Coral's Rules

By Marcus Clark

CORAL'S RULES   BLURB 

 

When Dixon Tracy was a kid, he hated the weatherman. He was the one who told his mother to send him to school carrying a raincoat, a woollen jumper, and gumboots. The predicted rain never came.

 Worst of all was that his father still trusted the weatherman. He was a farmer who endured seven years of drought, holding on to the farm, believing in the "science" of the weatherman. Year after year there was a promise of rain, the promise of a good harvest, a good El Niño, only to watch everything destroyed by a cyclone, or a drought that never ended.

Dixon and family moved to Sydney, and from that time on Dixon became obsessed with his project of predicting the weather. A system that would see into future weather events months ahead with ninety percent accuracy.  Unfortunately, no one with any scientific knowledge believed this was possible, just Dixon Tracy.

Dixon had one advantage: he had savant syndrome, able to solve mathematical problems that were needed to predict weather patterns.

At university Dixon's savant syndrome landed him in trouble, he stood out as a freak, a boofhead, a nerd, until he met Coral. She had the experience of helping her autistic brother, and now she wanted to help Dixon.  For although he could solve "unsolvable" mathematical problems he was bamboozled by everyday life.  Coral wrote out her rules, explaining how he could pass as normal . . . well almost.

 Chinese agents hacked into the Bureau of Meteorology where they discovered Dixon's Weather Project, and they thought it was worth investigating. If Dixon's system did work, it would be worth not billions, but trillions of dollars.

It could be used to aid world food production, prepare for hurricanes, storms, and droughts. But in evil hands it would be used to seize food, water supplies, and medical equipment. 

  The Chinese government was not kindly, sympathetic, or willing to negotiate. They wanted the full details Dixon's invention, and they intended to get them by tricks or brute force.

This brilliant new novel by Marcus Clark comes loaded with surprises you didn't expect.

 

 

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Download eBooks
• Release date: Sep 30, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393028208

Marcus Clark

Marcus Clark   I have always had an interest in fiction and contemporary history. In my novels I combine recent events with an overlay of fiction, intertwining the two. I have written eleven novels, which are being re-published one by one.   My intention is to write novels that will involve the reader so that they are absorbed into the story and the events they are reading about. MORE BOOKS BY MARCUS CLARK: Coral's Rules The Eve of Destruction Exit Visa Inside Mystic Lodge Terrorists Against Their Will Sheba's Vow Bad Seed (And Other Short Stories) Steamy Short Stories How I became a Guru (And Other Short Stories) Katy and the free-running chooks

Book preview

02. Asperger's Syndrome

WHEN I WAS FIFTEEN I read an article about Asperger's Syndrome, it was interesting because it talked about some of the things I had experienced. Reading about it gave me a strange mental feeling, like the room was spinning around, dizziness. Could it be true? Unlikely, but possible. The article talked about an on-line test that could give me a rough idea if I had Asperger's Syndrome.

I went on the internet and found the test. Simple questions. I could do the test in ten minutes. If I dared. What if I found out I had Asperger's? That was like finding out I had cancer. It was unchangeable, final for life. At that moment I didn't have Asperger's, I was just me, slightly weird. If I did the test and learnt I had Asperger's, then it would be there forever, I couldn't go back. I turned the computer off, afraid to know the truth.

But every day I thought about it. I wondered. I made a list of what I did that Asperger's people did.

1. I found it difficult to relate to other people, so I just ignored everyone.

2. I had been told many times that I spoke too loudly like my mother did, when there was no reason to.

3. I had trouble with body language and eye contact during conversation. I turned away from people when we were talking. (I knew these things because others had told me).

