Submarine - By Joe Dunthorne Page 0,2

into his wallet. Blind people also fold their banknotes.

‘Eight thirty,’ he says, looking at his watch. ‘I’ll drive you there.’

‘It’s only on Walter’s Road. I’ll walk.’

‘It’s okay,’ he says. ‘I want to.’

In the car, my dad treats me gently.

‘I’m very impressed’ – he checks his wing mirror, signals right and turns on to Walter’s Road – ‘that you’re doing this, Oliver.’

‘It’s nothing.’

‘But you know, if you want to talk about anything then me and your mum have been through quite a lot, we might be able to help.’

‘What sort of thing?’ I ask.

‘You know – we’re not as innocent as you think,’ he says, with a little sideways glance that can only mean sex parties.

‘I would like to have a chat sometime, Dad.’

‘Oh, that’d be great.’

I smile because I want him to believe we have a chummy rapport. He smiles because he thinks he is a good father.

Dad stops outside the clinic and watches me walk across the forecourt. I wave at him. His face is tensed in a mixture of pride and sorrow.

The practice looks nothing like a hospital. It reminds me of Gran’s house: all banisters and carpet. On the wall is a poster of a spine rearing up like an adder, about to shoot venom. I follow the signs to the waiting room.

No one is at reception. I thumb a doorbell that has been nailed to the desk. It has the words ‘Press for Assistance’ written next to it.

I keep ringing the bell until I hear footsteps from upstairs.

I pick up the Independent from the newspaper rack and sit down on the seat next to an Edensprings watercooler. Although I’m not thirsty, I pour myself a drink just to watch the translucent jellyfish gurgle to the surface.

The seats are shaped to improve posture. I straighten my back. I pretend to read the paper. I am commuting.

A voice says that I must be Mr Tate. I look up and he is standing in front of me holding a clipboard. He has large hands. I recognize him.

‘If you wouldn’t mind filling out this form then we can get started,’ he says, handing me the clipboard. ‘You live at number fifteen, don’t you? You’re Jill’s boy?’ he asks.

I realize that he’s the pansexual who lives on Grovelands Terrace. I’m surprised that pansexuals are allowed to work as receptionists.

I reject the impulse to write a false address.

‘Okay, that’s great. If you’d like to follow me.’

We enter a room with a stretcher-type bed in it and a skeleton, standing in the corner. There is no one in the room but us. The pansexual sits down in the doctor’s chair.

‘Sorry, I don’t know if I’ve introduced myself. I’m Dr Goddard’ – he holds out his hand – ‘but please call me Andrew.’

His hands are even bigger up close. Not true – merely a matter of scale.

‘So then,’ he glances at my form, ‘Oliver. What’s the news?’

I tell him it’s my back. That it hurts.

‘Right, if you wouldn’t mind taking off your gear – everything but your pants – then we can have a look at you.’ By ‘we’ he means ‘I’.

I tell myself not to feel sexually threatened. I am of no special interest; he could just as easily be angling for the printer.

I take off my shoes, then my jeans, but I leave my socks on. Then I take off my jumper and T-shirt in one, saving time.

‘A bad back is often partly to do with lifestyle.’ He taps some keys on his keyboard. ‘Do you spend a lot of time sitting down?’

‘I sit down at school,’ I say. ‘And I sit at my desk in my bedroom in the attic.’

He nods and turns to his computer screen.

‘I can see into all the back gardens on your street,’ I tell him.

He’s reading something, squinting.

‘Uh huh,’ he says.

He keeps tapping the down-arrow key.

I let the information catch up with him. He stops and turns to me. He nods, blinks, then he points at my legs. ‘Oliver, you are tall for your age and you have long femurs. This means that most chairs won’t fit you.’

I rest my hands on my thighs.

‘You’ll find yourself slouching or leaning back too much.’

I straighten up in my chair.

‘If you could just hop on the bed for me then we’ll see what we can do.’

By hop he means sit. I sit on the bed with my legs dangling over the side.

‘Do you know about pansexuals?’ I ask, on my guard.

He stops. ‘No, I don’t think I do.’ He