‘With me, it’s about being sick,’ the Boxer said.
‘Actually, I have the same problem,’ the Athlete cut in. ‘I’m a hypochondriac, too.’
‘Nah, not like that. I’m talking about being sick sick. Like . . .’ The Boxer stopped himself and raised a closed fist in front of his mouth. His cheeks and eyes bulged. He was wearing a faded polo shirt and Sam watched with some concern as he cupped a pudgy hand over the emblem of an alligator that covered his heart.
‘It’s OK,’ Sam told him, aware of the others in the group backing away. ‘Take your time.’
The big man nodded and bowed his domed head, keeping his fist clamped to his mouth, looking down at the ground. He blew air through his cheeks some more. The back of his neck was flushed. When he looked up, his complexion was florid, his eyes damp and blurred. He wiped his lips before speaking.
‘Sorry. It’s just . . . vomit,’ he rasped quickly, covering his mouth once more. ‘Can’t stand it.’ He shook his head. ‘Can’t stand the thought of it. I’m afraid of puking all the time. Lately it’s got really bad.’
Sam empathized, nodding his understanding, though inwardly he couldn’t deny a small stab of disappointment. He’d heard this one before. It was a long time now since he’d come across anything truly unique. Not that the Boxer needed to hear that.
‘Can you remember when this started for you?’
The Boxer licked his lips and fixed him with a haunted look. ‘I suppose it’s always been there but then, earlier this year—’ He broke off, raised a hand, did the ducking-his-head-and-blowing-air-through-his-cheeks thing again. It was another few seconds before he was able to continue and Sam was careful to give him the time he needed. ‘I’m a cabbie, see? And this pregnant lass was in my cab and she, well, she just, you know . . .’ He grimaced. ‘And I couldn’t deal with it. Not even close. I had to stop my cab and get out and call a mate to come and help me. In the end he had to drive the cab to a valet service. Sort it out. And even then I could smell it afterwards.’
‘That can’t have been easy.’
‘It was a nightmare, pal. And now every time I pick a ride up, it’s always there. The door closes and I’m like, are they going to . . .? Am I going to . . .?’ He waved his hand in front of his face as if wafting away an imagined scent. ‘And then because I’m thinking about it, that makes me feel ill and I have to stop driving, because if I—’
‘We get it, thanks,’ said the Lost Girl, with a look of disgust.
‘Yeah? Well go on, then,’ the Boxer shot back. ‘What are you here for?’