Free Shtum by Jem Lester Page A

coming from him, don’t you think? Every time I ask him for something, it’s like giving up a little piece of my soul.’
    ‘Ben, I can’t cope with being your emotional punchbag. We need to win this and we both need to recover, do you see? Everything else is secondary. That is my reality. I cannot be responsible for yours.’
    ‘What is all this psychobabble? You blame Jonah.’
    ‘No, Ben, no. I love and adore Jonah, but I’ve forgotten how to love myself and I’m not sure you ever did.’
    ‘Love you?’
    ‘No, yourself, you fool.’
    We smile at each other and she takes my hand. ‘Who will fight for Jonah if we’re both wrecked? Where’s the sense in it? Now, Georg?’
    ‘I have to tell you he’s not keen on Jonah moving away.’
    ‘Then persuade him. He’ll come round.’
    ‘Persuade Dad?’
    ‘All right, grovel – I don’t care.’
    I put the phones back in my bag and we both stare at the table. My Americano has gone cold. It’s a strangers’ silence, an awkward blind date silence filled with an imbalance of desires – one to leave, the other desperate to prevent departure. It’s all businesslike again.
    ‘Now, what are you going to do this afternoon, Ben?’
    ‘Phone the barrister.’
    ‘Don’t forget.’
    ‘I won’t. I’ll call you when I have some news.’
    ‘Okay, but can’t you just email me? It’ll be better if you email, practically speaking. Can’t always get to the phone.’ She sees my face drop and puts her hand on my cheek. ‘This is the best way, trust me, it will all be worth it.’
    She blows me a kiss from the door and is gone, striding back to her legal bolt-hole where she claims to clean up other people’s mess and shit just like I do, yet hers is just a euphemism. And I think about money and I think about work, but like an angry reminder of a bill unpaid, which if I ignore it long enough will miraculously disappear, the warehouse is a personal hell I also push from my mind.
    She was here and now she’s gone again and I’m a worm dangling on a line. I wish I’d recorded the conversation, so I could type it up and pore over the transcript, a proofreader genuinely searching for proof.

HIGHGROVE MANOR SCHOOL
    FOR CHILDREN AND YOUNG ADULTS WITH AUTISM

    Highgrove Lane, Highgrove, Oxfordshire OX7 3RG

    12 March 2011
    Dear Mr Jewell
    Our head of school, Linda Phillips, has now had the opportunity to observe Jonah during a day at Roysten Glen School and I would like to invite both you and Jonah to Highgrove Manor, so that our teaching and therapy teams can assess him and his suitability, while I will give you a tour of the campus and talk you through our role in the tribunal process.
    I have set aside March 19 and if you could arrive by 10 a.m. it would be appreciated.
    I enclose a map.
    Kindest regards
    Susan Atwater
Director of Education

‘Oh my God, this boy’s tochas is a shit cannon. Ben, get me a plastic bag, quickly. That’s the third today, already.’
    ‘His arse is as unpredictable as he is.’
    Dad washes his hands like a surgeon and repeats the process with Jonah. I get him coated and shod while Dad wastes half a tin of air freshener.
    ‘He’s no worse than you,’ I quip.
    ‘Really? When you get to my age things tend to slow down.’
    Jonah is secure in the back, with an apple in one hand and a feather in the other. The sky is clear, the sun low and I blow smoke into its rays before getting in the car. ‘What’s the postcode? It’s on the letter.’
    ‘OX7 3RG. Do you want me to direct you?’
    ‘No, it’s fine, I’ll use the SatNav.’
    ‘Again with the Satmap.’
    ‘It’s great for deliveries.’
    ‘Does Valentine use one?’
    ‘I bought him one.’
    ‘Ha, he has probably given it to one of his kids.’
    After refreshing and refreshing, the screen finally becomes a full-colour map of the surrounding area and calculates both distance and arrival time. Dad’s interest is piqued.
    ‘Let me look at this