“Look, do I know you?” asked Kit as the fellow hastened nearer.
“I should hope so, my boy,” replied the stranger. “One would think a fellow would know his own great-grandfather.”
Kit backed away a step.
“Sorry I’m late,” continued the old man. “I had to make certain I wasn’t followed. It took rather longer than I anticipated. I was beginning to fear I’d missed you altogether.”
“Excuse me?”
“So, here we are. All’s well that ends well, what?”
“Listen, mate,” protested Kit. “I think you’ve got the wrong guy.”
“What a joy it is to meet you at long last, my son,” replied the old gentleman, offering his hand. “Pure joy. But of course, we haven’t properly met. May I introduce myself? I am Cosimo Livingstone.” He made a very slight bow.
“Okay, so what’s the joke?” demanded Kit.
“Oh, it is no joke,” the old man assured him. “It’s quite true.”
“No-you’re mistaken. I am Cosimo Livingstone,” he insisted. “And anyway, how do you know my name?”
“Would you mind very much if we discussed this walking? We really should be moving along.”
“This is nuts. I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“Ah, well, I think you’ll find that you don’t have much choice.”
“Not true.”
“Sorry?”
“Listen, mate, I don’t know how you got hold of my name, but you must have me mixed up with someone else,” Kit said, hoping to sound far more composed than he actually felt at the moment. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I don’t know you and I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“Fair enough,” replied the stranger. “What would it take to change your mind?”
“Forget it,” said Kit, turning away. “I’m out of here.”
“What sort of proof would you like? Names, birth dates, family connections-that sort of thing?”
He started off. “I’m not listening.”
“Your father is John. Your mother is Harriet. You were born in Weston-super-Mare, but your family soon moved to Manchester, where your father worked as a managerial something or other in the insurance trade and your mother was a school administrator. When you were twelve, your family upped sticks again and resettled in London…”