Farah reaches up and pulls the dividing sheet across and seals off the space between us. It’s just me and Chiu on this side with the silent stacks of books and the little counter where, in another world, a librarian sits and takes care of the library.
“G’night, boys,” Farah murmurs.
“Goodnight,” Chiu says.
I lie down, trying not to listen too closely to the sound of Farah moving around on the far side of the curtain, trying not to let my imagination run wild.
“Hey, Kyle,” Chiu asks. “How long have you been here?”
“I came today,” I say.
“So you haven’t slept here yet?” Chiu says.
There’s a note in his voice that makes me instantly alert. I hear Farah chuckling knowingly on the far side of her curtain.
“What?” I say. “What is it?”
“Oh, boy,” Chiu says. “You’ll see. Dreams are pretty wild in this place.”
TEN
“Promise me, no prayer meetings.”
“I promise,” Mum replies.
Mum’s only thirty-six but she looks much older as she slides into our little Fiat and adjusts the rear-view mirror. She has a frail bird-like quality. She chews her nails constantly, inspecting the frayed edges of each finger as she goes. I wonder sometimes if it’s all my fault: if Mum would have been a different person if she hadn’t found herself the single parent of a child who scared the life out of her on a regular basis.
“Just be yourself,” she says. “He’ll love you, I’m sure.”
I watch the grubby pebble-dashed council houses slide past, anxiety crawling inside me. The streets feel darkened – laden with a sense of threat. I haven’t left home in six months and somehow I hadn’t noticed how big of a deal it had become. I don’t want to be outside. I don’t want to be anywhere except safe and cosy in the familiar fug of my bedroom. But Mum wanted me to go with her to visit Father Michael. She practically begged me and I didn’t know how to say no.
We pull up outside a row of terraced houses on the old side of town. It’s a busy through road and the three-storey Victorian houses on this block are an odd mixture of the recently renovated and the soon-to-be-condemned. The house we’re parked opposite has recently received new double glazing and Nordic style fake wooden panelling. Father Michael’s house is next door and it’s on the shabbier end of the scale. Cracked pebble-dash clings weakly to the wall and it’s fallen away entirely in places to reveal ulcerous cavities and disintegrating brickwork. The big bay window at the front is thick with years of grime and provides a glimpse into a sparsely decorated front room littered with cardboard boxes that overflow with paperwork.
“He’s a very special man,” Mum says.
She knocks on the door and after a few minutes it opens a crack. A sallow face appears, half shadowed from the hallway.
“Mary?” The voice is soft, delicate.
“Father Michael,” Mum replies. “This is Kyle, my son. I’ve brought him to meet you like we discussed.”
Father Michael hesitates, trying to hide his irritation. After a moment, he sighs wearily and says, “Well, I suppose you’d better come in then.”
He leads us down an unlit hallway with yellowing wallpaper and a frayed brown carpet. I can’t help noticing that the door to the front room is one of those heavy fire doors with its own Yale lock screwed into place.
“Can I get you anything?” Father Michael says. “Tea?”
“I’ll make it,” Mum volunteers. “I want you and Kyle to get to know each other.”
Father Michael gestures for me to sit on one of the filthy sofas that seem to be dotted with cigarette burns and takes the dining chair in the opposite corner. He’s quite a lot older than Mum: a slim, awkward-looking man. His light-blue shirt is yellowed around the collar and looks like it hasn’t been washed in a good few days, his hair clings damply to his scalp. He glances behind him, towards the doorway that leads into the kitchen, like he’s anxious for Mum to return.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Kyle,” he lies, turning back to me.
I give him a dogged smile. I won’t be rude, I think. I don’t want to upset Mum. But I’m not going to make it easy for him either. I watch Mum moving around the kitchen like somebody who knows it far too well. There’s something off about this place, I think. A sense of neglect and lurking menace. A vigilance, like a spider crouching in an unkempt web.
“Your mother is a wonderful person,” Father Michael says.
Another nod from me.
“We pray for you together often.”
“Um … OK,” I say.
“God forgives you for your affliction.”
“Um … my what?”
Father Michael turns towards the kitchen again and calls through the doorway. “There are biscuits in the cupboard, Mary.”
“I got them,” Mum calls back lightly.
“Do you pray, Kyle?” he says, turning back to me.
“No,” I say. “I’m an atheist.”
“Don’t you believe in anything?”