4. I did not know if someone was joking, teasing me, were angry, or happy.

5. I did not understand jokes.

6. Metaphors made no sense to me. Everyone seemed to like them, but to me they had no meaning.

7. I had, they said, an awkward, bizarre way of walking, like a toddler.

8. I was easily confused by noise and movement.

9. I was face-blind. Everyone's face looked much the same.

10. It was important that everything remained consistent, no surprises, no changes, no variations.

When I was fifteen I had been taken to two specialist doctors and two psychiatrists, but they didn't know if I had Asperger's Syndrome. The doctors ummed and ahhed; one of them said it was something I would grow out of. I never did. The other one said it was because my father shot himself.

It was when I went to Uni that I discovered the difference between myself and a normal person. I could not filter out what was happening around me, sounds, movement, people talking, all overwhelmed my senses. At the mall there was overpowering confusion, everything was so loud, powerful smells, and motion all around me. It was all disturbing to me: brightly-coloured clothes, exposed skin, tattoos, people walking in different directions. I could not block out what was not important, so even if someone was 40 metres away, walking towards me, I would be unsure of which way to move. I often crashed into people. If I was thinking about something, like what the clouds had been like that morning, I could not do anything else. I could only do one thing at a time. My uncle said I couldn't walk and chew gum at the same time, he thought that was funny.

One night, I woke at 3:16 am, got up and turned on my PC and did the test.

It was quite clear, I had Asperger's Syndrome, I was an Aspie.

I did the test again, this time pretending I was more normal, faking some of the answers.

It still showed I had Asperger's Syndrome.

I found another test, and did that, this time it said I was quite normal. When I checked the test I found I had given ticks and crosses the wrong way round. When I did it correctly, I was in the Asperger's Syndrome group; no question. I decided to check with my doctor. When I told him I wanted to be assessed to find out if I had Asperger's Syndrome he burst out laughing. He said, Damn the internet and self-diagnosis. You've been to see Doctor Google, haven't you?

I didn't answer. What age did you start to talk?

About three-and-a-half.

Did you ever rock back and forth?

Not often, but when I was stressed I did. Aren't these questions for children? It seemed to me he didn't know much about Asperger's.

Let me decide that. I'll ask the questions. You give the answers.

He only asked me ten questions, and they were based on old information, before people understood Asperger's. In those days, many autistic children had trouble speaking, reading, and had lower intelligence. Asperger's Syndrome people were quite different, especially if they had high-functioning autism.

He told me to go home and forget about it, and not to consult the internet for medical help again. On the way out, just as I reached the door, he said, If I were you, I'd let sleeping dogs lie.

I looked at him, and said, Of course. In my head, I thought, What can that mean? What dogs? I can't see any dogs here. Lie? Do dogs tell the truth? What does he mean?

I went to another GP and asked for a referral, and this time it was quite different. I was given a lot of tests; they went for nearly five hours. I had to wait for two weeks before they told me the results. This time I was told that I had Asperger's Syndrome, commonly known as an Aspie. The new classification was called Autistic Spectrum Disorder 1, or ASD, and I had it for life, whether I wanted it or not.

03. Clever, but weird

AT HIGH SCHOOL EVERYONE hated me. Really they did. The first year everyone said I was weird, but they left me alone. One day the headmaster called me into his office and told me they were going easy on me because of my father.

What about my father?

Well, because he . . . you know, he killed himself.

Yes, I know. How is everyone going easy on me?

I didn't understand what he meant. I just couldn't connect school with my father's death. They were two separate things, sure enough, the next year at high school, no one mentioned my father, or the drought, they just treated me like I was a freakshow. I guess I was. You see I was an Aspie; I am an Aspie— a perfect example of Autistic Spectrum Disorder grade one. In those days I didn't walk properly, I sort of swung my arms around a lot, and my feet went flat on the ground. It all seemed normal to me. I couldn't see that it mattered, but it did. Sometimes at lunch, there would be as many as six kids all lined up and every one of them walking like me. Laughing, joking. I wanted to crawl into a hole in the ground and never come out.

