wouldn't be a secret any more if he told me the truth, and he can feel, as I do, that with my increasing maturity he needs all the holds over me he can get; I'm not a child any more. Only these little bits of bogus power enable him to think he is in control of what he sees as the correct father-son relationship. It's pathetic really, but with his little games and his secrets and his hurtful remarks he tries to keep his security intact.
I leaned back in the wooden chair and stretched. I like the smell of the kitchen. The food, and the mud on our wellingtons, and sometimes the faint tang of cordite coming up from the cellar all give me a good, tight, thrilling feel when I think about them. It smells different when it's been raining and our clothes are wet. In the winter the big black stove pumps out heat fragrant with driftwood or peat, and everything steams and the rain hammers against the glass. Then it has a comfortable, closed-in feeling, making you feel cosy, like a great big cat with its tail curled round itself. Sometimes I wish we had a cat. All I've ever had was a head, and that the seagulls took.
I went to the toilet, down the corridor off the kitchen, for a crap. I didn't need a pee because I'd been pissing on the Poles during the day, infecting them with my scent and power.
I sat there and thought about Eric, to whom such an unpleasant thing happened. Poor twisted bugger. I wondered, as I have often wondered, how I would have coped. But it didn't happen to me. I have stayed here and Eric was the one who went away and it all happened somewhere else, and that's all there is to it. I'm me and here's here.
I listened, wondering if I could hear my father. Perhaps he had gone straight to bed. He often sleeps in the study rather than in the big bedroom on the second floor, where mine is. Maybe that room holds too many unpleasant (or pleasant) memories for him. Either way, I couldn't hear any snoring.
I hate having to sit down in the toilet all the time. With my unfortunate disability I usually have to, as though I was a bloody woman, but I hate it. Sometimes in the Cauldhame Arms I stand up at the urinal, but most of it ends up running down my hands or legs.
I strained. Plop splash. Some water came up and hit my bum, and that was when the phone went.
'Shit,' I said, and then laughed at myself. I cleaned my arse quickly and pulled my trousers up, pulling the chain, too, and then waddling out into the corridor, zipping up. I ran up the broad stairs to the first-floor landing, where our only phone is. I'm forever on at my father to get more phones put in, but he says we don't get called often enough to warrant extensions. I got to the phone before whoever was calling rang off. My father hadn't appeared.
'Hello,' I said. It was a call-box.
'Skraw-_aak_!' screamed a voice at the other end. I held the receiver away from my ear and looked at it, scowling. Tinny yells continued to come from the earpiece. When they stopped I put my ear back to it.
'Porteneil 53l,' I said coldly.
'Frank! Frank! It's me. Me! Hello there! Hello!'
'Is there an echo on this line or are you saying everything twice?' I said. I could recognise Eric's voice.
'Both! Ha ha ha ha ha!'
'Hello, Eric. Where are you?'
'Here! Where are you?'
'Here.'
'If we're both here, why are we bothering with the phone?'
'Tell me where you are before your money runs out.'
'But if you're _here_ you must know. Don't you know where you are?' He started to giggle.
I said calmly: 'Stop being silly, Eric.'
'I'm not being silly. I'm not telling you where I am; you'll only tell Angus and he'll tell the police and they'll take me back to the fucking hospital.'
'Don't use four-letter words. You know I don't like them. Of course I won't tell Dad.'
'"Fucking" is not a four-letter word. It's ... it's a seven-letter word. Isn't that your lucky number?'
'No. Look, will you tell me where you are? I want to know.'
'I'll tell you where I am if you'll tell me what your
I leaned back in the wooden chair and stretched. I like the smell of the kitchen. The food, and the mud on our wellingtons, and sometimes the faint tang of cordite coming up from the cellar all give me a good, tight, thrilling feel when I think about them. It smells different when it's been raining and our clothes are wet. In the winter the big black stove pumps out heat fragrant with driftwood or peat, and everything steams and the rain hammers against the glass. Then it has a comfortable, closed-in feeling, making you feel cosy, like a great big cat with its tail curled round itself. Sometimes I wish we had a cat. All I've ever had was a head, and that the seagulls took.
I went to the toilet, down the corridor off the kitchen, for a crap. I didn't need a pee because I'd been pissing on the Poles during the day, infecting them with my scent and power.
I sat there and thought about Eric, to whom such an unpleasant thing happened. Poor twisted bugger. I wondered, as I have often wondered, how I would have coped. But it didn't happen to me. I have stayed here and Eric was the one who went away and it all happened somewhere else, and that's all there is to it. I'm me and here's here.
I listened, wondering if I could hear my father. Perhaps he had gone straight to bed. He often sleeps in the study rather than in the big bedroom on the second floor, where mine is. Maybe that room holds too many unpleasant (or pleasant) memories for him. Either way, I couldn't hear any snoring.
I hate having to sit down in the toilet all the time. With my unfortunate disability I usually have to, as though I was a bloody woman, but I hate it. Sometimes in the Cauldhame Arms I stand up at the urinal, but most of it ends up running down my hands or legs.
I strained. Plop splash. Some water came up and hit my bum, and that was when the phone went.
'Shit,' I said, and then laughed at myself. I cleaned my arse quickly and pulled my trousers up, pulling the chain, too, and then waddling out into the corridor, zipping up. I ran up the broad stairs to the first-floor landing, where our only phone is. I'm forever on at my father to get more phones put in, but he says we don't get called often enough to warrant extensions. I got to the phone before whoever was calling rang off. My father hadn't appeared.
'Hello,' I said. It was a call-box.
'Skraw-_aak_!' screamed a voice at the other end. I held the receiver away from my ear and looked at it, scowling. Tinny yells continued to come from the earpiece. When they stopped I put my ear back to it.
'Porteneil 53l,' I said coldly.
'Frank! Frank! It's me. Me! Hello there! Hello!'
'Is there an echo on this line or are you saying everything twice?' I said. I could recognise Eric's voice.
'Both! Ha ha ha ha ha!'
'Hello, Eric. Where are you?'
'Here! Where are you?'
'Here.'
'If we're both here, why are we bothering with the phone?'
'Tell me where you are before your money runs out.'
'But if you're _here_ you must know. Don't you know where you are?' He started to giggle.
I said calmly: 'Stop being silly, Eric.'
'I'm not being silly. I'm not telling you where I am; you'll only tell Angus and he'll tell the police and they'll take me back to the fucking hospital.'
'Don't use four-letter words. You know I don't like them. Of course I won't tell Dad.'
'"Fucking" is not a four-letter word. It's ... it's a seven-letter word. Isn't that your lucky number?'
'No. Look, will you tell me where you are? I want to know.'
'I'll tell you where I am if you'll tell me what your
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