Free The Alternative Hero by Tim Thornton Page B

everyone my intention to seduce the actress who played Lauren Carpenter in
Neighbours
, giving rise to a weekly trail round all the pubs in Fulham, where I’d heard she was living (a plan that was also the product of an unusual dream, now I come to think of it)—the key factor this time is that Lance Webster
really is here
. On my street. I’ve narrowed down his whereabouts to the nearest twenty metres. No detective work is needed. All I need is a little patience, luck, some of the social skills and intelligence I must surely (surely?) have amassed over the last thirty years, and it really should be easy. Oh yes.
    But how do you follow someone? I’m not the sort of slick individual who can lithely creep around unnoticed. I decide that I’d better do a little research. I pop into my local bookshop and glance at one ofthose absurd stocking-filler manuals called
How to Do Difficult Stuff
or something, but it only tells me how to escape from a straitjacket or how to have sex on a plane. The Internet is my next stop, and of course some knob has taken the trouble to write down his methods in some detail. “Prepare the proper attire,” he begins. “Black is a bad idea. At all hours, you’ll stick out like a sore thumb. Red attracts attention. Wear greys and greens. If the weather permits it, wear a hooded sweater or jacket.” All my clothes are grey and green anyway, but what does he mean, “If the weather permits it”? As in, if it’s not too hot and sunny? Clearly not written by anyone British.
    “Spot your target,” he continues. “See which direction they’re headed in, and how fast they are moving.” Okay. I’ve already worked out I’m going to have to sit at the top of our basement steps until I see Webster emerge from his house (let’s hope he actually does, or I’m in for a boring weekend). The instructor then enters into a complex discussion regarding parked cars, outracing your target and making fake calls on a mobile, occasionally offering such use-free nuggets as: “If the weather isn’t cold enough to make a bent head plausible, keep looking down at your watch.” What the hell does that mean? My attention kind of wanders off after that bit.
    I take a fleeting look at the “Things You’ll Need” section, which comprises little more than “the ability to lie convincingly” (I was once told my lying is so unconvincing that I’m actually convincing; I’ve managed to lap myself in believability terms), and finally a cautionary glance at the warning note:
    Only ever follow a person to play a practical joke on them or engage in a similar harmless activity. You and you alone are responsible for your actions. Using these instructions to commit a crime does not void you of responsibility for your actions, nordoes it annul the damage you have done to the lives of other people.
    Well, this
is
just a harmless activity, isn’t it? I won’t be damaging anyone’s life. I just want to know what he gets up to. It’s not like I’m going to blackmail him or stalk him or anything, is it?
    So, as Churchill once blethered, the era of procrastination is fast disappearing down the resolutional plughole. It’s Saturday morning. My clock radio says 8:04. Time to get on with it.
    I don appropriate clothing (black jeans, grey T-shirt, green hooded top, black woolly hat), knock back a cup of tea and a piece of toast. Polly is still passed out on the kitchen sofa from last night (we have no lounge) but briefly raises her head to utter a few words of encouragement (“Don’t do anything stupid”). I climb the metal steps from our basement flat to street level. It’s a little chilly, but not raining. I look up and down the street. No sign of anyone. Hope I’m early enough. 8:15. Settle myself on the second step. Reasonably good view of the steps coming down to the pavement at number three. Wait.
    Wait.
    People walk past occasionally. No one seems to take much notice. Around nine, an old lady I’ve never seen