Free Vernon God Little by Tanya Ronder, D. B. C. Pierre Page B

day.'
    I try to dodge the spike of panic you get when you hear yourself fixing to bawl. 'Things had already started when I got back.'
    'Where had you been?' asks Goosens.
    'I got held up, running an errand.'
    'Vernon, you're not on trial here - please be specific.'
    'I needed the bathroom on the way back from an errand Mr Nuckles sent me on.'
    'The school bathroom?'
    'No.'
    'You took a leak outside school?' He leans his head over, as if the information might splat in his face.
    'Uh - not a leak, actually.'
    'You had a bowel movement, outside school? At the time of the tragedy?'
    'Sometimes I can be kind of unpredictable.'
    Silence fills the forty years Fate gives me to recognize the import of things. This would never happen to Van Damme. Heroes never shit. They only fuck and kill.
    A shine comes to Goosens's eyes. 'You told the court this?'
    'Hell no.'
    He blinks and folds his arms. 'Forgive me, but - forensically, doesn't a fresh stool, situated away from the scene of the crimes - automatically rule you out as a suspect? Fecal matter can be accurately dated, you know.'
    'I guess that's right, huh?' You can tell Goosens is giving me extra service. He's only supposed to suck information for the court, but here he is, prepared to take a chance and give me a revelation along the way. He clamps his lips tight, to hit home the significance of it all. Then his eyes fall.
    'I hear you say you're kind of - unpredictable?'
    'It's no big deal,' I draw circles on the floor with a Nike.
    'Is it a diagnosed condition - sphincter weakness, or suchlike?'
    'Nah. Anyway, I almost don't get it anymore.'
    Goosens runs his tongue over his upper lip. 'Alrighty, so tell me - do you like girls, Vernon?'
    'Sure.'
    'Can you name a girl you like?'
    'Taylor Figueroa.'

    He chews his lip, and makes a note in the file. 'Have you had physical contact with her?'
    'Kind of.'
    'What do you remember most about your contact with her?'
    'Her smell, I guess.'
    Goosens frowns into the file, and makes another entry. Then he sits back. 'Vernon - have you ever felt attraction towards another boy? Or a man?'
    'No way.'
    'Alrighty. Let's see what we can discover.'
    He reaches for the stereo and presses 'Play'. A military drum beats out, softly at first, but growing in power, threatening, like a bear coming out of a cave, or a bear going into the cave, and you're in the fucken cave.
    'Gustav Holst,' says Goosens. 'The Planets - Mars. This'll rouse some glory in a boy's soul.' He walks to the bed and smacks it with the flat of his hand. The powerdime takes a reckless shift.
    'Get undressed for me, please, and come lie up here.'
    'Un-dressed?'
    'Sure - to finish the exam. We psychiatrists are medical doctors first, you know - don't confuse us with your everyday psychologists.'
    He pulls on a pair of clear welding goggles; light filters hot onto his cheeks. Folding my Calvin Kleins takes a while, in order to stop loose change falling from the pocket. Even though my loose change is in a plastic bag at the sheriff's office. Brass stomps black and twisted over the drums from the stereo as I climb onto the bed. Goosens points at my underwear.
    'Off, please.'
    A thought comes to me; it is that a breeze on the butt, in the presence of supermarket lighting, should only be felt by the dead. I'm a naked fucken animal. But even naked animals need bail.
    Especially naked animals need it.
    'On your stomach,' says Goosens. 'Spread your legs.'
    'Ta-t-t-t, TA-TA-TA.' Musical hellfire accompanies the touch of two fingers on my back. They trace a line down my body, then turn into hands, and grab both cheeks of my ass.
    'Relax,' he whispers, spreading my cheeks. 'Does this make you think of Taylor?'
    'TA-TA-TA, TA-T-T-T!'
    'Or - something else?' His breathing quickens with the march of his fingers, they trace a tightening circle around the rim of my hole. A line of violent cussing forms in my throat. The bail thought stops it.
    'Doctor, this don't seem right,' I say. What a fuckhole, I