The Crash of Hennington - Patrick Ness

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is that supposed to make me sleep? I’m going to be up all night debating love versus peace. I’m ten, Dad. I have no idea.

      —Okay, what about this one? ‘There was once a chipmunk named Terry who was having trouble getting his library card renewed—’

      —Good night, Dad.

      —Oh, good, a laugh at least. Are you feeling better?

      —A little.

      —Think you can sleep?

      —I think so.

      —Okay, baby. Do you want me to stay with you a while until you do?

      —Yes.

      —My pleasure, honey.

      —Archie! Good to see you.

      —That’s overly solicitous for you, Cora. Is something wrong?

      —Not even a moment for pleasantries, huh?

      —Don’t tell me. The Boy Prince is a no-show yet again.

      —Why weren’t you a detective, Archie?

      —Because I preferred to be rich. What’s his excuse this time?

      —His daughter’s sick.

      —If it’s anything less than plague, I’m not buying it.

      —It’s Pox.

      —Did she get the shots?

      —Yes.

      —Then he could have gotten a sitter.

      —Archie—

      —I left my kids home on plenty of nights when business called.

      Another voice came in from behind.

      —It’s a different day and age than when we were young, Archie.

      —I’m thirty years older than you, Albert. There’s no ‘we’ involved at all, though I suppose you knew of this conspicuous absence as well.

      —Family called, apparently, and it’s actually thirty-one years. But how are you this fine evening?

      —My arches are falling.

      —Isn’t that the first line of a sonnet?

      Cora took Archie by the arm.

      —Come. Eat something. You’ll be happier.

      —Oh, yes, why don’t you rub my belly and tell me I’m a good dog while you’re at it.

      —Has that been the secret all along?

      —What’s to stop me from just going straight back home?

      —Archie, please. Now the situation is this.

      —Would you get me a whiskey, Albert?

      —Straight up but very, very cold, if I remember correctly.

      —Good lad.

      —The situation, as I said.

      —Yes, get on with it.

      —Is that Max isn’t here because his little girl is sick. None of these people are really here to see him anyway. They all want to hobnob with me.

      —I know that’s my preference.

      —So Max gets sympathy points for brave single fatherhood, as well as for having his priorities straight.

      —His priorities straight? What if a tidal wave is heading for the city but Max’s daughter has a little cough?

      —It’s a different time now, Archie.

      —The second time I’ve heard that inside of five minutes.

      —Only because it’s true.

      —Is it?

      —Yes. We’ll have an in absentia fundraiser. It’ll be the talk of the town.

      —It might be the talk of a very, very dull town, but even only there if it was the first time it had happened.

      —The last time was my fault. A head of state had died. I had to send a representative.

      —Poppycock. Oh, God bless you, Albert.

      —That ought to smooth the evening out a bit.

      —So, I’m an alcoholic, now, am I?

      —Isn’t that really something for you to decide for yourself?

      —Why did you marry this man again?

      —He has an enormous penis.

      —So ‘it’s not the size that counts’ has been a lie all along?

      —'Fraid so.

      —Bring me another, then, and let’s get this thing over with.

      —Champagne?

      —What I’m concerned about is the Bondulay creeping into our schools if he’s elected.

      —What do you get when you cross a Rumour with an octopus?

      —I think he’s very handsome.

      —Harold, please. This is neither the time nor the place.

      —I don’t think his race is an issue at all.

      —Do you have any Cluvot?

      —I’ve heard he’s part of the Rumour Underground.

      —Creeping how?

      —Oh, please, he hasn’t looked at a woman since his fiancée died.

      —I don’t know but it sure can pick a head of lettuce.

      —That doesn’t mean he won’t ever.

      —Any what?

      —Oh, you know how they are.

      —Oh, yawn. Everyone knows that doesn’t exist.

      —It sure doesn’t seem to be.

      —Harold!

      —'They'?

      —I think he’s wrapped up in being a father.

      —Oh, sure, you act shocked now, but you’ll be laughing on the car ride home.

      —They call it a cultural experience and then suddenly we’re all listening to their music.

      —And she’s such a sweet little girl, too.

      —Secret societies control all centres of government.

      —Cluvot. It’s from the North.

      —I wonder what he looks like naked.

      —I most certainly will not.

      —What does that have to do with religion?

      —He’s Rumour, so probably a hairy chest.

      —And you’ll be telling everyone you know at the office tomorrow.

      —Maybe Hennington’s a little more enlightened than we thought.

      —You’re paranoid.

      —Not necessarily. I went out with a Rumour guy in college, and he was smooth.

      —Are you really this clueless, Harold?

      —You sure he wasn’t waxed?

      —There aren’t any wines from the North.

      —It’s all stepping stones, is what I’m trying to say.

      —Nobody

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