I found this story in an old notebook from around 2015. It ended just before the last paragraph, obviously abandoned, so I finished it off today. I’ve no idea, make of it what you will.
I park in the near-empty car park and make my way across the playground, fists stuffed into my pockets. It’s a cold afternoon, the sky overcast, an archetypal Monday. Just as I reach the door to reception, it’s opened by Alfie’s Literacy and Numeracy teacher, Miss Mercier.
“Can I help you?” she asks, unsmiling. She keeps half her body inside, behind the door.
I tell her that I am here to pick up my son. He’s not very well. She squints at me, as if she’s searching for something that isn’t there. I clarify the name: “I’m here to pick up Alfie. I’m his dad. I know you rang his mum, but she’s actually in Brighton at the moment, so she rang to tell me he’s poorly. His tummy’s a bit sore?”