He looks down at me, his tongue on his bottom lip, like he’s trying to figure out what’s wrong with me. I could try to tell him, but it would take a while.
“You don’t have to leave yet,” I say. “So, we, um—Well, we may as well see if we can make some progress.”
“Progress,” he repeats.
“On your . . . situation.”
His voice is kind: “Penelope, you already tried.”
“No,” I insist. “Ididn’t.I asked my mum. And then I waited for Simon and Baz. Look, I can’t fix this by myself, but I can maybe help you sort a few things out—maybe something that will come of use later.”
Shepard nods. Carefully. “I mean, I’ll take any help I can get . . .”
“Right.” I close my fingers around the chalk in his palm, then pull my hand away. “Go on then. Sit. And take off your jacket—it’s hot in here.” I look at my blank blackboard. “Right,” I say again. “Let’s start at the beginning. You still haven’t actually told me what happened.”
Shepard is sitting on my sofa, taking off his jacket. “I told you I was cursed by a demon.”
I turn back to him. “You haven’t told me in any detail.”
He pushes up his glasses. “That’s because I feel like you’re going to be very critical and judgmental.”
“Shepard, it’s impossible tothinkwithout being critical and judgmental. That’s literally the process.”
“The way you do it, yes.”
“Come on,” I say, rolling my eyes. “I know you’re dying to tell me. Where did it happen? Dubuque, Iowa? Topeka, Kansas? The banks of the Colorado River?”
He smiles. More sadly than usual. “It happened in Omaha, as a matter of fact.”
“Excellent,” I say, turning to my blackboard. “That’s something we know. Omaha, Nebraska.”
24
AGATHA
Niamh’s shitty Ford Fiesta doesn’t have air-con, so we have to drive all the way to Watford with the windows rolled down. My hair is a mess, and it’s too loud to talk, which would be fine, but now I’m going to have to scream,Turn this car around!for her to hear me.
Back at the surgery, all I could think about was how much I didn’t want to spend the afternoon with Niamh. But now I’m thinking about how much I don’t want to go back to Watford. I haven’tbeenback to Watford. And maybe Ican’tgo back. Maybe I actually can’t manage it.
We’ve left London behind us, and most of the suburbs, and we’re in the countryside now. We’ll see them soon. The Watford gates.
“Niamh,” I say.
She doesn’t hear me.
“Niamh!”
Her head jerks my way.
“Could you pull over?!”
“Why?!”
“I think I’m going to be sick!”
That does it, and it isn’t even a lie. Niamh pulls over to the side of the road. I lean forward, trying to get my head between my knees. My door opens, and Niamh is reaching over my lap to unlatch my seat belt. “You’re all right,” she says.
“I’m really not, thanks.”
