mattress, his hands are clenched between his knees to stop them shaking and he’s filled with a self-loathing that he will not show to anyone except himself. The world will think him stoic and brave; facing adversity with grace and good humor, never weeping with despair or railing at the injustice. Joe doesn’t subscribe to the theory that we get the luck we deserve. Fairness is a hair color, not something to be balanced on a set of scales.
Charlie is sleeping in the spare room. She’s off school for the week and visiting her dead-old dad, but going home in two days. Why do expensive private schools have the longest holidays? Quality must beat quantity or it’s wasted money.
Joe dresses in a tracksuit and running shoes. He kisses his daughter on the forehead before leaving, telling Charlie he’ll be home early. She stirs and rolls over, mumbling something that sounds more like a protest than a goodbye.
At a quarter past seven the sun has risen above the rooftops and painted the highest leaves on the tallest trees in Kensington Gardens. Joe used to laugh at people who exercised every morning: the joggers and gym rats clad in Lycra and expensive trainers, sweating their way to a longer life. Now the muscle memory of youth has faded and Mr. Parkinson is dancing through his joints, exercise and diet have become more important. He has lost twenty pounds since he moved back to London. Before he could pinch the fat above the waistband of his boxer shorts, but now he’s leaner and fitter. A man has to look his best if he’s going to win back his wife.
A young woman jogs past him. He follows her tightly clad bottom and quickens his stride. When he lived in Wellow he walked a dog every morning, a gray Labrador called Gunsmoke, who chased rabbits and caught them only in his dreams. Gunsmoke is dead. Joe’s marriage is over. His own dreams are works in progress.
His walk ends in Westbourne Grove. He’ll shower at the office and grab a coffee before his first patient arrives. As he turns the corner he becomes conscious that something is wrong. Carmen is standing on the footpath, chatting to the owner of the Laundromat downstairs.
Spying Joe, she lets out a sympathetic hiccup and hugs him. “Someone broke in,” she says in a dramatic whisper. “They made such a mess.”
Joe holds her away and glances at the outer door, which shows no signs of damage. “Have you called the police?”
She nods.
“Did you touch anything?”
“No.”
Joe sends Carmen home, ignoring her protests. Then he climbs three flights of stairs, stepping over broken glass outside his office door. On the opposite side of the corridor is a bathroom. A wet stain leaks across the carpet. Joe pushes open the door. The cistern has been kicked from the wall and papers are wedged into the toilet bowl.
Entering the office, he finds more damage. Carmen’s Ficus tree is lying on its side, the clay pot shattered, spilling soil onto the carpet. His matching leather armchairs have been slashed open, gaping like carcasses at a slaughterhouse. The glass coffee table is undisturbed but has been decorated with a brown turd that curls like a cinnamon scroll.
Files are scattered across the floor. Joe steps over them and takes a handkerchief from his pocket. He covers his fingers and lifts the catch on the window, sliding it upwards. Leaning out, he looks at the fire escape and a rear courtyard full of rubbish bins and flattened cardboard boxes. A lone pigeon flutters from the rooftop. Joe turns and studies the office again. As each moment passes the scene appears more like a reproduction, skilfully done, the details exact yet lacking authenticity.
Retreating downstairs, he waits two hours for the police. In the meantime he calls a locksmith and a glazier and a cleaning company, putting them on standby. The two constables introduce themselves as Collie and Denholm. Barely out of probation, they’re wearing new uniforms, yet have an end-of-shift weariness, as
Charlie is sleeping in the spare room. She’s off school for the week and visiting her dead-old dad, but going home in two days. Why do expensive private schools have the longest holidays? Quality must beat quantity or it’s wasted money.
Joe dresses in a tracksuit and running shoes. He kisses his daughter on the forehead before leaving, telling Charlie he’ll be home early. She stirs and rolls over, mumbling something that sounds more like a protest than a goodbye.
At a quarter past seven the sun has risen above the rooftops and painted the highest leaves on the tallest trees in Kensington Gardens. Joe used to laugh at people who exercised every morning: the joggers and gym rats clad in Lycra and expensive trainers, sweating their way to a longer life. Now the muscle memory of youth has faded and Mr. Parkinson is dancing through his joints, exercise and diet have become more important. He has lost twenty pounds since he moved back to London. Before he could pinch the fat above the waistband of his boxer shorts, but now he’s leaner and fitter. A man has to look his best if he’s going to win back his wife.
A young woman jogs past him. He follows her tightly clad bottom and quickens his stride. When he lived in Wellow he walked a dog every morning, a gray Labrador called Gunsmoke, who chased rabbits and caught them only in his dreams. Gunsmoke is dead. Joe’s marriage is over. His own dreams are works in progress.
His walk ends in Westbourne Grove. He’ll shower at the office and grab a coffee before his first patient arrives. As he turns the corner he becomes conscious that something is wrong. Carmen is standing on the footpath, chatting to the owner of the Laundromat downstairs.
Spying Joe, she lets out a sympathetic hiccup and hugs him. “Someone broke in,” she says in a dramatic whisper. “They made such a mess.”
Joe holds her away and glances at the outer door, which shows no signs of damage. “Have you called the police?”
She nods.
“Did you touch anything?”
“No.”
Joe sends Carmen home, ignoring her protests. Then he climbs three flights of stairs, stepping over broken glass outside his office door. On the opposite side of the corridor is a bathroom. A wet stain leaks across the carpet. Joe pushes open the door. The cistern has been kicked from the wall and papers are wedged into the toilet bowl.
Entering the office, he finds more damage. Carmen’s Ficus tree is lying on its side, the clay pot shattered, spilling soil onto the carpet. His matching leather armchairs have been slashed open, gaping like carcasses at a slaughterhouse. The glass coffee table is undisturbed but has been decorated with a brown turd that curls like a cinnamon scroll.
Files are scattered across the floor. Joe steps over them and takes a handkerchief from his pocket. He covers his fingers and lifts the catch on the window, sliding it upwards. Leaning out, he looks at the fire escape and a rear courtyard full of rubbish bins and flattened cardboard boxes. A lone pigeon flutters from the rooftop. Joe turns and studies the office again. As each moment passes the scene appears more like a reproduction, skilfully done, the details exact yet lacking authenticity.
Retreating downstairs, he waits two hours for the police. In the meantime he calls a locksmith and a glazier and a cleaning company, putting them on standby. The two constables introduce themselves as Collie and Denholm. Barely out of probation, they’re wearing new uniforms, yet have an end-of-shift weariness, as
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