place he wouldn’t let anyone in at all, including himself.
The water poured down his body. Brody made quick work of washing. He wondered how much older he looked now than when he’d last seen himself clearly. He remembered exactly when that was and, ironically, it hadn’t been clear at all. He’d been making Max laugh at the fairground hall of mirrors and his torso appeared ten feet wide with a tiny head and stumpy legs. Even then, he knew something was wrong. His son jumped about, giggling at the sight of his unrecognisable father. Some last memory of myself, he thought, turning off the tap and wiping his hands over his hair. An image frozen in time.
Brody dried himself quickly and dressed in fresh clothes. ‘Take them from the left,’ Fiona told him every time she put away his laundry when it came back from the cleaners. ‘If you take a pair of trousers from the left and a shirt from the left, they’ll match. I organised them that way.’ He didn’t like to admit he needed her.
‘Nasty,’ he heard her say when he came back into the living room, towel-drying his hair.
‘What is?’
‘This book. How to Survive the Playground . It’s grim what goes on.’
‘A metaphor for life,’ Brody roared. ‘You’re going to read it to me. After we’ve had lunch at the greasy spoon.’ He let his towel fall on the floor. He heard Fiona sigh.
‘Why do we have to eat at that dump? My insides still haven’t unclogged from Chef’s Special.’
‘We’re going to study some youth.’
Fiona stood, jangled her car keys. ‘Spying on kids again? I don’t get it. And what’s with the book on bullying?’ She picked up her bag. ‘I want to know.’ There was silence. ‘Are you collecting data for some new research paper or is it simply Professor Quinell going insane?’
‘Neither,’ he said. ‘But if you put up with another greasy lunch, I’ll tell you.’
They had to wait a while. Half of the tables were occupied by kids from the comprehensive a couple of blocks away. The rest were populated by the usual group of old folk, workmen and single mums cluttering up the small space with pushchairs. Edie was waitressing again. She wiped her hands down her front when she saw Brody and Fiona; gave them a sticky menu to peruse as they waited in line.
‘They’re not here yet.’ Brody leant against the wall. More customers pushed in behind them, getting trapped in the doorway. ‘Can’t hear their voices. I can’t smell them,’ he snarled.
‘Who’s not here yet?’
‘The ones we’re going to watch. The year elevens. They’re in class until twelve forty-five. By the time they’ve packed up their books, taken a piss, and walked down here, it’ll be one o’clock easily.’
‘Brody.’ Fiona cleared her throat. ‘I don’t mean to sound off or, you know, at all doubting of your motives, but . . .’ she paused. ‘But it’s a little creepy that you know the local school’s timetable. Eating here is bad enough, but stalking children?’
‘That’s where you’re wrong. We’re monitoring, not stalking.’
Fiona dropped her face into her hands.
‘And because I have you with me for cover, no one will think us suspicious.’
‘Your table’s ready, Prof Quinell,’ Edie sang in place of Fiona’s retort.
They sat, drank tea and waited. The café was noisy, steamy and hot. Fiona put off ordering food as long as she could, telling Brody that service was slow, that their waitress kept passing them by, that she’d signalled she’d be over to them soon.
Brody touched his watch. He stood up and yelled. ‘Can we get some service here, please?’ The café fell silent.
‘Brody, sit down. You’re making a scene.’ Fiona pulled his sleeve. ‘They’ve just walked in. Same youths that were here last time.’ Edie came up to their table. ‘Chef’s Specials twice,’ Fiona said resignedly. She just wouldn’t eat hers.
Brody leant forward across the table. His eyes were intense, scanning
The water poured down his body. Brody made quick work of washing. He wondered how much older he looked now than when he’d last seen himself clearly. He remembered exactly when that was and, ironically, it hadn’t been clear at all. He’d been making Max laugh at the fairground hall of mirrors and his torso appeared ten feet wide with a tiny head and stumpy legs. Even then, he knew something was wrong. His son jumped about, giggling at the sight of his unrecognisable father. Some last memory of myself, he thought, turning off the tap and wiping his hands over his hair. An image frozen in time.
Brody dried himself quickly and dressed in fresh clothes. ‘Take them from the left,’ Fiona told him every time she put away his laundry when it came back from the cleaners. ‘If you take a pair of trousers from the left and a shirt from the left, they’ll match. I organised them that way.’ He didn’t like to admit he needed her.
‘Nasty,’ he heard her say when he came back into the living room, towel-drying his hair.
‘What is?’
‘This book. How to Survive the Playground . It’s grim what goes on.’
‘A metaphor for life,’ Brody roared. ‘You’re going to read it to me. After we’ve had lunch at the greasy spoon.’ He let his towel fall on the floor. He heard Fiona sigh.
‘Why do we have to eat at that dump? My insides still haven’t unclogged from Chef’s Special.’
‘We’re going to study some youth.’
Fiona stood, jangled her car keys. ‘Spying on kids again? I don’t get it. And what’s with the book on bullying?’ She picked up her bag. ‘I want to know.’ There was silence. ‘Are you collecting data for some new research paper or is it simply Professor Quinell going insane?’
‘Neither,’ he said. ‘But if you put up with another greasy lunch, I’ll tell you.’
They had to wait a while. Half of the tables were occupied by kids from the comprehensive a couple of blocks away. The rest were populated by the usual group of old folk, workmen and single mums cluttering up the small space with pushchairs. Edie was waitressing again. She wiped her hands down her front when she saw Brody and Fiona; gave them a sticky menu to peruse as they waited in line.
‘They’re not here yet.’ Brody leant against the wall. More customers pushed in behind them, getting trapped in the doorway. ‘Can’t hear their voices. I can’t smell them,’ he snarled.
‘Who’s not here yet?’
‘The ones we’re going to watch. The year elevens. They’re in class until twelve forty-five. By the time they’ve packed up their books, taken a piss, and walked down here, it’ll be one o’clock easily.’
‘Brody.’ Fiona cleared her throat. ‘I don’t mean to sound off or, you know, at all doubting of your motives, but . . .’ she paused. ‘But it’s a little creepy that you know the local school’s timetable. Eating here is bad enough, but stalking children?’
‘That’s where you’re wrong. We’re monitoring, not stalking.’
Fiona dropped her face into her hands.
‘And because I have you with me for cover, no one will think us suspicious.’
‘Your table’s ready, Prof Quinell,’ Edie sang in place of Fiona’s retort.
They sat, drank tea and waited. The café was noisy, steamy and hot. Fiona put off ordering food as long as she could, telling Brody that service was slow, that their waitress kept passing them by, that she’d signalled she’d be over to them soon.
Brody touched his watch. He stood up and yelled. ‘Can we get some service here, please?’ The café fell silent.
‘Brody, sit down. You’re making a scene.’ Fiona pulled his sleeve. ‘They’ve just walked in. Same youths that were here last time.’ Edie came up to their table. ‘Chef’s Specials twice,’ Fiona said resignedly. She just wouldn’t eat hers.
Brody leant forward across the table. His eyes were intense, scanning
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