The Minnow by Diana Sweeney Page B

everything’s wet and well mixed. It takes a certain amount of water, doesn’t it, before the mix is right?’
    â€˜I’ve never made concrete.’
    â€˜Okay. But are you with me?’
    This is what Jonathan does. He gets me thinking about a subject. He calls it the ‘primary engagement’. He then throws in something that seems totally irrelevant. He calls this the ‘expansion point’. Concrete is his cue for me to expand my thinking. Jonathan says our minds are magnificent, and not only do they cope with the unexpected they thrive on it.
    â€˜Concrete is like a cake. The ingredients need to be exact for it to work,’ I say, thinking out loud.
    â€˜Exact?’
    â€˜Yes. Sponge cakes require the exact ingredients.’ Mum told me the secret to the perfect sponge was precision.
    â€˜Go on. Remember not to limit your thinking.’
    I stop for a moment. Dad used to say his best ideas were never planned.
    â€˜I have the exact amount of water in a bucket. The bucket leans over the cement mixer and the Brandon amount spills in. When one of Brandon’s friends starts drawing the feet first, the bucket tips in a bit more water. Another friend joins in, another and another, until, whoosh, the bucket has tipped past the point of no return and all the water falls into the mixer.’
    â€˜Excellent. What’s your reasoning?’
    â€˜I’m thinking that the tipping point was the size of Brandon’s group of friends. It was large enough to produce the trend that caused the class to embrace Brandon’s style.’
    â€˜Tom, I think you’ve made your case.’
    â€˜So, Tom,’ says Sergeant Griffin, unclipping his seatbelt and turning to face me. He has driven me to Jonah’s house, even though I said I would rather row home.
    â€˜So…?’ I answer.
    â€˜Tom, don’t play games. What were you doing at the boatshed?’
    â€˜Sorry, Sergeant Griffin.’ I’m still trying to figure out how he knew I was there. ‘Please don’t tell Dr Patek.’
    â€˜Listen to me, young lady,’ he says, jabbing his finger in the air. ‘This has nothing to do with Dr Patek and everything to do with you not cooperating with the police.’ Sweat beads on his chin. He loosens his tie and pulls at the collar of his shirt.
    â€˜I have cooperated, Sergeant Griffin. Why can’t I go to the boatshed?’
    â€˜Because you’re a fifteen-year-old pregnant girl ,’ he says, almost shouting, ‘and you could be in danger. We still have no idea who those men are—and Bill has been missing since they turned up.’ He sucks in a deep breath, then exhales loudly.
    â€˜Sorry, Sergeant Griffin.’ I unclip my seatbelt.
    â€˜Listen, Tom,’ Sergeant Griffin says, in a voice that is more familiar. ‘I hate to get angry with you, especially after everything you’ve gone through. But this is my town and you’re my responsibility. You understand?’
    I nod, yes. I have to get out of the car before I suffocate, and I push open the door and haul myself out. Sergeant Griffin leans across and catches my eye. ‘Don’t make things any harder than they need to be, Tom.’
    As I walk down the drive to Jonah’s house, I realise the binoculars are still around my neck.
    Jonathan Whiting used to be a lawyer. He retired when he turned seventy, but he still works as a consultant to keep his brain active.
    â€˜I have a task for you,’ he says as we pull into the car park. Tasks can be anything. One time he handed me a Rubik’s Cube and asked if I could fix it. I thought I was doing him a favour.
    â€˜N.i.b.l.i.c.k,’ he says, spelling a word. ‘I want you to look it up and give it an origin.’
    I grab my notebook and write down ‘niblick’ and ‘origin’ and wait for more instructions.
    â€˜One week from today,’ he says, ‘I’m playing in