The Dead I Know by Scot Gardner Page B

visited the post office and the bank. He handed me a fold of cash.
    ‘Payday,’ he said. ‘More next week if you behave.’
    I couldn’t bear to look at it. I beamed back, stuffed it in my pocket and thanked him in a whisper.
    I studied the guide between eating sandwich fingers, and again in the afternoon while John discussed arrangements with the families of Amanda Creen and the late Eamon Walsh – the motorcyclist. The road rules seemed logical for the most part; the only real challenges were remembering safe distances and the meaning of obscure signs. I carried the book with me everywhere that afternoon – to the storeroom while I made up Eamon Walsh’s coffin (another Crenmore Eternity), to the toilet and to the main residence for afternoon tea. I was flicking the pages and testing myself when Skye got home from school.
    Without hesitation and without greeting her parents, she flopped beside me on the couch. ‘What are you reading?’
    I showed her the cover and she read aloud.
    ‘Ooh! Can I test you? Taylor let me test him when he was . . .’
    I handed her the book. Somehow John Barton’s generosity seemed diluted by the knowledge that he’d done this before. This was a well-worn route. Who was I to challenge the natural process of things? Perhaps Ishould be buying presents for Skye and giving her my pay? Perhaps I should be in the mortuary fondling men? The thought made me shiver.
    ‘Are you okay, Robot?’
    I nodded.
    ‘Sorry,’ she said.
    ‘What for?’
    ‘Talking about Taylor.’
    ‘Don’t be silly. You can talk about him as much as you like.’
    She nodded once, unconvinced, and then flipped the book open. ‘Where are you up to? Which questions should I read?’
    ‘Any. All of them.’
    She made an O with her lips and clapped her hands.
    For half an hour she did her best to trip me up. I was concentrating so hard that I didn’t realize we’d attracted a crowd. When I looked up, John and Mrs Barton were staring from the kitchen.
    I stood, reflexively, with the blood charging to my cheeks.
    ‘What?’ John asked.
    ‘I . . . perhaps there’s something else I should be doing?’
    He waved for me to sit. ‘When you’re done with the questions, perhaps you could give Skye a hand with her homework? Only fair, after all.’
    He was joking, but Skye jumped on the idea and flipped my book on the couch.
    ‘Skye?’ Mrs Barton chided.
    John patted her hand, then gave his daughter a grin.
    We did surface areas of simple squares in mathematics. We deduced the culprit in a whodunit exercise for science. We shaded the continents on a world map and I listened to her read from her reader.
    ‘That’s enough, Skye. You’ll wear him out!’ Mrs Barton said.
    ‘He’s fine, aren’t you, Robot?’
    I felt that Mrs Barton was talking to me, so I stood. ‘We have a little more work to do,’ John said. ‘Nearly time we let the boy go home.’
    Skye groaned.
    I thanked her, collected my book and followed John to the office. He ushered me into a seat and I had the uneasy feeling a lecture was coming.
    He was shaking his head again, but smiling at the same time. ‘You really are a mystery, Aaron Rowe.’
    ‘Sorry,’ I said. It was half-question, half-apology.
    ‘No, I mean . . .’
    He sighed and took a folder from a drawer.
    ‘Your school counsellor, Andy Robertson, is a close friend. We’re from the same church. When we discussed you, he warned me that you could be reticent, moody and unreachable. That you struggled with every aspect of schoolwork and no amount of personal intervention changed that.’
    I bowed my head. It was true, of course. Robertson had seen the worst of me for more than a year. He knew more than most.
    ‘He forgot to mention that you’re as sharp as a needle, naturally dexterous and wise beyond your years. Where was that hiding when you were at school?’
    I had no answer and nowhere to hide.
    ‘I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable, but I do want you to feel you’re safe