and I open up the text message from Richard. An address in Portman Square. I know the place well. It's behind Selfridges. From where we are now, it'll take about 20 minutes to get there in this light traffic. In fact, the traffic is remarkably light for this time of day. A little strange, but a good thing for me.

  I read out the address to the taxi driver and settle back into my seat.

  "Is that one of them new 2G phones?" John asks, seemingly genuinely inquisitive.

  "What do you mean, new 2G?" I reply. "You can hardly call 2G new. They've been out for years?"

  "I mean, there's not many people who have mobile phones yet, so if you've got one, it must be one of them new fangled 2G phones?…You know, them ones with the special radiation proof technology that stops you getting brain tumors every time you call someone and zap your head with zillions of microwaves."

  Before I can respond, John changes the subject and starts a running commentary about life, the universe and everything, and I sit back and start to just nod at all the right parts and tune out of the conversation. Eventually he notices I'm not responding and he shuts up.

  London rolls past the taxi windows, and I consider calling Sarah. I should call her. I need to talk to her, but what will I say? How can I explain it? I decide not to. I will tell it all to her face-to-face tonight when I get back. I'm confused right now. Whatever is happening to me, or whatever has happened to me, I need to sort out before I go home. Hopefully, Richard, whoever he is, will be able to sort it out for me.

  We pass through Trafalgar Square, and drive up to Piccadilly. As the taxi passes the Institute of Directors, I do a double take and turn back in my seat, staring out the back window. Outside the National Gallery at the top of the square a line of cars sit waiting patiently for a light to change; and where former mayor Ken Livingstone so proudly unveiled a new flight of stairs leading up to the front entrance of the gallery, there is still the old, continuous wall, and no new staircase. What has happened to the pedestrian precinct in front of the National Gallery?

  And the pigeons. There are thousands of them, flying en masse in bliss around the heads of thousands of tourists who swarm around the feet of Lord Nelson and merrily feed them corn from little plastic punnets. Somewhere Ken Livingstone must be livid. He hated the bloody pigeons. After waging a long personal battle against them, and finally getting rid of them by completely banning anyone from feeding them, now…well, now they're back!

  It's wrong. It shouldn't be like this.

  Former Mayor, dear mad, Red Ken, spent millions of taxpayer’s money on improvements, but where are they all now? This is the old Trafalgar Square.

  It is as if the redesign of the Square just never happened...

  My mind is now dull, I see the mistakes. I acknowledge them, but I no longer react to them.

  At Piccadilly the statue of Eros has been painted gold, and a new marble pavement covers the surrounding area. It looks beautiful. But it looks very different from the Eros I walked past only last weekend when I went shopping in Lilywhites for new trainers. Lilywhites, thankfully, looks just the same as it was last week.

  Driving up Regent Street, I notice a few differences here and there. Things that appear different from what I think they should be like, but which blend effortlessly into surroundings which look just as they should.

  Am I imagining this?

  At Oxford Circus we turn left onto a clear street. No cars. Only buses and taxis. We pass quickly along the street without getting stuck in traffic. Something that is normally impossible to do. But obviously isn't today.

  Then I notice a big change: dear old wonderful Selfridges has gone. Oh, the building, that impressive monument to the great British shopper is still there, but outside the front entrance the name ‘Macy's’ hangs proudly in large, tasteful, elegant golden letters. People stream in and out of the doors, oblivious to their loss, not realizing how wrong it is. How can this have happened? Where has Selfridges gone?

  Gone like Canary Wharf. Gone like Ken Livingstone's dreams. And perhaps gone like my sanity. I must have gone mad.

  I lean forward in my seat and put my head in my hands.

  Then the taxi driver's voice, "James. We're here. This is where you wanted me to take you."

  I step out of the cab, swinging my little rucksack on to my back, and look at the taxi driver sitting in the front seat. I feel a surge of warmth to this anglicized jock. He's the only friend I have in this strange world, and I feel a reluctance to leave him.

  "Thanks. Thanks for your help. I
…"

  "No problem pal. Don't mention it. Listen…" he leans forward and picks something up. "Why don't you take my card. Just in case you need a lift later on. My number's there."

  A hand lands on my shoulder, and I jump with fright. A tall man, smart pinstriped Armani suit, balding, penetrating blue eyes, and a large, oversized stomach, pushes me gently to the side, reaches through the taxi window and looks at the meter. He pulls out a wad of cash, and gives the taxi driver a bundle of notes. Then without further warning he spins me around and points me towards the door of the big building in front of us.

  As he speaks I guess this must be Richard. Shocked and still very, very numb, I blindly follow his lead. Behind me the taxi driver honks his horn, and just before I step through the electronic doors which slide open before us, I turn and watch with a sudden feeling of loneliness as the taxi pulls away into traffic.