A man watching them. Pin’s father. Of course. They do not see him at first. You remember what B said once: that clinicide involved three types of murder — serial killing, treatment killing and political killing — and this man is an exponent of the latter. ‘Doctors murder more than any other group,’ B warned, ‘never forget that. Let’s hope your paths never cross.’ And this man would be particularly interested in you, a scientist, your line of work.
And now. In a corner near the door, not moving, watching your children’s eyes. What they are resting on, what they are noticing about a way out. How quick they are, how adult, how worn or alert. He is startlingly handsome, but in a way that makes a woman wary; you had a colleague like that once, a man who’d never had to strive at life, who’d been adored by his mother and every woman after her so he’d never had to try, didn’t understand failure, had never had to reveal a vulnerable heart. Men who’ve not grown into fully fledged humans. He’d be a lonely fuck. He could never be taught. Coldness is what you remember about your former colleague the most. And vanity. This, too, is a man who cares about his appearance. His hair has been ploughed severely with a comb. His cuffs are glary white.
Tidge meets his gaze. Your boy does not flinch. Because he knows something this man knows also: that his son is theirs, for the moment, and it may not last but they have him now, just. Careful, brave boy, tread light. Because this man’s eyes are the eyes of a winner. Well, well, says Tidge’s stare, we’ll see about that. But how on earth can a child compete?
Pin comes in last. In a glance you have caught the raw man, the one under all that suit, the furnace inside that his eyes do not match. He loves this boy. You know that love, the way a child can fill a heart.
Pin is pre-teenage-scowly, dismissive. ‘It was nothing, Dad, a silly mistake.’
Through love a king is made a slave.