I got a blister on my hand. It nearly got infected with tetanus. I could’ve got lockjaw. I’ve got a plaster, look.
—And how did you get this blister?
I’ve learned this thing where you make your tongue do a click against the roof of your mouth called your palette, and it feels like time to do it. It’s quite a loud one, but he doesn’t say anything. —I got it from using a spade, cos I was digging a grave.
—Ah, now tell me about the grave! Squeak . —Was it for a small animal you found, maybe?
—If I found a small animal I wouldn’t kill it. Not right away.
—I meant–
—I’d keep it alive, in Alcatraz, with Mohammed. If it was a rat I’d probably feed it maggots and then maybe kill it later. After say about sixteen or seventeen days.
And I do another click, a bigger one this time.
—So, tell me. What was the grave for?
—For a human.
—A human. What kind of human?
—A big huge fat man who lives in the rue Malesherbes.
—Ah. And who might that be?
Duh! Fatties are so slow!
—These small accidents you had, says Fat Perez, looking at me with his thinking face. —They weren’t bad enough to send you to hospital, were they? I mean, a little burn, a small graze, a cut.
—So? I’m accident-prone. Sometimes the accidents are big and sometimes they’re small.
—Let’s talk about the big ones. The ones that land you in hospital. I want to ask you something, Louis. Do you enjoy being in hospital?
—I don’t like casualty. I hate that part. But the recovery bit, that’s OK.
—What’s OK about it?
—You don’t have to go to school. They make a fuss of you. She sits by the bed and talks to you like you’re a baby again and you can just lie there and listen. And she does anything you want, because she’s so glad the danger didn’t kill you.
—The danger?
I do the click again, but it isn’t such a loud one and my tongue fizzes from it. —There’s always danger. You don’t have accidents without danger. And then it’s good cos Papa brings you big Lego models. They bring you cool meals. Depending on the hospital. The best one’s here in Lyon. In Edouard Herriot you can have pizza or lasagne and there’s always ice cream for dessert if you want it, because Lyon’s the gastronomic capital of France.
—So they say, says Perez.
—Plus they usually have PlayStation or Nintendo.
—Would you like to go back to Edouard Herriot again, Louis? Hospitals can be very comforting places, can’t they? Like you say, no school, and lots of people making a big fuss of you.
I do the big click again. My tongue’s all right this time.
—Do you think you might sometimes even be a little bit glad when you end up in hospital?
—You’re saying I do it on purpose, right?
—No, Louis. I never said that and it’s not what I mean.
That’s when I start wanting to smash the bowl with water and seashells in that’s on the table, and see them skid all over the place in the broken glass and see the look on his fat face.
—Tell me something, Monsieur Perez. Am I a typical Disturbed Child?
He laughs. —There’s no such thing, Louis.
—What about now? I ask him when he’s finished mopping up the water and broken glass with his dustpan and brush and his gay dishcloth, and put a plaster on his cut and called Maman on her mobile to say we’ll need to finish the session early.
—Who were you thinking of when you smashed that bowl, Louis? he goes while we’re waiting for her. —Who are you angry with?
Duh, again! He’s always on about ‘anger’. ‘Your anger’. Why can’t he find another word in the dictionary? Why can’t he use a word like ‘ loathing ’?
The doorbell buzzes meaning no time
—And how did you get this blister?
I’ve learned this thing where you make your tongue do a click against the roof of your mouth called your palette, and it feels like time to do it. It’s quite a loud one, but he doesn’t say anything. —I got it from using a spade, cos I was digging a grave.
—Ah, now tell me about the grave! Squeak . —Was it for a small animal you found, maybe?
—If I found a small animal I wouldn’t kill it. Not right away.
—I meant–
—I’d keep it alive, in Alcatraz, with Mohammed. If it was a rat I’d probably feed it maggots and then maybe kill it later. After say about sixteen or seventeen days.
And I do another click, a bigger one this time.
—So, tell me. What was the grave for?
—For a human.
—A human. What kind of human?
—A big huge fat man who lives in the rue Malesherbes.
—Ah. And who might that be?
Duh! Fatties are so slow!
—These small accidents you had, says Fat Perez, looking at me with his thinking face. —They weren’t bad enough to send you to hospital, were they? I mean, a little burn, a small graze, a cut.
—So? I’m accident-prone. Sometimes the accidents are big and sometimes they’re small.
—Let’s talk about the big ones. The ones that land you in hospital. I want to ask you something, Louis. Do you enjoy being in hospital?
—I don’t like casualty. I hate that part. But the recovery bit, that’s OK.
—What’s OK about it?
—You don’t have to go to school. They make a fuss of you. She sits by the bed and talks to you like you’re a baby again and you can just lie there and listen. And she does anything you want, because she’s so glad the danger didn’t kill you.
—The danger?
I do the click again, but it isn’t such a loud one and my tongue fizzes from it. —There’s always danger. You don’t have accidents without danger. And then it’s good cos Papa brings you big Lego models. They bring you cool meals. Depending on the hospital. The best one’s here in Lyon. In Edouard Herriot you can have pizza or lasagne and there’s always ice cream for dessert if you want it, because Lyon’s the gastronomic capital of France.
—So they say, says Perez.
—Plus they usually have PlayStation or Nintendo.
—Would you like to go back to Edouard Herriot again, Louis? Hospitals can be very comforting places, can’t they? Like you say, no school, and lots of people making a big fuss of you.
I do the big click again. My tongue’s all right this time.
—Do you think you might sometimes even be a little bit glad when you end up in hospital?
—You’re saying I do it on purpose, right?
—No, Louis. I never said that and it’s not what I mean.
That’s when I start wanting to smash the bowl with water and seashells in that’s on the table, and see them skid all over the place in the broken glass and see the look on his fat face.
—Tell me something, Monsieur Perez. Am I a typical Disturbed Child?
He laughs. —There’s no such thing, Louis.
—What about now? I ask him when he’s finished mopping up the water and broken glass with his dustpan and brush and his gay dishcloth, and put a plaster on his cut and called Maman on her mobile to say we’ll need to finish the session early.
—Who were you thinking of when you smashed that bowl, Louis? he goes while we’re waiting for her. —Who are you angry with?
Duh, again! He’s always on about ‘anger’. ‘Your anger’. Why can’t he find another word in the dictionary? Why can’t he use a word like ‘ loathing ’?
The doorbell buzzes meaning no time
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