Joe Speedboat

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It’s been a warm spring. At school they’re praying for me, because I’ve been out of it for more than two hundred days. I’ve got bedsores all over my body and a condom catheter taped to my flute. This, the doctor tells my parents, is the phase of the ‘coma vigil’: I’ve regained limited receptivity to my surroundings. He says I’ve started reacting to stimuli, pain and noise, and that’s good news. Reacting to pain is a definite sign that you’re alive.

They hang around my bed the whole time, Pa, Ma, Dirk and Sam. I can hear them as soon as they get out of the lift — a swarm of starlings darkening the sky. They smell of oil and stale tobacco; they’ve barely bothered to change out of their overalls. HERMANS & SONS, FOR ALL YOUR DEMOLITION NEEDS. Scrap is our middle name.

We demolish wrecked cars, industrial equipment and the occasional café interior, if my brother Dirk happens to be feeling pumped up. Dirk has been barred from almost every bar, shop and inn in Lomark, but not in Westerveld, not yet. He’s got a girl over there. He comes home smelling of chemical violets. All you can do is feel sorry for her.

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