This was the second story commission from Radio 3’s The Verb. I wrote it around July 2007
To be honest, I can’t remember what the restriction they gave me was. I think it might have been, Write something based on an unresolvable paradox.
What I can remember is that I had the idea for this story, or at least the idea for the paradox, when I was at boarding school — so, between eleven and thirteen years-old.
I know this because I used to think about either walking loudly through the leaves, or quietly avoiding walking through the leaves, while on my way along Linden Road toward Bedford Modern School.
I could never decide which was better, crunching or not crunching feet — but I was fairly sure I had a spy closely following me, trying to work out if I was a spy.
The Spy
One day, the spy was following a young woman down a very long street walled in on either side by tall apartment blocks.
It was late autumn. There had been strong gales for most of the previous week, and the leaves of the linden trees lay thick upon the flagstones. Crunch-crunch went the spy’s feet.
The spy became so conscious of the noise he was making that he stopped, kneeled down and pretended to do up his shoelaces. He needed to let the young woman get further ahead. But in the moment he took to kneel down, the spy heard behind him a loud crunch-crunch and then silence.
The spy did not turn round to look – that would have been too obvious. Instead, he reached into the pocket of his faun overcoat where he kept a small circular mirror for looking round corners, over walls and, as now, inconspicuously behind him. What he saw in the mirror came as a great shock: it was a man in a faun overcoat kneeling down to tie his shoelaces.
The spy wanted to behave naturally, so he stood up and continued walking – putting the mirror back in his pocket. The man behind him, possibly a spy, was now walking, too — the spy could tell, because the loud crunch-crunch had resumed.
The spy walked on for five minutes, keeping the young woman in sight, but he was disconcerted by the loudness both of his own crunch-crunching footsteps and those of the man behind him.
At the next crossing, the young woman turned right — onto a narrower but equally tall sidestreet.
The spy followed her, crunch-crunch, and the man, crunch-crunch, followed him — or perhaps not. For along this street, the work of clearing the pavement had begun. The linden leaves had been swept off the left half of the pavement but remained on the right.
The spy immediately moved across onto the leafless flagstones. Up ahead, the young woman, too, moved out of the leaves — probably to protect her shoes. But the man bringing up the rear continued to walk with a loud crunch-crunch.
The spy was immensely relieved. Of course this man in a faun overcoat isn’t a spy, he thought — no spy would make so much noise if it could be avoided. It is mere chance that he has turned down this same side street.
The spy continued walking, and behind him sounded the reassuringly loud crunch-crunch.
But what if, thought the spy, the man behind me noticed me noticing him and really is a spy but is trying to disguise this fact by walking through the leaves?
The spy felt oppressed by his new doubt. The young woman continued on her way and he, followed or not, followed after her. No, he thought, the man isn’t a spy, because a spy would know that walking through the leaves is too obvious a way to pretend not to be a spy. A spy doesn’t walk through the leaves, therefore I’ll walk through the leaves. It is infantile.
Again relieved, the spy continued. The woman walked ahead, neither speeding up nor slowing down. Crunch-crunch came the sound from behind.
Hang on, thought the spy, wouldn’t the best way for a spy wishing to disguise the fact he was a spy be for him to do something so obviously spy-disguising that no self-respecting spy would ever do it? The man behind me must be a spy, because he’s trying so hard to appear to be a spy pretending not to be a spy.
The spy continued to think of greater and greater complications of obviousness and disguise. At one point, he began to think that it didn’t matter whether or not the man behind him walked in the leaves or not. Either way, he could be a spy.
So distracted was the spy, he didn’t notice that the young woman had stopped walking and was standing waiting for him.
‘Are you following me?’ she asked.
‘No,’ the spy said. ‘I’m heading for my office. It’s just round the corner.’
The young woman said, ‘Liar,’ turned round and walked away.
The spy realised that the man behind him should have walked past by now. He turned round, and saw the man standing there, watching him.
As his cover was already blown, the spy walked up to the man.
‘Are you following me?’ the spy asked.
‘No,’ said the man. ‘I’m heading for my office. It’s just round the corner.’
The spy said, ‘Liar,’ turned round and walked away.
As he walked down the sidestreet, the spy listened carefully. There was no crunch-crunch on the pavement behind him, but there were quiet footsteps.
Just to be sure, the spy got out his circular mirror and checked.
The man in the faun overcoat was following him, walking not through the leaves but on the flagstones.
The spy felt relieved; the spy behind him was not a spy.