important information George carries around in his brain, he has bothered to remember his, Lance’s, name. It’s quite a compliment and the constable is more than a little chuffed until he remembers that he is wearing a name tag.
After an exchange of pleasantries, George asks Lance to join him for a drink in the pub; there’s a matter he’d like to discuss. Lance declines with a gesture that he hopes strikes the perfect balance between respect and firmness, explaining, like it’s a unique and saintly attribute, that he never drinks when he’s on duty.
George says, ‘Then have a lemonade,’ and heads out the door, certain that Constable Lance Johnstone is right behind him.
11
Wendy is at work, Declan is at school and Rosie is still at home, talking to Juan downstairs. Listening to the rumble of their voices below, you are slumped at the dining table in front of a cold bowl of uneaten porridge when you remember a doctor’s appointment. You are not supposed to drive because you are still on crutches but you can think of no other way to get there so you hobble down to the car.
As you manoeuvre yourself into the old Volvo, it occurs to you that you should really move the appointment to another time when Wendy is available to drive you. Trouble is, it’s hard to get an appointment with the good doctor because he’s popular because he’s a good doctor.
You need to see him because something has started to happen to you, almost on a daily basis: a kind of despair descends and paralyses you, sometimes for an hour or two, sometimes longer. You feel it like a chemical wash emanating from some mysterious point at the top of your head and soaking your brain until you can no longer function.
Mostly you can sleep it off—after an hour or so in bed you wake and are able to carry on—but sometimes it lasts all day until the next morning when you wake feeling slightly disappointed that you are still alive. This cannot continue: you have books to write, a family to support. You have every faith the good doctor will help put things right. Who knows? It could be something as simple as a vitamin deficiency.
Fortunately the Volvo is an automatic so you park your swollen left leg to the side and operate the brake and accelerator in the usual way. As you crunch out of the gravel driveway, you’re feeling light-headed and a little guilty for driving in such a state but you tell yourself it’s only up the hill, and you drive—well, like a Volvo driver—practically crawling all the way to the car park next to the doctor’s surgery.
You writhe and hump and hoist yourself out of the car and are attempting to extract your crutches from the back seat when you hear a voice say, ‘What happened to you?’ You turn to see one of the dads from Boomerang. You can’t remember his name but you know he lives nearby. You’ve spent the odd Saturday morning with him chatting on the sidelines while Rosie and his big-boned blonde daughter play soccer. He’s visiting the doctor too so he escorts you inside.
The waiting room is full except for two empty seats so you wedge yourselves in with the snuffling, coughing hordes and throw hateful glances at the reception Nazi who has gleefully informed you that the doctor is running at least half an hour late. What’s-his-name asks hushed questions about your accident, which you answer in a voice likewise lowered, as if you’re talking in a library. If the point of this is privacy you are wasting your time because everyone in the tiny room can hear you.
Half an hour later the name Jason pops into your head. What’s-his-name has a name. Jason. You mentally raise your fist in a victory salute and proceed to overcompensate by inserting ‘Jason’ into every sentence you utter. Just as the conversation is flagging, Jason asks how Rosie is going. He does this in a voice so quiet you have to lip-read.
So he knows , you think. Of course he fucking knows! The whole school knows.
Jason uses phrases
After an exchange of pleasantries, George asks Lance to join him for a drink in the pub; there’s a matter he’d like to discuss. Lance declines with a gesture that he hopes strikes the perfect balance between respect and firmness, explaining, like it’s a unique and saintly attribute, that he never drinks when he’s on duty.
George says, ‘Then have a lemonade,’ and heads out the door, certain that Constable Lance Johnstone is right behind him.
11
Wendy is at work, Declan is at school and Rosie is still at home, talking to Juan downstairs. Listening to the rumble of their voices below, you are slumped at the dining table in front of a cold bowl of uneaten porridge when you remember a doctor’s appointment. You are not supposed to drive because you are still on crutches but you can think of no other way to get there so you hobble down to the car.
As you manoeuvre yourself into the old Volvo, it occurs to you that you should really move the appointment to another time when Wendy is available to drive you. Trouble is, it’s hard to get an appointment with the good doctor because he’s popular because he’s a good doctor.
You need to see him because something has started to happen to you, almost on a daily basis: a kind of despair descends and paralyses you, sometimes for an hour or two, sometimes longer. You feel it like a chemical wash emanating from some mysterious point at the top of your head and soaking your brain until you can no longer function.
Mostly you can sleep it off—after an hour or so in bed you wake and are able to carry on—but sometimes it lasts all day until the next morning when you wake feeling slightly disappointed that you are still alive. This cannot continue: you have books to write, a family to support. You have every faith the good doctor will help put things right. Who knows? It could be something as simple as a vitamin deficiency.
Fortunately the Volvo is an automatic so you park your swollen left leg to the side and operate the brake and accelerator in the usual way. As you crunch out of the gravel driveway, you’re feeling light-headed and a little guilty for driving in such a state but you tell yourself it’s only up the hill, and you drive—well, like a Volvo driver—practically crawling all the way to the car park next to the doctor’s surgery.
You writhe and hump and hoist yourself out of the car and are attempting to extract your crutches from the back seat when you hear a voice say, ‘What happened to you?’ You turn to see one of the dads from Boomerang. You can’t remember his name but you know he lives nearby. You’ve spent the odd Saturday morning with him chatting on the sidelines while Rosie and his big-boned blonde daughter play soccer. He’s visiting the doctor too so he escorts you inside.
The waiting room is full except for two empty seats so you wedge yourselves in with the snuffling, coughing hordes and throw hateful glances at the reception Nazi who has gleefully informed you that the doctor is running at least half an hour late. What’s-his-name asks hushed questions about your accident, which you answer in a voice likewise lowered, as if you’re talking in a library. If the point of this is privacy you are wasting your time because everyone in the tiny room can hear you.
Half an hour later the name Jason pops into your head. What’s-his-name has a name. Jason. You mentally raise your fist in a victory salute and proceed to overcompensate by inserting ‘Jason’ into every sentence you utter. Just as the conversation is flagging, Jason asks how Rosie is going. He does this in a voice so quiet you have to lip-read.
So he knows , you think. Of course he fucking knows! The whole school knows.
Jason uses phrases
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