Not knowing what is wrong with you is the worst thing. I wanted to be like everyone else, but I couldn't be. I knew I was different. When a teacher yelled at me, I became stressed and froze. I couldn't speak, I couldn't move. I would be petrified; it is hard to explain, like a panic attack, but paralysed.

One of the teachers often called me the imbecile, and that gave the rest of the class permission to call me anything they liked. The teachers yelled at me because I did things differently to the other kids. For example, I liked to start writing in my school notebooks from the back, what others called the last page. I liked it that way. And I like things to be the same, that's why I always wore the same clothes, went the same way to school, and read the same books over and over.

I always sat in the same seat at school, and sometimes a new kid would sit in my seat, and it would freak me out. I couldn't help it; it was as though someone had put a snake in my lunch box. I know I went crazy, and once they had to call a doctor to give me an injection. Everyone knew I had to have the same seat. Things had to be the same, whatever it was, everything had to be the same otherwise my world would fall apart. If something was different, it was out of my control. It was essential that everything remained the same so that there was order in the world.

I was not stupid. I knew that, nor could I figure out what was wrong with me. I was in the words of the class, weird. I was top of the class in maths, science, and biology. One day the teacher found out that I could do multiplication, division, square roots, and prime numbers in my head. I could do things that no one else— not even the teachers— could do. I could do them faster than their calculators. You might think that made me into a hero, or a geek, no, it just made me into a freakshow. I could recite Pi to 200 places, but no one believed me because they couldn't do that with a calculator. There were many things I couldn't do: I couldn't catch a ball, or kick a football. I couldn't write a story, because I didn't know what happened.

Looking back at my school years, my life was horrible. The other kids saw me as a threat. Like I was an alien. In a way I was. No one at our school had ever experienced anyone like me. In maths and science I knew more than any teacher, yet I didn't understand playground talk. So, I got bashed, I got pushed over, I got tripped; I had my head pushed into the toilet bowl after someone had done a turd, then they flushed it. I hated toilets; I wouldn't use them. I would hold everything in from the time I left for school until I went home. I had to be careful not to drink anything, if I had to go to the toilet, I could expect something bad to happen to me.

In class, I had to sit down the front. I had to stand up if I wanted to say anything, but I didn't want to say anything because everyone would laugh. It wasn't until years later, that I understood to keep my sentences brief. Once I started talking about something that I liked, I found it hard to stop. I just kept going on and on, until the class erupted in laughter, sometimes they would try and put a sock in my mouth, or push me over. Even the teachers thought it was funny.

When I arrived home I cried. I cried because in all my school years I never had one real friend. There was Denis, but he was not a true friend, more of a defender, someone who saved me from disasters. The kids said I didn't like people, that I hated everyone, that I was mad, a loner. I longed to have just one friend who understood me. Someone who didn't like cricket or football, someone who read books for fun. Someone who would eat their lunch with me and talk about astronomy. Not someone who would sneak up behind me and trip me over, or steal things from my backpack and throw them around the class.

At breaks, I walked down to the trees, sometimes I ran. If I saw kids coming, I would hide in the bushes. Sometimes they found me. The boys used to hold me down and piss on me. Girls spat on my face. Teachers said I could expect more of the same unless I began to act sensibly. Everyone assumed I did all these weird things just to annoy them.

Sometimes when horrible things happened to me, I stopped struggling. I went into a sort of oblivion, and I would recite the names of the craters on the Moon in alphabetical order. It might have sounded odd, because some are in other languages and the kids thought I'd gone mad. It helped to calm me, because it was something I had control over, and I would forget what was happening to my body. It didn't matter if they were pissing on me or not, because I was not there. One of the mothers said I was speaking in tongues because I was a child of Satan. This became the accepted explanation.

There were so many things I did not understand, even after I learnt them; the next day I would forget I had ever learnt them. In other ways, I had an exceptionally good memory. It was the simple things that got me into trouble, the things others knew as if by instinct. For example, I did not understand if someone called my name, or said something to me that it meant I should answer. If someone waved to me, I ignored them because it was never explained to me that I should wave back. How would I know to do that?

