Chapter 1
So this is me journaling. Therapy homework. Weekly, by court order. Because apparently, impersonating a Harrods sales assistant is a concerning behavioural pattern. Not a joke. Not performance art. Just concerning.
Dr Lenton — cardigan, nasally voice, eyes like he’s waiting for me to have a breakthrough — says I should try “documenting my internal process.” I told him my internal process is private. He said that’s the point.
So…. I’m Alvie. 20 years old. Born in Chiswick London. My father — is a man called Michael Holloway — a married Father of 2 legitimate sons living in uptown New York where he makes 1.2 million dollars a year in office space leasing. I’ve never met him and only ever seen his face on Google. He knocked up my Mother on one of his frequent trips to London and paid her £200,000 to keep her mouth shut regarding any bastard children of his.
My mother, Teresa O’Dea of Galway Ireland, came over to England when she was 18 - as soon as she could. Got a job as a waitress in a hotel where she coincidentally met Michael. Rented a bedsit in Chiswick off of a friend of a friend and basically waited for life to happen to her.
She didn’t make much money waitressing - she could have easily used Michael’s hush money to give herself a better life - but she didn’t .
She used the money to send me to private school - she bought me smart clothes and shoes and pushed me into a world where I never really felt like belonged.
All the other kids went home to their huge houses with staff - they would sit around a grand table in a dining room and have dinner with both their parents . They would spend their weekends beaching in Europe then back for Monday morning classes talking about how dull it was .
I’d never even seen the sea at that point.
My Mother - although responsible and kind-hearted - was a woman with a vision and perhaps she could have been a little more present. She wanted the best for me and spent a great deal of time and effort making sure I had a “successful future” - she used the phrase a lot . I believe she dreamed that one day my Father would read the news and there I’d be - a list of reputable accolades across from a handsome photo. She would see him looking at that - the Son he threw away - and fall into a heap of guilt, regret and despair.
I do believe my Mother loved my Father and perhaps even saw a successful me as a tool to win him back to her. I’m ashamed to say there is probably a part of me that dreamed the same thing.
Unfortunately, my private school career ended rather prematurely at 10 years old. As stated I never really felt at home with the other kids - I’d had a few scraps over the years. They knew I was different and they didn’t like it. The end came when 2 boys Hugo and Rollins called my Mother a “Gypsy whore”. I didn’t react straight away. They laughed and I bid my time.
Two weeks later after PE I saw my opportunity for revenge. Both boys were returning some sports equipment - which was kept under the building in a once purpose built bomb shelter. They went in and I locked the door…This could only be opened from the outside.
Both boys were missing to the school and their families for 38 hours before they were found. They had not eaten. Their bodies were broken from thumping their fists and feet on the door and walls hoping someone would hear them. Their throats were burning from thirst and tired screams. They really were in quite a bad way….though I remember smiling as they were pulled up from the dark wrapped in silver foil and wearing oxygen masks.
The Police and the school board were all involved and the boys gave them all my name accusing me of locking them in.
But there was no proof - no evidence to support their “lies” - any police action was dropped - however the boys parents and the principal had a meeting - and my Mother was politely asked to remove me from their school.
That’s when we moved to Borough. That’s when I met Sid and Stokes.
