‘Listen, boy,’ said the man. ‘We’re not troubling you, and don’t
you trouble us.’ They moved away from Clive.
Clive slept in the street that night. On the road the next day
he waved at a passing car, which took him to another town,
nearer his hometown. That day’s newspapers did not have any
more news about the murders. In another cafe that evening he
had a similar conversation, this time with two young men. They
didn’t believe him, either.
Next day he stopped a few more cars, and finally reached his
hometown. He went straight to the police station.
‘I have something important to say about a murder,’ he told
the policeman sitting at a desk. He was sent to the office of a
police officer who had grey hair and a fat face. Clive told his
story.
‘Where do you go to school, Clive?’
‘I don’t. I’m eighteen.’ He told him about his job.
‘Clive, you’ve got troubles, but they’re not the ones you’re
talking about,’ said the officer.
Clive had to wait in a small room in the police station, and
nearly an hour later a doctor was brought in. Then his mother.
They didn’t believe him. They said he was just telling this story to
attract attention to himself.
‘Clive needs a man around the house,’ his mother told them;
‘someone who can teach him to behave like a man. Since he was
fourteen he’s been asking me questions like “Who am I?” and
“Am I a person?’”
The policeman told Clive he must see the doctor twice a
week for treatment.
Clive was very angry. He refused to go back to the
supermarket, but found another delivery job.
‘They haven’t found the murderer, have they?’ Clive said to
the doctor on one of his visits. ‘You’re all stupid – stupid!’
The doctor only laughed at him.
(^)