One day, when I was thirteen, the usual teacher was missing, sick— who knows why— teachers never said why they didn't come to school. A different teacher showed up, this was no new teacher, this was a violent maniac. I once saw him pick a kid up by the throat, throttling him, lifting him right off the ground until he turned red, choking him as if he intended to murder him. What stressed me was that I never knew what mistake this kid made. Did he write the wrong date on his notes? Did he misspell Thursday? I never knew, and so it seemed to me that I could easily make the same mistake and then I would die.

This day I sat in the front row as usual. I didn't know Ivan-the-Terrible would be our teacher. He turned up without warning, and I was sure something bad was going to happen, something horrendous. Already I was finding it difficult to breathe because order had broken down, the usual teacher was not there. Ivan walked around the classroom, he came close to me, talking about how evil the Japanese were, he stopped in front of me, then sat on the edge of my desk. I felt myself going into a stress panic, gulping for air. He was so close, his huge hand could reach around my throat and choke me to death at any moment.

He was sitting less than a metre away, talking about Japan and the war. He was a huge teacher, bulky across the shoulders, and I could smell alcohol and tobacco fumes coming from his mouth. Mitsubishi planes were attacking my classroom. I was becoming stressed and I thought I might start to hum or flap my arms about, because that's what I did when I was stressed. When I got highly stressed, I would recite the names of the Moon's craters.

Ivan did not know me; he did not understand me; he would never forgive me. I knew everyone in the class was looking at me, expecting me to do something weird. They would enjoy that, because if I was to be strangled, they would be safe. I would be a sacrifice for them, and it would be a spectacular show to watch.

Ivan reached for my notebook, picked it up and started flicking through the pages. Ivan had been talking about Japanese aircraft bombing Darwin during the Second World War. I knew my book was a mess. When teachers dictated notes, I could not listen and write at the same time, so I just did doodles. As well, I had been writing from the last page, my first page, and I had been experimenting with writing backwards, and mirror writing. Sometimes I did not feel well, unable to concentrate, so I just did scribble so it looked like I was making notes if the teacher looked at me.

Ivan didn't know any of this. He reached down for my notebook and my world ended. Ivan was talking and turning the pages of my book, looking for my notes on Japan. I knew he would kill me when he saw my work. It didn't matter if I died, but I remembered how my mother had to pay for my father's funeral and it cost such a lot of money although we were poor. I was paralysed with stress and confusion. I was certain Ivan would kill me at any moment. I held my breath and waited.

Denis, sitting next to me, said, Sir, he hasn't done those notes. He was away that day.

Instantly, Ivan tossed my book back, Do them tonight!

He reached for Dennis' book, sitting alongside of me. You done them?

Yes Sir. Ivan picked up the book and read from his notes. Japanese planes bombed Pearl Harbour, but the aircraft carriers were at sea.

I began to breathe again, but I could not think, I went into a stress mode, frozen in time, unable to move, unable to hear what was happening, in a dream. Ivan paced back and forth across the classroom, rattling on about the depraved Japanese. And it occurred to me that Denis had told a deliberate lie, which had saved my mother funeral expenses.

That night, I used Dennis' book to copy out his notes for all that year. In the back of my book, I kept what was written in mirror writing. I felt proud that I could read it easily. Best of all, my mother wouldn't have to pay for my funeral.

I thought about Denis and what he said, it was difficult for me to understand. What made him tell that lie? Did he know my book was a mess? How could he know, just because he sat next to me sometimes? I couldn't understand, but somewhere in my head I knew he was a defender. Not a real friend who would come around to my house and read my astronomy books, or talk to me at lunchtime, yet still an ally.

