The Wasp Factory Page 0,45

space over my head, smiling wisely as I cleared my throat and flapped the hem of my dressing-gown as unobtrusively as I could. I could see his nostrils flex and quiver.

‘Lager and whisky, eh?’ he said, nodding to himself and taking up his magazine again. I felt myself blush and I gritted my teeth, glad he had retreated behind the glossy pages. How did he do that? I pretended nothing had happened.

‘Oh. By the way,’ I said, ‘I hope you don’t mind, but I told Jamie that Eric had escaped.’

My father glared over the magazine, shook his head and continued reading. ‘Idiot,’ he said.

In the evening, after a snack rather than a meal, I went up to the loft and used the telescope to take a distant look at the island, making sure that nothing had happened to it while I rested inside the house. Everything appeared calm. I did go for one short walk in the cool overcast, just along the beach to the south end of the island and back, then I stayed in and watched some more television when the rain came on, carried on a low wind, glum-muttering against the window.

I had gone to bed when the phone rang. I got up quickly, as I hadn’t really started to drop off when it went, and ran down to get there before my father. I didn’t know if he was still up or not.

‘Yes?’ I said breathlessly, tucking my pyjama jacket into the bottoms. Pips sounded, then a voice on the other end sighed.

‘No.’

‘What?’ I said, frowning.

‘No,’ the voice on the other end said.

‘Eh?’ I said. I wasn’t even sure it was Eric.

‘You said “Yes”. I say “No”.’

‘What do you want me to say?’

‘“Porteneil 531”.’

‘OK. Porteneil 531. Hello?’

‘OK. Goodbye.’ The voice giggled, the phone went dead. I looked at it accusingly, then put it down in the cradle. I hesitated. The phone rang again. I snatched it up halfway through the first tinkle.

‘Ye—’ I started, then the pips sounded. I waited until they stopped and said, ‘Porteneil 531.’

‘Porteneil 531,’ said Eric. I thought it was Eric, at least.

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘Yes what?’

‘Yes, this is Porteneil 531.’

‘But I thought this was Porteneil 531.’

‘This is. Who is that? Is that you—’

‘It’s me. Is that Porteneil 531?’

‘Yes!’ I shouted.

‘And who’s that?’

‘Frank Cauldhame,’ I said, trying to be calm. ‘Who’s that?’

‘Frank Cauldhame,’ Eric said. I looked around, up and down the stairs, but saw no sign of my father.

‘Hello, Eric,’ I said, smiling. I decided that, whatever else happened, tonight I would not make him angry. I’d put the phone down rather than say the wrong thing and have my brother wreck yet another piece of Post Office property.

‘I just told you my name’s Frank. Why are you calling me “Eric”?’

‘Come on, Eric, I recognise your voice.’

‘I’m Frank. Stop calling me Eric.’

‘OK. OK. I’ll call you Frank.’

‘So who are you?’

I thought for a moment. ‘Eric?’ I said tentatively.

‘You just said you were called Frank.’

‘Well,’ I sighed, leaning against the wall with one hand and wondering what I could say. ‘That was . . . that was just a joke. Oh God, I don’t know.’ I frowned at the phone and waited for Eric to say something.

‘Anyway, Eric,’ Eric said, ‘what’s the latest news?’

‘Oh, nothing much. I was out last night, at the pub. Did you call last night?’

‘Me? No.’

‘Oh. Dad said somebody did. I thought it might have been you.’

‘Why would I call?’

‘Well, I don’t know.’ I shrugged to myself. ‘For the same reason you called tonight. Whatever.’

‘Well, why do you think I called tonight?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Christ; you don’t know why I’ve called, you aren’t sure of your own name, you get mine wrong. You’re not up to much, are you?’

‘Oh dear,’ I said, more to myself than to Eric. I could feel this conversation going all the wrong way.

‘Aren’t you going to ask me how I am?’

‘Yes, yes,’ I said. ‘How are you?’

‘Terrible. How are you?’

‘OK. Why are you feeling terrible?’

‘You don’t really care.’

‘Of course I care. What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing that would interest you. Ask me something else, like how the weather is or where I am or something. I know you don’t care how I feel.’

‘Of course I do. You’re my brother. Naturally I care,’ I protested. Just at that moment I heard the kitchen door open, and seconds later my father appeared at the bottom of the stairs and, taking hold of the great wooden ball sculpted on to the top of the last banister, stood glaring up at me.