‘Yes,’ I say, ‘that’s exactly right and …’
‘Well, young John, remember to be good and, more importantly, good luck.’
He hangs up.
I have never been on the phone with somebody who didn’t bother to say goodbye. I say goodbye to the beeping tone, and then I look around the living room, embarrassed.
I pace the living room floor behind the settee for a while and then I call him again. ‘Sir,’ I say. ‘It’s me again.’
‘Yes.’
‘I forgot to tell you that I have a gift.’
‘I don’t think there’s any need to be sending me a present.’
‘Not a present, sir. A gift. I’m gifted. I have a gift.’
He breathes heavily but doesn’t speak.
I wait.
‘What kind of gift?’
He sounds bored. I’m no longer sure that I should tell him. ‘I can’t say yet. But it’s a real gift and I was wondering if you could help with a letter I need to …’
‘Why mention this gift if you can’t tell me what it is?’
Why don’t I say what I set out to say? Why can’t I control what I say and how I say it? How can I have been thrown off course so easily? I hate myself.
‘Well, sir. I’m going to be famous one day. I think I’m a human lie detector. I’m pretty sure, but I need help with …’
He clears his throat. ‘Yes? Go on.’
I tell him about my father’s and grandmother’s lies. I tell him about The Gol of Seil, and the books I have read.
‘Tell me more,’ he says. ‘Explain it to me.’
I have a chance now to prove that I have a gift and to show off some of what I have learnt. ‘I have an instinct and I know that lying stirs up emotions that are involuntary and I know these emotions can’t be completely hidden.’
I continue. He has stopped eating.
‘And I can see these emotions in people’s faces and in what they do with their bodies, how they fidget with their hands, and other things. I can even tell when a good liar is lying because “one of the most important clues to a deception is the mismatch between what the person is saying and what his face and body are doing”.’
‘That’s quite a mouthful. You’ve obviously done your homework. But how do you know these sensations of yours are not simply feelings like hurt and shame? Emotions you feel when you believe somebody close to you is lying?’
‘Because there is proof. I tested it on Brendan and I’ve made notes in my Log of Lies.
He laughs. ‘As long as this goes no further,’ he says, ‘I am happy to tell you that Brendan is one of the worst young liars I have ever encountered, both with respect to the number of lies he tells and their alarming lack of credibility.’
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘But …’ I’m angry and short of breath, as though I’ve been running. I make sure that I don’t sound angry.
He begins to eat again. ‘You might want to test this gift of yours on some friends who are more practised liars.’
‘Well,’ I say, ‘I met this gang. I could practise on them. Maybe next time I could …’
He coughs loudly to interrupt me. Is this a trick for getting in the way of a boring speech? Does he mean to cut me off? If I don’t do something to stop it, I’ll become too angry to speak. I take a deep breath and count to ten.
‘Well, John, I’m intrigued. If you still have this gift when you finish your Leaving, please feel free to contact me.’
‘All right, sir.’
‘I do mean that, John. I’d like you to have something that will get you out of that wretched place.’
He speaks this last sentence with a warmth that is so sudden, and so strong, I feel the urge to cry, to laugh, to clap my hands. He doesn’t hate me. ‘Me too,’ I say. ‘I hope so too.’
I go to the dresser and get the permanent black marker Mammy uses for writing my name on the labels of my new clothes. I take my jersey off and write Mr Roche’s phone number on the inside of my left arm, just under my armpit; if the number fades when I wash it, I’ll write over it again. I will keep the number with me every day.
30
It’s the middle of the same night and my father stands by the bedroom door and whispers my name. I pretend not to hear him but he tiptoes over to the bed and shakes my shoulder. ‘Get up,’ he says. ‘And don’t wake your mother.’
He is wearing the same dirty yellow Aran jumper he has been wearing nearly every day since we moved to Ballymun.
‘I’m too sleepy.’
‘Get up,’ he says. ‘I’ve something to tell you.’
I put my dressing gown on and go with him into the small bedroom that used to be mine. The smell of the rubbish chute is strong, and it crunches and churns.
It’s 3.15 am and the clock on the wall beside the bed looks strange, with both hands together, back to back, thick and black.
He lies down and I sit at the end of the bed. The artery in his temple is pulsing in time with the clock; the blue worm throbs once every second. I turn away and hope that when I look back his fringe will have fallen down to cover him.
‘Are you properly awake?’ he asks.
‘I’m wide awake.’
‘Good, because you’ll need to concentrate.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I’ve got to tell you to stop peeling all the wallpaper off. Your mother says you’ve been very bold.’
‘I haven’t been bold.’
‘Well, I hear you have and I’m the one who has to tell you.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I’m your father.’
‘OK,’ I say. ‘Is that all?’
He puts his hands behind his head. ‘It’s late and your da’s a bit tipsy. Just felt like taking a look at his only child.’
The artery in his temple is pulsing faster. Two worm-pulses per second.
‘Where’ve you been?’ I ask.
‘Just went for a few pints after work down at the local pub.’
‘Who with?’
‘Some of my pals from work.’
He’s lying.
‘Where did you go?’ I ask.
‘The Terminal.’
‘How come you stayed so late?’ I ask.
‘We had a lot to talk about. The boss is getting on our goat. You’ve never met such an old fecker. Today he made us clean the kitchen; five men down on their hands and knees scrubbing.’
The sheer mental strain of having to fabricate is showing on his face.
‘So, how are you, fish-face?’ he asks.
‘Don’t call me fish-face.’
He is my father, and he should think I look well, even if I don’t.
‘You are a fish-face,’ he says, slurring fish and face together so that it comes out more like fliss-lace.
He puts his hand on my knee and I let him leave it there.
‘Sorry, fish-face, you don’t really look like a fish. It’s only ’cause you eat so many fish fingers that I call you that.’
‘You eat them, too,’ I say.
‘All right. Don’t get your knickers in a knot.’
We are quiet for a while. He closes his eyes and I stay where I am sitting on the end of the bed. And then, as he moves his arm up over his head, I smell perfume.
‘Da? How come you’re always making fun of the blind women upstairs? Do you know them?’
‘No reason,’ he says. ‘I just like to make fun.’
‘But do you know them?’
‘No, why would I know them?’
His face is frozen, just as though paralysed. Now I will play the part of a detective. ‘Do you really not know them?’
‘No. I’ve seen them just as you have. But I don’t know them.’
‘Are the other flats here all the same as this one?’
‘Mrs McGahern’s is the same. So, I suppose they are all more or less the same. Just slightly smaller or larger.’