Three barely existent children. Three barely distinguishable minutes since our father crashed feet through the ceiling and tore down our pillow fort and ordered us back through our bedroom door. We’d tried asking our father what Gentleman Jim’s real job was numerous times. We’d tried asking him in McDonald’s but he’d been too distracted because I couldn’t finish my fries. Too much milkshake. No answer. ‘That toy stinks of a deep fat fryer,’ in the car on the drive home.
We’d tried asking him in the car on other occasions, and he’d sigh and rub his temples with both hands off the wheel and his eyes closed as though he was trying to play the Five Second Game with the two of us (my sister didn’t count because she was already dead). We weren’t scared. The Five Second Game hadn’t hurt anyone before. He was an adult, a man in control. And he was never that good at the game because he only managed to count up to three.
When he opened his eyes again, he’d say something like, ‘You’ve asked me that before.’ Or he’d say something like, ‘You know that question’s boring.’ Or he’d say nothing with his mouth and say something with his hand like SMACK. Reaching round into the back to where either one of us would be sitting. It didn’t matter which one took it. We’d even fight between us to get the seat behind his because it offered a little more protection, but still his arm could reach.
When it rained, the car wouldn’t start. Those were days of relief.
In the morning my father ate cornflakes. Tired, having been kept up every night by his children.
Tired.
Cornflakes.
‘Dad?’
It would usually be my brother, while our mother was packing our lunches in silence, daydreaming about divorce.
‘Dad?’
Sip of instant coffee.
‘Dad?’
While I dipped my soldiers.
‘Dad?’
And the yolk was destroyed.
Dad, who was preparing himself for the agony of leaving the house again.
‘Dad,’ said my brother, ‘what does Unc–’
‘He’s a debt collector,’ said our father. ‘He goes to people’s houses and takes money from them. And when they ask too many questions about why he does what he does, he gets tired and has to sit down. And where do you think he sits?’
‘On top of them?’
‘That’s right. He sits on their chest until their every last breath has gone.’
Then there’d be a pause. An awkward ruffle of hair or a funny face. The oven door would slam to break it up and everyone would look at mother.
‘What about the knife in his drawer?’ I’d ask.
‘We don’t talk about that,’ said Mother, rubbing her arms.
‘Is it true it belonged to our grandfather? Is it true our grandfather got it from a dead Gurkha in North Africa? Is it–’
‘That’s enough,’ said our mother, who’d wanted a daughter so badly.