Trader Jack -The Story of Jack Miner (The Story of Jack Miner Series) by Neil Behrmann Page B
Authors: Neil Behrmann
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jacket.
Walks over to desk. Takes out a brown file, notebook and pen. Sits down on large leather chair. Silent. Observes me. Then talks softly. Yellow teeth match nicotine-stained fingers.
'I can see that you've made yourself comfortable.'
'There wasn't much else to do.'
A hollow laugh. Must have heard that line umpteen times.
'I'm Dr Klugheim. Did Mrs Small tell you about me?'
'She told me that you're her boss. Asked me whether you could read my notebook. I said it was OK, provided no one else did.'
'Very interesting. .. Looks like the beginnings of a book. Who taught you to write?'
'Dunno. . . Not school. . . Teachers were useless. It just comes out.'
He waits. Says nothing. Me sullen. Staring him out.
'You've been here three months. Mrs Small thought that it might be a good idea if we met. Talk things through.'
No reply.
'The wardens report that you don't mix much. Keep to yourself.'
'I'm OK. Just keep my head down. Count the days until I'm out of here!'
He opens up the file and reads some pages. I notice they're typed.
'It says here that you were feeling down. How about now?'
'I feel great. What do you expect? It's a holiday camp. How do you feel?'
'The bridge. Those nightmares. Still having them?'
No response.
‘Are you finding that writing helps you?'
'I just think about the past and write stuff down.'
'Good!'
Silence again. Eyes on the minute specs in the sunbeam. Away from him.
'Your parents. It must have been hard. . .'
Begin to lose my cool. Doesn't take a genius to understand why I'm here. The Governor, screws and doctors are panicking. Ernie Shiren managed to hang himself. Happened last week.
A kid of eighteen dead. Did you have little talks with him?' I snap.
Klugheim winces: 'We're here to talk about you, not Ernie.'
I'm silent again. Thinking, calculating. Better play along with him. He's the best chance I've got. Could get me out of this place. Recommend me for good behaviour.
'If you think I'm going to top myself, you're mistaken . . . I've got better things to do.'
'Good. Sometimes things can overwhelm you,' he says.
I sit there. He waits. I wait. Wonder what he's thinking.
'You were depressed. But you still jumped in and saved your dog,' he says after a couple of minutes. 'Brave, but reckless.'
‘I can swim.'
'You cannot believe how many people die trying to rescue animals.'
'It's a funny thing. . . That swan attack got me going.’
'Go on. Tell me what happened.'
I don't know why, but I feel relaxed with this guy. My head slips back on to the sofa and I let go. Talk freely. Will write it down later.
* * *
An old woman held Jazz down while I pumped him. She was the owner of the dog that had been swimming with Jazz, when the Swan attacked. We thought that it was all over. He just lay there as I pumped and pumped his tummy, pushing down on the soft fur. Jazz stirred, coughed and slowly lifted his head. A mixture of water and vomit dribbled from his mouth. He rose and stood unsteadily on his feet, his tail down. Then he shook himself. The crowd clapped and cheered and began to move away. The old lady gave Jazz a treat and his tail began to wag. Then another treat.
'I think he'll be OK,' said the lady, touching my hand. 'Let's go and have some coffee.'
I picked up my jacket and we followed a path towards a gate at the corner of the Heath, near some tennis courts. The lady was seriously strange. She talked to her dog as if the animal was a person. 'He's getting better all the time, Pattie. You watch over him OK?'
My wet clothes chafed me while we walked, but the sun was hot and my shirt was drying quickly. Dogs have amazing powers of recovery and Jazz managed to keep up.
We sat outside an Italian restaurant, near the Heath gate.
'Two cappucinos. Lots of chocolate,' shouted the lady.
'Pizza. Plenty of ham,' replied the waitress, who obviously knew her.
Couples nearby, observed us without a word. Me, in wet muddy clothes, covered with weeds from the
Walks over to desk. Takes out a brown file, notebook and pen. Sits down on large leather chair. Silent. Observes me. Then talks softly. Yellow teeth match nicotine-stained fingers.
'I can see that you've made yourself comfortable.'
'There wasn't much else to do.'
A hollow laugh. Must have heard that line umpteen times.
'I'm Dr Klugheim. Did Mrs Small tell you about me?'
'She told me that you're her boss. Asked me whether you could read my notebook. I said it was OK, provided no one else did.'
'Very interesting. .. Looks like the beginnings of a book. Who taught you to write?'
'Dunno. . . Not school. . . Teachers were useless. It just comes out.'
He waits. Says nothing. Me sullen. Staring him out.
'You've been here three months. Mrs Small thought that it might be a good idea if we met. Talk things through.'
No reply.
'The wardens report that you don't mix much. Keep to yourself.'
'I'm OK. Just keep my head down. Count the days until I'm out of here!'
He opens up the file and reads some pages. I notice they're typed.
'It says here that you were feeling down. How about now?'
'I feel great. What do you expect? It's a holiday camp. How do you feel?'
'The bridge. Those nightmares. Still having them?'
No response.
‘Are you finding that writing helps you?'
'I just think about the past and write stuff down.'
'Good!'
Silence again. Eyes on the minute specs in the sunbeam. Away from him.
'Your parents. It must have been hard. . .'
Begin to lose my cool. Doesn't take a genius to understand why I'm here. The Governor, screws and doctors are panicking. Ernie Shiren managed to hang himself. Happened last week.
A kid of eighteen dead. Did you have little talks with him?' I snap.
Klugheim winces: 'We're here to talk about you, not Ernie.'
I'm silent again. Thinking, calculating. Better play along with him. He's the best chance I've got. Could get me out of this place. Recommend me for good behaviour.
'If you think I'm going to top myself, you're mistaken . . . I've got better things to do.'
'Good. Sometimes things can overwhelm you,' he says.
I sit there. He waits. I wait. Wonder what he's thinking.
'You were depressed. But you still jumped in and saved your dog,' he says after a couple of minutes. 'Brave, but reckless.'
‘I can swim.'
'You cannot believe how many people die trying to rescue animals.'
'It's a funny thing. . . That swan attack got me going.’
'Go on. Tell me what happened.'
I don't know why, but I feel relaxed with this guy. My head slips back on to the sofa and I let go. Talk freely. Will write it down later.
* * *
An old woman held Jazz down while I pumped him. She was the owner of the dog that had been swimming with Jazz, when the Swan attacked. We thought that it was all over. He just lay there as I pumped and pumped his tummy, pushing down on the soft fur. Jazz stirred, coughed and slowly lifted his head. A mixture of water and vomit dribbled from his mouth. He rose and stood unsteadily on his feet, his tail down. Then he shook himself. The crowd clapped and cheered and began to move away. The old lady gave Jazz a treat and his tail began to wag. Then another treat.
'I think he'll be OK,' said the lady, touching my hand. 'Let's go and have some coffee.'
I picked up my jacket and we followed a path towards a gate at the corner of the Heath, near some tennis courts. The lady was seriously strange. She talked to her dog as if the animal was a person. 'He's getting better all the time, Pattie. You watch over him OK?'
My wet clothes chafed me while we walked, but the sun was hot and my shirt was drying quickly. Dogs have amazing powers of recovery and Jazz managed to keep up.
We sat outside an Italian restaurant, near the Heath gate.
'Two cappucinos. Lots of chocolate,' shouted the lady.
'Pizza. Plenty of ham,' replied the waitress, who obviously knew her.
Couples nearby, observed us without a word. Me, in wet muddy clothes, covered with weeds from the
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