by Casey Watson
‘You don’t say,’ Gary observed wryly.
Julia acknowledged his comment with a trace of a smile. Then removed it. ‘But the most important thing is that she’s unpredictable, volatile and can apparently be very violent. She might have a kind of Tourette’s thing going on too – though that’s not been diagnosed – and we’re fairly sure she’ll end up having to go somewhere more specialised, but Mike’s agreed to take her temporarily – again, I hope you’re all happy with this, at least in principle, as long as she is manageable – so that she can be observed and formally assessed. Again, we’re thinking she should split her time between the learni– er,’ she stopped then, and listened. ‘Er … is that what I think it is?’ She then burst out laughing.
As well she might. As well might everyone else. Which everyone else did. Yes, it was definitely going to be that sort of day. Because what they could hear was some kind of rap-like singing … a ringtone my phone didn’t have last time it rang but which I knew, I just knew, it had now. With the volume set to maximum.
Flipping Kieron.
‘I’ll kill him,’ I growled, albeit to no one in particular, as I plucked my handbag from the floor beside my chair. ‘I’m sorry. Hang on. I’ll have my hand on it in just a minute … just got to … hang on. Nope … ah, maybe it’s here …’ I burbled on, realising I couldn’t actually remember where I’d put it, and cursing the day when I’d set the number of rings before it went to the answerphone, on the basis of the length of time it always seemed to take for me to find it in my bag. Oh, the bitter irony.
And that’s when the day got even worse. ‘Hang on,’ I said, snatching my satchel up and then, realising it was pinned under my chair leg by the strap, giving it a tug that was a little too much on the forceful side of tugging, meaning that when it suddenly came free, my arm shot in the air at precisely the moment when Gary, beside me, had lifted his hot tea to his lips.
His roar of pain as our forearms connected and the mug left his hand probably lifted the ceiling panels. ‘Jesus H!’ he yelped, leaping from his seat as the tea cascaded over him, and the chair he’d vacated toppled backwards onto the floor.
Jim was up on his feet too, and being closest to the tea things in the corner, grabbed a bottle of mineral water that had fortunately been left there by someone, popped the lid off and sprayed a jet of that over Gary, it being one of those sports types you can squeeze.
‘You okay, mate?’ Jim asked him, once all the water was gone.
Gary looked down, his whole front now a mass of sodden, dripping clothing. And then at me. ‘You know those days?’ he said, as I struggled with a packet of tissues that had – oh, second cruel irony – come immediately to hand. ‘Those days when you get out of bed,’ he went on, ‘and think – hmm, you know what? I suspect it’s going to be one of those days? Hmm,’ he finished, wiggling his sopping tie towards me. ‘That. Or, there’s a thought. Do you think it might have been a poltergeist?’
Find out what happens next.
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