What began to puzzle me, was why did Denis help me? No one else cared; besides if anyone did defend me they would be contaminated, it wasn't worth the trouble. One day I was walking home from school, Bodger and Peter were following me, yelling out spastic! And out of nowhere, Denis came alongside of me, just walked with me. Seeing him there relaxed me enough to ask him, Denis, why do you help me?

He didn't answer for a long time, and I thought I might have offended him, then he said, It's because of my mum— Dad is always picking on her, slapping her. When I try to help her, he goes for me. I hate it. I see it at home and there's nothing I can do. At school I can do something.

Everyone in my class thought me a weirdo. They knew I was not stupid in all ways; they just could not figure out why I was stupid in certain ways, but then neither could I. When I won a scholarship to university, it only came as a small surprise to my teachers and class. I had demonstrated some superior skills in maths, in memory; in history I could recite facts and dates that no one else in the class knew. And yet I had trouble crossing the road.

I would stand at the crossing confused by everything around me. It was hard for me to focus, the noise of the cars, their speed approaching me, the people moving around on the other side of the road, a dog walking in the distance, a bus going in the opposite direction, the wind blowing on my face; everything showed up in my mind all at once, distracting me. It was like being in a carnival whirly-gig, spinning around, the organ music blasting out, everything confusing me. I experienced things differently from normal people, sounds and smells were much stronger, and when I looked, I saw a lot of individual things, but not the big picture.

It was difficult for me to judge the speed of a car coming towards me. I had no idea how long it would take, even the numberplate distracted me. I kept looking at each vehicle, and reading the numbers and letters, trying to think up acronyms. I felt confused, and if there were two or three cars approaching at the same time, I felt baffled, totally baffled. They were different colours, the numberplates were different, there were different model vehicles, so that I felt confused. I wanted things to be the same. The only way I could cross a busy street was to wait until all the traffic had gone. If there were traffic lights, I could get across, but I still felt nervous. How did I know if the cars would stop at a red light?

And that's how life went for me at high school. I had one secret friend, Denis. It took me a long time to realise that he couldn't be a true friend because the rest of the class would hate him. Near the end of my time at high school, I realised that they teased him, made jokes about him to do with me. For example, they asked him was he learning the names of the craters on the Moon. He just smiled, not answering. After I realised they were teasing him, I tried to keep away from him so they wouldn't pick on him.

But he was there when I needed him. On the last day of term, Bodger and two of his mates dragged me into the toilet and pushed my head down into the water. I went into a stress panic, I couldn't move, paralysed. I thought I might drown, until they let me up. It was Denis, he was yelling at them, and I could see he had already pushed Bodger out of the way.

Peter said, We're just teaching him to wash his face.

Get out of here!

Don't tell me what to do!

Come on Bodger, let's go. One of the others was tugging on his arm.

Alright, I'll leave the poofters alone.

Denis tried to punch him, missed the first time. They both began fighting, pushing and grabbing arms, finally the three of them got hold of Denis. Let's wash the poofter's face! Peter yelled. They were trying to push Denis' head into the bowl, but Denis broke free and shoved two of them hard against the wall. I could see Denis was different now, he was angry, he was strong, he was not afraid. He was fighting the three of them. Yet without warning, one of them said, Let's get out of here. And they were gone. Denis was puffing, his face red. He looked at me. You okay?

I could not answer, I felt so stressed, so confused by what had happened. I nodded.

Let's go then. He walked away and I followed him, my hair and face still wet.

That afternoon I sat in my room, in the corner, pushed hard up against the two walls, and I rocked back and forth for hours, and as I did I recited every prime number I could think of. When my mother came to see where I was, she didn't say anything, just stared at me for a moment, then walked away.

04. Mental mother

IT WAS AFTER I WAS diagnosed with Asperger's syndrome that I began to wonder about my mother. Had she also been an Aspie, like me? As I grew up, she was my role model, and so I never really noticed that she was weird. She was just my mother. I kept thinking back to the psychologist that classified me, and how he asked me questions about my brother and mother.   How did they act?

