She opens her eyes. ‘We’re all going through a very trying and difficult time.’
I don’t know what happens to me but I am suddenly on the bed, on my knees, and I have my hand over my mother’s mouth, like a gag, to stop her from speaking. To stop her from being a weak person. Repeating what she hears and making herself dumb.
‘Shut up, shut up, shut up! Don’t say any more.’
I can’t stop screaming at her to make her shut up. She struggles, which makes me frightened, but I am strong, and I keep my hand over her mouth while she tries to speak, while she struggles to get my hand away from her face.
‘Shut up!’ I scream. ‘Stop trying to talk!’
When, at last, she is silent, I take my hand off her mouth and sit on the bed next to her. She moves away from me, but doesn’t get up from the bed. She looks at me. There is no expression on her face, a blankness. Empty.
‘Just don’t talk to me,’ I say. ‘Just stay quiet.’
She looks at me. No tears, not afraid. Blank.
‘Don’t do that. Don’t just stare at me. I just want you to be quiet.’
‘I am quiet,’ she says.
She closes her eyes, as though waiting.
I am quiet too and my heart stops thumping, but there is a strange taste in my mouth; like dirt, like soil. I want her to open her eyes. ‘I’m going out to watch television now,’ I say.
She opens her eyes and stares at me again.
I leave the bedroom.
I don’t feel bad about what I’ve done, only surprised, as though I have been somewhere else, or asleep for a few minutes; in a film or a play.
I go out into the living room and my father isn’t there, and I’m not very interested in where he is.
I eat some biscuits and then I sit at the kitchen table with a pad and pen and compose another letter to the Guinness Book of Records.
At ten o’clock my mother comes into the kitchen. She stands awkwardly in the doorway. I think she was hoping I wouldn’t be here.
‘I’m sorry about before,’ I say. ‘Could I please have a stamp?’
She is tense and nervous; her posture is stooped and her pupils are black and too big. She looks shorter and her mouth is smaller, tightly shut, not as red as it is supposed to be.
‘I’ve a good mind to smack you,’ she says, her voice pinched and small. ‘I’ve been trying for hours to calm myself down so that I wouldn’t.’
I go and stand by her. ‘Go on. Smack me now.’
She doesn’t hesitate. She brings her hand up over her head and then she smacks me hard across my face. It stings the way a football does when it hits my leg on a cold day.
She goes to the table and sits down.
I follow her and sit too.
‘Don’t you ever lay a hand on me again, John. Not ever again.’
‘I’m sorry. I won’t. I promise.’
We sit for a minute, both of us looking at the kitchen table. She goes to the fridge and takes out some corned beef. She slices it and then she boils brussels sprouts and carrots. I watch her. She offers me a sandwich. I tell her I’m not hungry.
‘Is the stamp you need for your letter to the Guinness Book of Records?’
‘Yes.’
‘I think we should forget about this lie-detection business. Don’t you?’
‘That’s what you say every time we talk about it. Don’t you understand? I’ve had to tell you twice and both times you’ve said exactly the same thing. Can’t you understand anything?’
‘I’m tired,’ she says. ‘I’m very tired.’
She licks the stamp for me, and her tongue looks swollen, too fat and red.
‘Thanks,’ I say.
‘I’m going to sleep now. Tell your father when he gets in that his tea is in the oven.’
29
Two days later, it’s the weekend and the sun is out, but I can’t go outside because of the gang. They are probably still waiting for me. They might want to bash me. But I’m still more afraid of being shamed than of being hit. I don’t want to be laughed at and humiliated.
I stay inside the flat and tell my mother I feel sick. She asks me if I’d like to go to the zoo, testing perhaps, to see if I’m lying about feeling sick.
‘No,’ I say. ‘I feel sick.’
She offers to take my temperature. I tell her not to worry about it.
‘Well,’ she says, ‘I’m going for a ride on a bus to Stephen’s Green and then I’m going to walk for a while and get a big dose of fresh air. I might even see a film.’
‘Where’s Da?’
‘He’s working. He’s got a job with Uncle Jack today. He’ll be home for tea.’
I lie on the settee and eat poached eggs on toast. There’s a film on television that’s set in a boy’s school in England and the well-spoken voice of the actor playing the teacher makes me think of Mr Roche.
After the film, I decide to see if I can find Mr Roche’s telephone number. I remember that the headmaster said that Mr Roche was from Dublin, so I look in the Dublin directory. There are too many people called Roche and I don’t know his first name. I find the number for Gorey National School instead. I don’t expect anybody to be at the school of a Saturday, but a woman answers the phone after two rings.
I tell her who I am, an ex-pupil of Mr Roche’s and that I’d like to speak to him.
‘You’re Helen Egan’s boy,’ she says.
‘Yes, I am.’
She gives me Mr Roche’s number in Gorey. When I thank her, she says, ‘How is your mammy?’
‘She’s grand,’ I say.
‘You’re lucky you caught me here. I was just about to lock up. Will you tell her I was asking after her?’
‘Yes, I will,’ I say. ‘I have to go now. Bye-bye.’
I hang up and take a few deep breaths before I dial the number.
When I hear his soft, slow voice, saying, ‘Hello, David Roche speaking’, I get nervous. My throat dries and my hand trembles.
I don’t intend to play a practical joke, but that’s what happens. ‘Hello,’ I say, ‘this is Mr Roche.’
He says, ‘This is Mr Roche.’
I say, ‘I think I am a distant relative of yours and wonder if you might invite me to your abode for a cup of tea.’
He hangs up.
I don’t understand what I have done. I call again straight away. If I wait, I’ll lose my courage. I speak in a rush. ‘Hello Mr Roche. It’s John Egan, sir. I was in your class at Gorey National School.’
There is a long pause. I hear some papers rustling and then, when he finally speaks, he seems to have food in his mouth. ‘Oh, the boy who left in the dead of night?’
‘Yes,’ I say, pleased that he remembers. Perhaps things will work out between us after all. He will help me do what I need to do to become famous. He will help me get the attention of the Guinness Book. ‘We moved to Dublin. To Ballymun, sir.’
Another long pause, while my heart races.
‘Did you ring this number a few minutes ago?’ he asks.
‘No,’ I say. ‘No. I just called now. For the first time.’ This is a lie told badly.
‘Well, whoever it was sounded as if it could have been you.’
‘Well, it wasn’t, sir. It must have been somebody else. It must have been a coincidence.’
I notice the sensations caused by lying: what lying does to my temperature, my voice and my body. I notice that my left hand is in a fist but it is hard to know what my right hand might be doing if it were not occupied holding the telephone receiver. I also notice that I am speaking faster than usual.
‘You live in Ballymun now.’
I am not sure if this is a question or a statement. ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘It’s pretty good when you get used to it.’
He’s definitely eating. I wait for him to chew and swallow. ‘I’ll pray you never get used to it. I’ll pray you’ll leave the very first chance you get.’