Temporary Order

I know it's a trap at two minutes past ten, and I still know it at three o'clock, when I push open the gate to the playground.

I know it the way you know a prescription is forged: the handwriting too neat, the dosage too round. You know straight away. You check anyway.

At ten past ten, from Mr Vermeersch's kitchen, I call Captain Wattez's mobile. It's a public holiday. Voicemail.

I've got enough credit left to talk for a minute. I speak slowly.