And slowly, painfully slowly, it dawned on me that she had been an Aspie. She did many of the Aspie things, for example, the one-sided conversations where she would talk on and on and not let anyone else get a word in. Her obsession with collecting things, like ballpoint pens, and her interest in prime numbers. I listed her weirdness: staring at people, talking in a loud voice, or a soft voice, being rude to people by saying exactly what she meant without regard for another person's feelings, counting things, like the lines on a zebra crossing. None of this seemed strange to me, but these were things my aunt told me were weird.

Most days she would follow the same routine, at the same time of the day. There were some things she had to do. Once she woke up she had to drink a cup of tea, which had to be stirred clockwise in the pot 11 times. If this was not done, she would gradually work herself up to a frenzy. She had to sit in a particular chair that faced West. She had to wear a black jumper until nine a.m., after that she could change. She told me all these rules and many more, they seemed to be unchangeable, natural, fixed.

Collecting was another clue. My mother collected ballpoint pens. She began her collection about 1950 when they first came out, and had six hundred and thirty-two, all shapes, sizes, brands, colours. They were lined up on special wooden trays, but no one was allowed to touch them. Before she died, she was saving up for a huge glass-covered display case.

And like me, she did not understand jokes or metaphors. One day we had to go to the plumber's shop, while they were talking the plumber said, "There's more than one way to skin a cat." Now my mother was quite literate, she read books from the library, but she puzzled over this for days before going back and asking him to explain why he was killing cats. She came home dissatisfied. He explained it, but why did he say that? Why didn't he say what he meant?

At the shops, she would stand and stare at the salespeople. They would ask could they help, and she would say, Help with what? Do you think I need help? What sort of help? She would be shouting, I don't need your bloody help! Scott, my brother, would leave the shop and wait outside. I couldn't understand why he did this, because it seemed like our mother was not doing anything unusual.

I didn't have much to do with my brother, Scott. There seemed nothing much to talk about. When I discovered both myself and my mother were Aspies, I knew I had to ask Scott if he was an Aspie. I didn't think so, but I wanted to be sure.

He was two years younger than me and totally different. I phoned Scott late one night.

What do you want? I don't think he ever liked me.

Uh, I been . . . thinking about Mum.

Why tell me? Listen, make it quick, I'm busy.

It's about school and stuff. Mum knew I was weird and I—

You were more than fucking weird! You'll never know what it was like going to school two grades behind you. Everyone at school figured I must be a ding-a-ling if I was from the same family. What do you want to know?

Well, what did I do that you thought was loopy?

Everything! You were a bird-brain. You couldn't walk properly, you looked at the ground when you talked to someone, you never understood a joke, you collected shit, you talked about craters on the Moon in fucking Latin or Greek, prime numbers was your hobby, you couldn't play any games, you were a useless brother. Is that enough? When kids beat me up, you weren't there to stick up for me like a normal brother. You were the example. They figured if they could beat the shit out of you then they could do the same to me. Except I fought back, and that made it worse. Listen Dixon, you fucked-up my life, Mum had no time for me, she spent all her time and energy running after you with your kangaroos loose in the top paddock, he sounded angry, but I couldn't be sure.

What about Mum? Do you think she was bonkers? Or was she normal?

She went off the rails when Dad killed himself, and she had to do everything for us. Then you got it into your fucking head to copy anything weird that she did, just to make life worse for all of us. You got all the attention. You got special treatment. That was why I left home when I was 16! To get away from you.

But what if it was because . . . I had a problem?

Problem! You gave me the fucking problems! What are you trying to say?

I have Asperger's Syndrome, and that caused me to . . . be weird.

Oh how lovely, now you are saying it's not your fault! Your father killed himself and so you turned out weird. Well, what about me? My father killed himself and I didn't turn out weird! Don't come out with that crap. You were different because you wanted to be, you loved the attention. You loved getting your own way. Mum couldn't do enough for you and your problems. You didn't have to be like that. You had brains. You were not mentally retarded, so I know you were in control of what you did. You are responsible!

