People in Season by Simon Fay Page B

Alistair pines.
    ‘And when was the last time you saw him?’ Ava asks, unconvinced. ‘It’s lovely for the right occasion, Alistair. A school reunion, a wedding, a funeral, that kind of thing. But you need something a bit more subdued for your profession.’
    From here, Alistair might as well just be a hand Ava has taken along. Everything else happens between her and the salesclerk until they’re in another taxi with a tote bag dangling unnoticed in Alistair’s fingers.
    ‘I hate these sleeping drivers,’ Ava complains, despising the bald, speckled skull of the man at the wheel.
    ‘They never have anything interesting to say when they’re awake,’ Alistair says. ‘You want to hear about his kids? His gambling? I get enough of that from my subjects.’
    Ava sits quietly, considering if she wants to accept the point, then, turning away from him to look at the stumpy buildings of Dublin swish by, she asks, ‘Why should they get paid to sleep? It’s health and safety gone mad. Like he’d wake up in time to do anything helpful if there were an accident.’
    The doctor barks. ‘You’ve got a social agent in your office, picking people’s heads apart, and you’re saying the taxi drivers are a health and safety issue gone mad.’
    ‘They are. Anyway, they’re just as bad,’ Ava cuts through his laughter. As an afterthought, she says, ‘It’s a world of nanny states. Whoever got your medical license suspended is a part of it. You could be changing people’s lives right now and they won’t let you near the sick. And I bet you’re the best doctor in the city.’
    Alistair sours in agreement with her assessment. Sinking into his jacket, it’s like he’s fallen into a bog, and sapped of energy, his suit shoulders push up to his neck. In a dearth of emotion, he seems to be peering out from something inanimate. It’s that same expression he gets when he studies his reflection, only there’s some foreboding movement in the black pools of his eyes. Ava doesn’t notice.
    ‘For crying out loud,’ she mumbles. ‘He’s snoring.’
    ‘I hear that,’ Alistair says, a warning in his voice.
    ‘He’s getting paid for it too. We’re giving him money for this.’
    The doctor does not deign to reply.
    Arriving at her apartment, the engine murmurs tensely. Ava leans forward to insert her card, but stops when she’s interrupted. Alistair is lightly tapping the glass that separates them from the man in the driver’s seat. He calls to him and the man snores louder again, choking on some phlegm that gurgles in his throat.
    ‘Hey!’ Alistair shouts.
    Ava jumps. ‘Oh, leave it. What do you want from him?’
    ‘You don’t like sleeping drivers,’ his tone, coated in sugar, matches the one he used to deliver her a bouquet of flowers, ‘I’m waking him for you.’
    ‘We’re already home, Alistair, I don’t care anymore.’
    Tightly linked to her on the back seat, he shows her a blank smile, their faces so close she can see the cogs grinding to dislodge a trapped thought, and as the moment passes, he turns back to the window in front of them and sinks lower into the seat, pulling his overcoat up to give his legs room to manoeuvre. Ava is about to ask what he’s doing when his foot springs up and out, smashing the heel of his loafer against the glass to make a crack that grows a leg.
    ‘Alistair! You’re going to get glass all over us!’
    His foot smashes the window, which shatters into jagged marbles, and his heel clips the driver’s ear as it breaks through. Dazed, the driver groans and searches for a wound with a shaking hand. Having flung the door open, Ava pulls Alistair with her as she shimmies out of the car, makes sure to hide her face from the dashboard camera, and brushes pebbles of glass off her skirt as she stands on the path. Alistair is shouting abuse at the car as they walk away, taunting the driver whose hand trembles all the more as he finds blood on it. When they’re around the corner, Ava