Liam starts shouting, abusing the Man U goalie for letting a penalty through. The goalie didn’t do anything wrong, it was a good shot, that’s all, but Liam keeps on screaming at the goalie, ‘You idiot! You mongoloid! You sissy!’
All the Man U supporters in the crowd are screaming at the goalie, their mouths wide open, most of them standing, waving their fists. When a close-up of the goalie’s face comes up on the television, Liam moves in close to the screen and spits at him. The goalie is trying his hardest to block the balls. In the close-up he looks frightened.
I rush to the toilet.
I have diarrhoea. It floods out of me, and I get a sharp pain down my thighs. The diarrhoea keeps coming, so much of it, and as it rushes into the toilet some of the dirty water splashes up against the back of my legs. The smell is terrible. I flush the toilet three times, all the while holding my nose. I use a towel to wipe the back of my thighs and rinse the towel in the bath. After I have washed the towel, I wash my hands, and I run the hot water tap for a long time, hoping the heat and the steam will cover up the smell and stop me feeling sick.
Liam knocks on the door. ‘What’re ya doin’ in there? Havin’ a bath?’
‘Yes,’ I say.
He keeps knocking and shouting at me and I want to go out there and hurt his face. I picture myself going at his face with my hands.
But I stay where I am. I wait. Instead of going out to him, I run hot water in the bath again. While the tap is running, I can’t hear Liam and I feel better. I stand in front of the mirror and the hot water steams it up so that I can’t see my reflection. But I face the mirror and look at the steam on the surface of the glass.
‘On the count of ten,’ I say, ‘you will come back and everything will be normal again.’
I wipe the mirror clean. When I can see my face again, I don’t like how it looks.
I let the mirror steam up a second time. I wipe it clear once more and look at my face. I smile. The second time is better. I put my hand on the reflection of my hand and I say, ‘You will be all right. You won’t be a criminal. You will be better than other people.’
I wash my hands and scrub under my nails, then I get Liam’s aftershave and splash it on my underpants and the legs of my jeans. I go back into the living room. The football match is over and Liam and the twins are eating more cake. I sit in the chair nearest the window and look down at the street. I watch a hunchbacked old man cross the road. He doesn’t look to see if there are any cars coming.
At eight o’clock my parents come to take me home. My mother smiles without showing her teeth. My father looks at me properly for the first time since he came to collect me from the boys’ home. I’d like him to hug me instead of looking at me.
‘Time to go,’ he says.
I fall asleep in the car and go straight to bed when we get home.
In the morning, my mother comes to my room. ‘You’d better get washed. Uncle Jack and Uncle Tony are coming for breakfast. They’ve agreed to move the furniture.’
I want her to come and sit on my bed, but I don’t think she will. She will stay in the doorway. ‘Do they know?’
‘Only Granny knows.’
‘What about Aunty Evelyn? Did you tell her?’
‘We told her what we’ve told your uncles; that we’ve decided to go back to Gorey because we like it better there.’
I stand up and move towards the door. She puts her hand across her chest and reaches for her shoulder. She holds her shoulder as though it is sore.
‘John. Listen to me. You’ll be seeing a doctor in Gorey. He’s a child psychologist. I’ll be taking you to see him as soon as we get back and you’ll go for as long as he says you need to.’
I don’t care about doctors. I want to know what she thinks, and I want to know why she is taking me back. But if I ask, things might change; things that aren’t clear or certain might become clear and certain. She might decide to have me locked up; my father might leave again; I might be punished.
‘Are you happy?’ I ask.
She walks away without answering.
Uncle Jack and Uncle Tony come just before nine. They eat two helpings of eggs and rashers and black pudding, and drink three pots of tea. I eat only toast. I’m too nervous about diarrhoea.
‘Why won’t you eat?’ my father asks.
‘I have a toothache.’
Immediately after I say this, Uncle Tony distracts everybody by complaining about his gout, the swelling and soreness of his big toe. ‘Even the weight of the sheet on my foot gives me pain,’ he says.
My mother has no patience with him and talks to him the way she used to.
‘Well, if you’d stop eating all those kippers and fatty foods you might not have the gout.’
My father smiles with the corner of his mouth.
‘Fair play,’ says Uncle Tony.
‘Time to pack now, John,’ says my father.
I open my cupboard drawers. All five editions of the Guinness Book of Records are missing. That’s five whole years gone.
I go back into the kitchen. My parents are holding hands, looking at each other, whispering.
‘Where are my books?’
‘I’ve given them to charity,’ says my mother. ‘I’d prefer you to read something else from now on.’
‘Like what?’
‘School books.’
‘But I needed them.’
‘Let’s pack and get out of here,’ says my father.
I go to my room but instead of packing I sit up on my bed and throw my clothes out the window. My shirts and trousers and socks float down more slowly than I expect them to and they land on the ground-floor balconies; only one pair of trousers makes it all the way down to the ground.
I go back to the kitchen with an empty suitcase. I open it and put it on the floor near my father’s feet. ‘I’m packed,’ I say.
‘Where are all your clothes?’ he asks.
‘I threw them out the window.’
They look at each other and don’t seem at all surprised. They don’t protest. Then, suddenly, as though somebody has pressed a button, my parents start laughing and then the laughing stops.
‘You were outgrowing most of them anyway,’ says my mother. ‘It’s probably just as well.’
* * *
At eleven o’clock, we are ready to go. Uncle Jack and Uncle Tony lean against the car and say how exhausted they are. My father hands each of them an envelope. They both refuse, but my father insists they take it.
‘Something small. That’s all. Please take it.’
‘We’re very grateful,’ says my mother.
‘Not at all,’ says Uncle Jack, and then we say goodbye.
My mother sits in the back of the car and my father tells me to sit in the front passenger seat. ‘There’s more room for your legs in the front,’ he says.
But I think my mother wants to sit in the back because she feels safer there.
It’s a nice sunny day, no clouds, and the traffic moves quickly. We talk about Ballymun. My mother says she’d never have got used to the smell of the rubbish chute and the noise, and my father says he’s never been gladder to see the back of a place.
And then all that they talk about is the roads and the drive. Talk about nothing. The kind of talk robots would have. It makes me nervous. It makes me think that there will be a sudden explosion when we get to Gorey.
And then, out of nowhere, my mother says to my father. ‘By the way, I was right about Jack the Ripper and Sherlock Holmes. They were around at the same time. Jack the Ripper committed his murders in 1888 and Sherlock Holmes first appeared in 1887.’
‘What on earth made you drag that up now?’