I had never thought of what it had been like for Scott before this. For the first time I could see his viewpoint. I wanted to explain to him, that I was not weird on purpose. But there's . . . well this mental condition. Autistic, and it messes up with how the brain is wired.

Don't try that hard-luck bullshit, poor me. You were drunk at the time and didn't know what you were doing. So, you had this obscure mental illness that made you act like a prick? Dixon, spare me this.

And he hung up.

I kept thinking back to everything I could remember about my mother. Eventually I recalled the Christmas that my father killed himself. After his death, we moved from our farm to Cowra, and we had a gathering for Christmas with my relatives. I was only thirteen years old, but I still remember my father's mother accusing my mother of not loving my father, indifferent to his suicide.

We were sitting in her living room, the light was fading, and all around the walls were photos, china animals, and old toys. Streamers were strung across the room, twisted, balloons tagged on. The mantelpiece had some big red stockings, but were almost empty. The room looked like a place of misery.

My father's mother said to Mum, You never shed a tear. I don't think you ever loved him. I heard you giggling at the funeral. Giggling! My grandmother's face went red with anger.

My mother said nothing for a while, then as she looked out the window she spoke loudly, not looking at anyone.

I agree. I don't even know what love means.

Grandma was furious, It means you love someone with all your heart forever and ever, and you will never do anything to hurt them, never let them go. You cherish every moment you are with them. When my son died you did not even cry. All you could do was to giggle at the funeral. You are a heartless, cold bitch.

"Well you may be right. I'm not like Ann McKay round the corner. Freddy McKay told her he loved her over and over, especially after he bashed her, that's why she stayed with him, because he always told her he loved her as soon as she got home from the hospital. When you love someone, does it means you are like a priest and forgive every trespass against you, forever and ever, over and over, and if you're in love, like Freddy McKay when he came over here and asked me for a root while his wife was still in hospital with her face bashed and a broken arm, and I told him, quote fuck off! Ann McKay found out that her hubby was having sex with the twelve-year-old girl next door, paying her money, and threatening to tell her parents if she stopped. Even after he was arrested Mrs McKay said she loved him, because it didn't matter what her husband did, or what he was, or even if he killed people or bashed his kids, which he did. It was her job to love him forever and ever, for all eternity, just like Jesus. How do you know if you love somebody? Is there an angel writing something in the sky, or is it if you have an orgasm, or if you get a card for your birthday and it says in big letters, I LOVE YOU, written by Hallmark Cards, is that when you know you are in love? Or is it when your teeth have been knocked out and he has shoved his dick up your arse while you are on the floor, and you don't protest, because that means he must love you just like you love him. No, I don't know if I ever loved Johnny, maybe I did, even though he never hit me, was never cruel to me, and I never cried when he killed himself and left me to go on without him, looking after the kids, maybe I didn't love him, because I still don't know what love is, but I am so glad that you do. Amen."

My mother stood up and walked out the door (after touching the door frame five times) her hands were flapping as she walked out to the street, still talking to herself in a loud voice.

I can remember my mother saying all that, because she was looking at the cat, not at Grandma. At the time, I did not know that's what Aspies do when they are stressed, they don't look at the person they are talking to.

My grandmother sat staring at me, and then began crying, sobbing like her heart was broken. I didn't know what to do. I hate to see anyone crying, because I don't know what to do except leave the room. I'm still not sure even today, because it was on the list of things for Coral to teach me, but she never got to it.

My cousin Josie was three years younger than me, she stood up, went over to my grandmother, and put her arm around her, and kissed her cheek and talked into her ear, and Grandma gave her a big hug, together for a long time, and I knew that was what I should have done, but how was it that my cousin, three years younger than me, knew what to do? No one taught her, she just knew, and that made me feel terrible because it meant something was missing inside me, and I was not like normal kids who knew what to do when something bad happened.

