“Being an atheist isn’t an absence of belief,” I say.
This is something I learned on YouTube. A phrase I particularly like.
“Then what do you believe in?” Father Michael says.
“I believe in my own uncertainty,” I say. “Looking at the world and trying to understand it the best I can. Not making up stories and claiming they’re the only truth.”
“The fact of the matter is, Kyle,” Father Michael says, hunching his shoulders as he leans towards me, “it doesn’t matter much what you think. You were made by God and for God and until you understand that the world is not going to make much sense to you.”
I resist the temptation to snort. Father Michael looks like he’s about to say something more but there’s a loud bang upstairs and a clatter as a young woman with dyed yellow hair appears.
“Hi, Lacy!” Mum calls through delightedly.
“Hi, Mary,” Lacy replies, less enthusiastically.
Lacy is thin in a sickly-looking way. She wears leggings and a stained, old-looking puffer jacket. She darts forward and kisses Father Michael on the cheek. I watch their exchange, unsure what to make of it. Too old to be his daughter? Too young to be his wife? Father Michael seems to enjoy my confusion. After Lacy slams out of the front door he flashes me a knowing wink and says, “My lodger.”
Mum bustles in and hands around tea and custard creams. She sits at the dining table next to Father Michael. I catch her eye and give her a desperate look.
“Quiet lad, isn’t he?” Father Michael muses as he bites into his custard cream.
“The epilepsy,” Mum says. “It affects him…” She trails off, her hands crawling over each other like one is looking for a place to hide within the other.
Father Michael nods. “I’m sorry about the epilepsy, Kyle. God has to put some of us on our backs before we can be looking up at Him.”
This time I can’t help myself. “Bullshit,” I murmur. I watch the look of horror spread across Mum’s face as she turns from me to Father Michael. I don’t care, I’m tired of Mum’s churches treating epilepsy like it’s either a punishment or a sign from God. “It’s not that,” I say. “It’s neurology and genetics and science and messed-up brain scaffolding.”
I’m about to stand and storm out when Father Michael reaches forward with surprising speed and grabs my wrist. “Don’t be fooled by our present circumstance, Kyle. I have big plans. I’m on a mission from God and your mother is going to help me.”
“Help you? How?”
Father Michael taps the side of his nose. “For now you see through a glass, darkly. But then face to face… Now you know in part, then you shall know, even as you are known.”
Corinthians thirteen twelve, I think. A well-known one.
I look at Mum, but she sits rigid. My skin crawls under Father Michael’s hand.
“Um … sure. Whatever,” I say.
I pull my hand away, my heart pounding. I’m shaken but I don’t want him to know that. Father Michael smiles the mean, happy smile of somebody who thinks they’ve won. “There are many rooms in my castle, Kyle,” he says. “For the worthy.”
I glance at the peeling damp-stained wallpaper.
“Castle?” I say. “Funny kind of castle.”
ELEVEN
I wake gasping and stare in panic at the cream-coloured walls of the library for a long time before I remember what they mean and where I am.
“Hey, sleepyhead.” Farah smiles. “It’s OK. You didn’t drool.”
Chiu is watching me. “Good, huh? Like IMAX Superscreen Deluxe?”
I take a shaky breath. I can still feel the pressure of Father Michael’s hand holding on to my wrist.
He’s the reason I was out on the street on my own.
The certainty of the thought unnerves me.
Why can I still not remember?
“Is it always like that?” I ask.
“It gets easier,” Chiu responds. He jumps up, wobbling unsteadily on his mattress. “Come on!”
“Come where?” I say, confused.
“Chiu wants to show us something,” Farah says. “He says it’ll help.”
“What?” I say.
“It’s a surprise!” Chiu responds.
Farah and I exchange a look. Chiu seems both older and younger than the Year Eights I remember from school. He probably started out smarter than an average thirteen-year-old but all that time alone, reading, has made him scarily smart. And yet he’s still a little kid inside. He bounces slightly on his mattress, boiling with fragile excitement.
“OK, OK,” I concede.
