The Wasp Factory Page 0,9

and littered, then turned to head for home.

‘Did I hear you talking on the phone last night?’ my father said.

I shook my head. ‘Nope.’

We were finishing our lunch, sitting in the kitchen, me with my stew, my father with brown rice and seaweed salad. He had his Town Gear on; brown brogues, brown tweed three-piece suit, and on the table sat his brown cap. I checked my watch and saw that it was Thursday. It was very unusual for him to go anywhere on a Thursday, whether Porteneil or any further afield. I wasn’t going to ask him where he was going because he’d only lie. When I used to ask him where he was going he would tell me ‘To Phucke’, which he claimed was a small town to the north of Inverness. It was years and a lot of funny looks in the town before I learned the truth.

‘I’m going out today,’ he told me between mouthfuls of rice and salad. I nodded, and he continued: ‘I’ll be back late.’

Perhaps he was going to Porteneil to get drunk in the Rock Hotel, or perhaps he was off to Inverness, where he often goes on business he prefers to keep mysterious, but I suspected that it was really something to do with Eric.

‘Right,’ I said.

‘I’ll take a key, so you can lock up when you want to.’ He clattered his knife and fork down on the empty plate and wiped his mouth on a brown napkin made from recycled paper. ‘Just don’t put all the bolts on, all right?’

‘Right.’

‘You’ll make yourself something to eat this evening, h’m?’

I nodded again, not looking up as I ate.

‘And you’ll do the washing-up?’

I nodded again.

‘I don’t think Diggs’ll come round again; but, if he does, I want you to stay out of his way.’

‘Don’t worry,’ I told him, and sighed.

‘You’ll be all right, then?’ he said, standing.

‘M’m-h’m,’ I said, cleaning up the last of the stew.

‘I’ll be off, then.’

I looked up in time to see him place his cap on his head and look round the kitchen, patting his pockets as he did so. He looked at me again and nodded.

I said: ‘Goodbye.’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Right you are.’

‘I’ll see you later.’

‘Yes.’ He turned round, then turned back, looked once more round the room, then shook his head quickly and went to the door, taking his stick from the corner by the washing machine on his way out. I heard the outer door slam, then silence. I sighed.

I waited a minute or so then got up, leaving my almost clean plate, and went through the house to the lounge, where I could see the path leading away through the dunes towards the bridge. My father was walking along it, head bowed, going quickly with a sort of anxious swagger as he swung the stick. As I watched, he struck out with it at some wild flowers growing by the path-side.

I ran upstairs, pausing by the back stairwell window to watch my father disappear round the dune before the bridge, ran up the stairs, got to the door to the study and twisted the handle briskly. The door was firm; it didn’t shift a millimetre. One day he’d forget, I was sure, but not today.

After I had finished my meal and done the washing-up, I went to my room, checked the home-brew and got my air-rifle. I made sure I had sufficient pellets in my jacket pockets, then headed out of the house for the Rabbit Grounds on the mainland, between the large branch of the creek and the town dump.

I don’t like using the gun; it’s almost too accurate for me. The catapult is an Inside thing, requiring that you and it are one. If you’re feeling bad, you’ll miss; or, if you know you’re doing something wrong, you’ll miss, too. Unless you fire a gun from the hip it’s all Outside; you point and aim and that’s it, unless the sights are out or there’s a really high wind. Once you’ve cocked the gun the power’s all there, just waiting to be released by the squeeze of a finger. A catapult lives with you until the last moment; it stays tensed in your hands, breathing with you, moving with you, ready to leap, ready to sing and jerk, and leaving you in that dramatic pose, arms and hands outstretched while you wait for the dark curve of the ball in its flight to find its target, that delicious thud.

But going after rabbits, especially