05. University life

WHEN I LEFT SCHOOL, I moved to a boarding house in Rosebery. I didn't like it much because it was rowdy with a lot of people coming and going. Many of them, like me, were university students. I was doing Advanced Mathematics and Advanced Science Degrees. After a few weeks at the boarding house, I moved out. I found a small room, with the use of kitchen and bathroom in an old house at Kensington. There were three other students and an elderly woman living there. To my delight, they were all quiet. It was an old brick house with fireplaces in every room. The floorboards creaked as you walked on them even though they were covered by worn rugs.

I spent all my time either studying or working on my Weather Project. I didn't go out at night, I didn't have a TV or play Xbox games, I just studied. I read a lot of technical books on meteorology, oceanography, mathematics, and astronomy.

My brother, Scott, and myself were both paid a stipend from my uncle's will. We were to keep getting it until we had finished all our studies. It wasn't much, but it enabled me to go to Uni.

In classes, I sat as far away from the other students as possible. I didn't want any trouble; for some reason I tended to irk people without trying. Anyway, I didn't have time for friends. I didn't talk to anyone; I had too much work to do. I just did my work, and went home. I had a laptop for studies, but it was my Weather Project that was the most important thing in my life.

The only exercise I had was walking. I walked everywhere. I rarely took a bus, I just walked. And while I walked, I thought about things: the weather, mathematics, science.

The promise I made in front of my dead father was never forgotten. Not just for my father, but our farm neighbour who also killed himself. Not having a reliable, accurate, weather forecasting system caused so much grief, especially to farmers.

Although I had been attending university for more than a year, I still found it difficult to get along with the other students. Some of them teased or laughed at me. I thought I must be acting weird again, but that was just me; I was simply doing what I always did. One afternoon, on my way home, as I walked across the grass, I heard someone calling out, but I just kept walking. I didn't want any more trouble, I just wanted to go home to work on my Weather Project.

Dixon! Dixon, wait! I heard someone calling, but I wasn't sure if it was for me. No one ever talked to me, so I just kept walking. I felt a hand on my arm, I turned and saw a woman, she was staring at me. That alarmed me, like she was accusing me of doing something wrong.

Dixon, come over to the bench and sit down.

What did she want? Who was she? Where were we going? I could feel my heart racing as I followed her; she sat on the seat and I looked down at her. This wasn't my normal way of going home. I didn't like that.

Why don't you sit?

That was confusing. I didn't know why I wouldn't sit. Was it because a man should stand in the presence of a woman? I didn't know. She kept looking at me. Sit down, please.

I dropped my bags on the ground and sat at the far end of the bench. She was sitting in the middle. I felt confused, what did she want? Was she a detective? How did she know my name?

My name is Coral Elliot, and my brother is an Aspie. You might not remember me, but I sit near you in some of our classes. Today I sat next to you.

I haven't seen you before, I said.

Well, you probably have, because we've been in the same class for a year, but I know you have trouble remembering faces, don't you?

How do you know? I was feeling annoyed. Was she spying on me?

Dixon, my brother is an Aspie, on the Autism Spectrum Disorder, that is he has Asperger's Syndrome, like you have.

What are you telling me?

I'm telling you that I understand the condition. I know a lot about it from the outside. I taught my brother many things that helped him to live a normal life. I want to help you. You are going to Uni and that's particularly difficult for you I know. Not many Aspies ever get this far. Would you like me to help you?

I don't know. How would you help me? Are you a psychologist? I might not need any help.

I can tell you how to do things.

"What things? I know a lot about movies, I have seen Casablanca 43 times, it is my favourite movie, but there are other ones like— "

"Stop! That is the first thing I will teach you. Knowing when to be quiet, knowing when to stop talking. That is why they laughed at you today. You didn't stop talking, the class don't care about Casablanca or Humphrey Bogart. You have to