easily have interrupted him in the middle of a sickening and sordid ordeal. He could have been holding a blunt butcher’s knife under her neck, urging her to come clean about where all the goodies in the house were stashed. And the mad thing is, even though I was the man of the house, I didn’t know what to do in a situation like this, or who to scream to, or who to phone. I didn’t really know how to fight.
I whistled really loudly. I whistled to a flock of imaginary birds.
“Dylan, I’m okay.”
I kept whistling, getting louder and louder.
“Dylan, I’m okay, honestly.”
But I didn’t believe her, so I hotfooted it straight for the kitchen to make sure the whispering man hadn’t been pressing the knife into Mom’s throat, forcing her to say those things to me. This beast obviously thought Dylan Mint would roll over and say, “No problemo, Mom,” then head up to bed and play some tunes while he was playing devil in the kitchen. This geezer thought Dylan Mint was some sort of eejit.
“EVIL CUNT PEDOPHILE.” I burst through the kitchen door and scowled at the man. Twitched like crazy. This fellow wasn’t holding a blunt butcher’s knife in his hand, nor was he raping Mom. In fact, Mom and the whispering man were sat at each end of the table, having a nice cup of tea. Confused dot com. My head was fuzzy. I punched my thigh four times. Twitched three times. The whispering man stood up from the table and extended his hand for me to shake. I didn’t. I kept my hands firmly at my side. No stranger was touching me. I’d have him locked up in solitary forever and ever. He’d become someone’s bitch behind bars if he didn’t watch his step. Super rapido, he would. Facedown in the showers.
“You, young man, must be Dylan.”
I looked at Mom. She smiled as though she’d done something incredibly wrong.
“Are you from my school?” I asked him, which was a stupid question, because if he’d been from Drumhill I’d have seen him cutting about the corridors from time to time. He laughed. I was fed up to the back teeth with people laughing at me.
“Not exactly.”
“The school phoned, by the way, Dylan,” Mom said. “They told me you walked out, just like that.” On the “ just like that” part Mom clicked her two fingers in the air. I must have looked sheepish, because she didn’t seem too angry or pure mad mental. “We’ll talk about this later, okay?”
I wasn’t sure if she wanted an answer to this.
“Okay,” I said. “Are you a policeman?” I asked the man.
He was still standing. He was majorly tall, enough to be a policeman. Not CIA or Special Branch, though. I’d place this maniac outside a soccer stadium checking people’s tickets. In my mind that would be a horrendous job, beaten only by waving heavy traffic through polluted streets in the wind and rain because the traffic lights have failed for the gazillionth time. He laughed at my question.
“UGLY PIG FILTH FUCK . . . Sorry . . . I’m . . .”
“That’s okay, Dylan. And no, I’m not a policeman.”
“Is that your car outside?”
“Yes, it is. Do you like it?”
“It’s in Dad’s space.”
“I didn’t know there were allotted spaces for residents on this road.” I made a mental note to look up “ allotted” in the dictionary, but I had a fair idea what it meant. I’d remember this and impress Mrs. Seed.
“Are you a doctor?” It all made sense then. This man was some sort of specialist doc sent by the National Health Service. The good-news man. Maybe they’d realized that the other doc was terrible at his job and everything he said to patients was pork pies pish. I’d then have to sue his arse for the emotional rampage he had caused us.
“No, I’m not a doctor either, Dylan,” he said, still smiling away like a big massive cat from that town in England where cats smile all the time. He looked at Mom and flashed his eyes toward the ceiling as if to say, Heaven forbid .
“Dylan, stop asking
I whistled really loudly. I whistled to a flock of imaginary birds.
“Dylan, I’m okay.”
I kept whistling, getting louder and louder.
“Dylan, I’m okay, honestly.”
But I didn’t believe her, so I hotfooted it straight for the kitchen to make sure the whispering man hadn’t been pressing the knife into Mom’s throat, forcing her to say those things to me. This beast obviously thought Dylan Mint would roll over and say, “No problemo, Mom,” then head up to bed and play some tunes while he was playing devil in the kitchen. This geezer thought Dylan Mint was some sort of eejit.
“EVIL CUNT PEDOPHILE.” I burst through the kitchen door and scowled at the man. Twitched like crazy. This fellow wasn’t holding a blunt butcher’s knife in his hand, nor was he raping Mom. In fact, Mom and the whispering man were sat at each end of the table, having a nice cup of tea. Confused dot com. My head was fuzzy. I punched my thigh four times. Twitched three times. The whispering man stood up from the table and extended his hand for me to shake. I didn’t. I kept my hands firmly at my side. No stranger was touching me. I’d have him locked up in solitary forever and ever. He’d become someone’s bitch behind bars if he didn’t watch his step. Super rapido, he would. Facedown in the showers.
“You, young man, must be Dylan.”
I looked at Mom. She smiled as though she’d done something incredibly wrong.
“Are you from my school?” I asked him, which was a stupid question, because if he’d been from Drumhill I’d have seen him cutting about the corridors from time to time. He laughed. I was fed up to the back teeth with people laughing at me.
“Not exactly.”
“The school phoned, by the way, Dylan,” Mom said. “They told me you walked out, just like that.” On the “ just like that” part Mom clicked her two fingers in the air. I must have looked sheepish, because she didn’t seem too angry or pure mad mental. “We’ll talk about this later, okay?”
I wasn’t sure if she wanted an answer to this.
“Okay,” I said. “Are you a policeman?” I asked the man.
He was still standing. He was majorly tall, enough to be a policeman. Not CIA or Special Branch, though. I’d place this maniac outside a soccer stadium checking people’s tickets. In my mind that would be a horrendous job, beaten only by waving heavy traffic through polluted streets in the wind and rain because the traffic lights have failed for the gazillionth time. He laughed at my question.
“UGLY PIG FILTH FUCK . . . Sorry . . . I’m . . .”
“That’s okay, Dylan. And no, I’m not a policeman.”
“Is that your car outside?”
“Yes, it is. Do you like it?”
“It’s in Dad’s space.”
“I didn’t know there were allotted spaces for residents on this road.” I made a mental note to look up “ allotted” in the dictionary, but I had a fair idea what it meant. I’d remember this and impress Mrs. Seed.
“Are you a doctor?” It all made sense then. This man was some sort of specialist doc sent by the National Health Service. The good-news man. Maybe they’d realized that the other doc was terrible at his job and everything he said to patients was pork pies pish. I’d then have to sue his arse for the emotional rampage he had caused us.
“No, I’m not a doctor either, Dylan,” he said, still smiling away like a big massive cat from that town in England where cats smile all the time. He looked at Mom and flashed his eyes toward the ceiling as if to say, Heaven forbid .
“Dylan, stop asking
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