‘I’m not paying £39.50 for that,’ I said to my son. We were in a shop in Liverpool Street station, me clutching his infant sister in my arms, he an unjustifiably expensive gold-painted ornamental star he’d picked off the wall. His mum was in the womenswear section, trying on more clothes than previously agreed, and I was keeping him occupied by suggesting he pick out something from the bits and bobs aisle, preferably in the £2 range. Unfortunately, my son has the same taste in decor as whoever does the Christmas displays in Foxton’s, and my brusque refusal offended him more than I’d foreseen.
He threw the star down and stormed off behind me. By the time I turned round, he was gone. I dashed to the entrance to make sure he hadn’t left the shop. Turning on my heels, I went through the rest of the shop, aisle by aisle, as annoyance became worry and worry became panic. I became brusquer and brisker by the second, until other shoppers saw the blood-drained maniac barrelling through them brandishing a six-month-old baby, and approached.
One man said he’d seen my little girl – my son’s shoulder length red hair being a magnet for misgendering – and reckoned she was probably in the back. After a further two breakneck strafes, I emerged from the shop to meet the anguished eyes of my wife, now throwing up her trembling hands in terrified confusion.
Soon, it was just like that scene in The Bourne Supremacy when Guardian journalist Paddy Considine is running aimlessly from assassins in Liverpool Street station, clutching a mobile phone to his temple. Except that was Waterloo, which ruins my point a bit, and also I write for the Observer and was clutching not a mid-00s handset but a six-month-old child. Also that scene was in The Bourne Ultimatum, which I always get wrong because no matter how many times they show those movies on ITV4, no one, not even the people involved in their production, could tell you why those names weren’t flipped round.
Where was I? Oh yes, having a panic attack searching for a four-year-old child in the 28th busiest railway station in Europe. As my mind swirled, I no longer gave any thought to how ludicrous I must have looked, running like a man trying to dodge snipers in a quite good, but badly named, action movie.
I cursed myself, and resolved that if I ever saw my son again I would be kind and valiant and never let him out of my sight and most likely pamper him like a Venetian prince. I didn’t have long to wait, as a policeman spotted him making a dash for the train turnstiles, screaming that he was going home. A teary reunion followed, in which we explained he should never, ever do that again, and also that he lacks the money, directional sense, and legal agency to make his way across London.
He agreed that if he ever got lost he’d stay right where he was and ask for help. I kissed him and told him I was sorry for being so blunt.
‘Can I have the star, then?’ he said, quietly. ‘No, pet,’ I replied, ‘it really is hideous.’
Did Ye Hear Mammy Died? by Séamas O’Reilly is out now (Little, Brown, £16.99). Buy a copy from guardianbookshop at £14.78
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