Except that now he was angry. Angry at himself, angry at young Lorena, or at this new social worker and the ‘save all the world’s children’ aid worker who had no doubt wound her up into action in the first place – Lorena’s ‘friend’. Ryall’s anger spun and bounced wildly in his head without firm direction; he wasn’t anywhere near calm enough to focus it on any one thing. Classical music played softly in the background – Vivaldi’s ‘Allegro from Spring’ – but it did little to introduce an air of calm. The blood still rushed through his head a beat too fast and his hands trembled slightly, and so he had to forcibly will that calm, close his eyes and take deep breaths, self-prompting: You mustn’t let them see that you’re troubled. Take control. Control. He felt strangely giddy, as if through that lack of control – as on the few occasions he could recall it happening before, if only for seconds or minutes that passed like laboured hours in which he’d bounce, lightning speed, every possible angle – he’d been cut adrift from all good sense and purpose.
