Free Game Theory by Barry Jonsberg Page A

I’m just not sure what good you think I’ll be.’
    ‘She’s your sister.’
    It wasn’t an answer. It was a statement of fact. And then, suddenly, I realised. Mum didn’t want me there to offer assistance. She wanted me to witness. This is what happens when you screw up, Jamie. There are consequences to your actions and those consequences can be terrible. A prison cell. Humiliation. Pain and suffering for your family. Watch all this carefully. Learn. And never, never do to me what your sister has done. It was unfair, but understandable. In a way, I was being punished for Summer’s crimes, whatever they were. Like finding a pile of crap in the kitchen and rubbing a dog’s nose in it. Any dog, not necessarily the culprit. This is what transgression smells like. This is the odour of judgement. Inhale. And be scared.
    Then again, I was nothing like Summerlee and Mum knew I would never deliberately get in trouble with the law. So maybe it was a different kind of punishment. Maybe I was being forced to think about all those occasions when I could have helped Mumout, but didn’t. This is the world I’ve always had to deal with, Jamie. Now you know how it feels. If that was the case, then I wasn’t the only person who should have been in the car. Dad also abdicated responsibility; how many times had he put up sandbags against a rising tide of troubles and let Mum do the baling when it all spilled over?
    The beauty of game theory is that it makes you constantly examine how other people might react to situations, but it’s also a pain in the arse for the same reason. It was the middle of the night, I was tired and these thoughts buzzed round in my head, offering possibilities but skirting insight.
    I wound down the car window and let the cool night air bathe me. It smelled of rain.
    Mum found a parking space outside the cop shop. The station was brightly lit, curiously welcoming in a way. Come on in. It’s nice and warm and safe in here. Mum walked quickly, purpose in her paces, and I trailed a couple of metres behind. I hadn’t tied my shoelaces in the car and I worried I’d trip myself up. The waiting area was spartan: a few straight-backed chairs against the walls, a reception desk that was deserted. Someone had made an effort to brighten up the walls by fixing posters at intervals. Helplines. Something about Neighbourhood Watch. There weren’t even any magazines to while away the time, but I guess a police station is not a doctor’s waiting room. Car thieves reading Motoring Weekly . Mum went straight to the desk and pinged one of thoseold-fashioned bells that have a button on the top. The sound echoed through the building, but no one came. You could steal these chairs , I thought, and make a clean getaway . Mum muttered and jingled the car keys again. Summerlee was somewhere here, and that was a strange, disturbing thought. It was difficult to imagine cells behind those neat doors, places with bars and the taste of hopelessness. Much easier to imagine neat cubicles where people peered at computer screens and ate takeaway sandwiches at their desks.
    Mum was about to ring the bell again when a burly officer in uniform appeared as if from nowhere. He was wiping his face with the side of a hand, possibly brushing crumbs away. He had a cardboard cup of what looked like coffee in his other hand.
    ‘Good morning, ma’am,’ he said to Mum. ‘How can I help you?’ ‘I’m Janet Delaware. I believe you have my daughter, Summerlee, here.’
    ‘Ah, yes,’ said the cop. ‘We certainly do. Please take a seat, Ms Delaware. The arresting officer will be right with you.’ He picked up a phone on the desk and pressed a button. Mum stood for a moment as if unsure whether to follow the instruction or attempt to listen in to the conversation. In the end, she turned away and sat down beneath a poster publicising a twenty-four-hour drug support line. Almost immediately she started jingling her car keys. It made an annoying