Andy Bellows? An inspiration to people?
I’ve often been flabbergasted by humanity, to the point of panicked incredulity. This revelation is not helping matters.
‘Like I say, I think you might have started something here, pal,’ Fergus says in an excited voice.
‘Started something?’
‘Absolutely! A movement.’
‘A movement,’ I repeat in a slightly nauseous tone.
‘Yes. There’s not a lot else you can call it when dozens of people get in touch in such a short space of time.’ Fergus shows me his phone screen. It’s covered in Twitter, Facebook and email notifications. ‘Just look at that little lot, would you?’
‘A movement,’ I say again, staring down into my empty coffee cup.
I don’t want to start a movement.
I don’t want to be a part of a movement.
The only kind of movement I want in my life is a smooth easy one, while I’m sitting on the toilet.
In my limited experience of history, I know that no one who starts a movement ever comes out of the other end in good shape. They usually get killed by the authorities, their own followers or a cyanide capsule.
Hitler created a movement. It didn’t turn out well for anyone. They wrote books about it and everything.
‘Oh, bloody hell,’ I gasp and sit back in my chair, looking at the ceiling.
‘What’s the matter?’ Fergus asks me.
‘What’s the matter? You’ve just told me I’m like Hitler and you ask what’s the matter?’
‘Hitler?’
‘Yes! He started a movement!’
This is a strange and irrational train of thought, but please forgive me, I’ve just been told that dozens of people want to know more about me. That they are interested in my story.
Dozens of brains with the name ‘Andy Bellows’ currently at the forefront of their thoughts.
I feel sick.
‘Everything OK, guys?’ Grace asks, having no doubt come over to say hello to Fergus.
I look up at her, ashen-faced. ‘I’m Hitler, Grace,’ I tell her.
‘What?’
‘I’m Hitler. Fergus has turned me into Hitler.’ I grab her arm. ‘I don’t want to take a cyanide capsule!’
‘Andy? Are you all right?’
‘I think he might be having some kind of nervous breakdown,’ Fergus opines. ‘Maybe I should have broken the news to him a bit more gently.’
‘What news?’ Grace asks, pulling up an empty chair from one of the other tables.
Fergus then explains what’s been happening, while I sit there trying not to think about the word ‘Nuremberg’.
‘Ahh . . .’ she remarks when Fergus finishes. ‘That is quite a thing, isn’t it?’
‘It certainly is!’
I do wish Fergus would stop looking quite so happy about all of this. It’s not him parked at the front of dozens of brains, is it?
Grace plays with her locket while she shoots me a couple of concerned looks. ‘I mean, I understand it, obviously. I did exactly the same thing, when you get right down to it. The original story you wrote is what led me to Andy’s door after all.’ She unconsciously puts a hand out and squeezes my arm. ‘But that many people? That’s a lot for him to deal with.’
‘They liked you too, you know,’ Fergus points out.
Now Grace joins me in the realms of panic. I can’t say I’m upset about this. A trouble shared is a trouble halved, after all.
‘Me?!’ she cries, eyes wide with horror.
‘Oh yeah. I think it’s the fact you got in touch with him that gave them the inspiration to do it themselves.’
Now Grace contrives to look guilty.
‘You know that makes you Eva Braun, don’t you?’ I tell her in a quivering voice, still reeling from how bizarre all of this is.
Grace stares at me. ‘Didn’t he shoot her?’
I nod slowly. ‘I think so. You don’t have to worry, though . . . about the only gun I can get hold of is a plastic wheel lock.’
That doesn’t seem to make her feel any better, to be honest. ‘I’m sorry, Andy,’ she says.
I look horrified. ‘No! You don’t have anything to apologise for!’ I turn an evil stare on Fergus. ‘This is all his fault!’
‘My fault?’ Fergus exclaims, pointing a finger at his own chest.
‘Yes! You wrote the stories, Fergus!’ I denounce. ‘You’re the man who put it out there!’ I gasp as a revelation strikes me. ‘You’re fucking Goebbels!’
‘Goebbels?!’
‘Yes! Fucking Goebbels!’
‘Can we quit with the Nazi comparisons now, please?’ Grace implores. ‘It’s making my head hurt.’
‘Sorry,’ I tell her, but I continue to give Fergus a look that speaks Nazi volumes.
‘The question is,’ she continues, ‘what do we do about this?’
‘Do about this? What do you mean?’ I ask, now turning the look on