Niall Williams, Time of the Child

Jude had climbed into the back of the van before he had time to come up with an excuse not to. Inside was a small simulacrum of Moriarty’s mind: much was shiny, and nothing in the right place. Thrown-in was the sorting method, and a sublime refutation of the laws of physics meant there was always room for more. It was packed to the roof.

The day had already been so long it had escaped the containment of clocks.

The doctor had lived long enough to understand that, in an island country, sideways was the way all stories wanted to go, roundabouts the native way of getting anywhere, and that there was a good reason there was no straight road in the parish. By instinct, he knew too that, in a thesis that could no yet be proven, the telling of symptoms was the first part of the cure. In some cases, the most important part.

The meeting had ended, but they were still in it, like a reader who has closed the book but does not leave the story.