“No,” she replied. “You look like Darren but … you can’t be.” One of the others said that of course it was me, but an argument broke out. Again, as if I wasn’t even there. Not arguing about why I was or wasn’t blind, but whether I was me. I walked out. I was confused. It didn’t stop. Old customers and regulars on the street refused to believe that I was me. Some said I was. Some said I must be a relative, or someone like me. Some felt uncomfortable, now that I could see them. “It’s me,” I laughed. “Me!” But it cut no mustard. “Then how were your eyes opened?” they asked. “The man called Jesus. He made spitmud, spread it on my eyes, and said to me, ‘Go to the Pool of the Sent and wash.’ Then I went and washed and received my sight.” They asked, “Where is he?” I said, “I don’t know. How would I know? What does it matter where he is?” It got weirder. Soon, no-one would come near me. They were talking about witchcraft or magic, miracles and curses. They just got more and more scared. I tried to explain how good it was to see, but they wouldn’t listen. No customers, new or old. I just sat there while they came and stared and whispered and left. No coffee from my old friends. Not a word of happiness for me. Just mistrust and fear. Eventually, a mob led by a couple of big blokes turned up and told me to come with them. They took me to the Temple courtyard. Said that the teachers and the lawyers there wanted to know what was going on. A bad day got worse. I’d never seen the inside of the Temple and I’d never seen these men. They looked grim, stony-faced, annoyed. I was, essentially, thrown at their feet. I suppose it’s easier to look down on someone when they’re on the ground. So, I got up. I faced them. I looked at them. 78
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