‘Is George flying you to Manchester tomorrow?’
The biggest fraud in art history.
‘No, we… We’ll watch the match at his place after our jog. We’re not welcome in that hospitality box anymore. He offended someone.’
‘Shame. I could have come with you. I love booing both teams.’
‘You can come and boo at George’s TV.’
‘Never. I’m not stepping foot into George’s Temple of George, it’s sickening,’ she mutters, before disappearing into Charles’ en-suite bathroom.
Charles throws his phone onto the mattress, not sure why he wanted to check it thirty seconds ago.
It’s irrational how deeply Loris’ remark is ranklingwith him. But his fixations never make much sense and they usually distress him more than they aggravate him.
It’s an enjoyable change, for want of a sensible reaction.
‘Go to hell. With two Ls. And a forced H.’
He crawls to the bedside table and takes a brown book out of the drawer. Its hardcover is crazed and faded, but it remains the most comforting sight. Olwinski’s self-attributed coat of arms and‘The Mind of Wonders’traced on a banner as if it were a motto.
Charles follows the outline of the title with his forefinger, like he always does. Then he opens the book to follow the lines handwritten on the first yellowed page, seven years ago. His heart stutters, like it always does.
Charlie,
In a world where you can be anything you want, try to be Batman. If you’re not into capes, be Pavel Olwinski, he’s the next best thing.
Fred
FOUR
His arms raised in victory, Charles reaches the top of the hill and wriggles away from George’s attempt at a frustrated swat on his back.
‘Not fair! I lost two seconds jumping over a stinky mutt. Oh, not yours, Madam! Your dog is the cutest little fella. Have a wondrous day! This bloody mutt,’ George mouths as soon as the woman he was simpering at turns her back on them.
Out of breath, Charles shakes his head.
His friend finds a lame excuse whenever Charles beats him at something, and Charles wins every time they sprint up a slope.
‘I demand a rerun!’
‘We can race to the playground.’
‘We’re not racing downhill.’
‘Cutting your losses. Wise call.’
Charles avoids a second swat and clutches George’s wrist to pull him away from the path leading to an overcrowded viewpoint.
They drop onto the grass, their legs stretched out towards Central London.
Charles will always have a biased preference for Hampstead Heath and the glimpses of the city he can catch from its highest grounds. But he can’t deny that the unobstructed panoramic view offered byPrimrose Hill is spectacular. Especially when the sky is overcast and provides the buildings with a gloomy background in motion.
George prods him with the water bottle he unclasped from his running belt. Charles accepts it, even though he’s not thirsty. They’ve only run two miles, and the chilly wind penetrates his track pants and long sleeves, drying the sweat before it even oozes. It finally feels like November.
George is wearing shorts, but he doesn’t suffer from the cold. He doesn’t suffer from hangovers, nightmares, doubts and setbacks either. His skin hasn’t flushed from the run and his chestnut-brown hair barely moves in the draught. If Charles hadn’t witnessed snot streaming out of his nose and blood dripping from his knees when they were kids, he would embrace the possibility that his friend is a sophisticated form of AI.
‘How’s Elsy doing?’
