Fully English

CHAPTER 7

"Excuse me?"

It takes a while for me to emerge from the fog that is clouding my brain and form a sentence. Fear of what he would say next had paralysed my tongue and quickened my heart rate.

"I know it's hard to hear," his tone softens but I am not comforted. The bitch in me forces me to kiss my teeth.

"Hard to hear because it isn't fucking true."

He looks at me with downcast eyes. As if he pities me. Like I am some unknowing child who he does not want to admit the realities of life to: Santa doesn't exist, the tooth fairy isn't real... one day you and everyone you know will die.

He shrugs. "Believe what you want."

Part of me wants him to elaborate on what he means by that: your father is responsible for the death of my father... how? What do you mean? Why do you say that?

But that illogical, fantastical part of my brain that loves to bask in ignorance takes over and I don't press him for answers.

"I will believe what I want," I say defiantly.

He comes over to join me on the bed, even though I probably still reek of vomit, he budges up as close as he can until we're millimetres apart but not touching. Between his fingers is the journal that I tore. It is dog-eared beyond words with a washed-out front cover and severely yellowed pages. I don't know how he managed to patch up the pages so well but he did. Luckily the rip was clean so the cursive writing was still legible.

"My dad's journal."

"You mentioned that already," I state stoically. The more caution I applied in this conversation, the better the outcome would be. I couldn't afford to be brash with my statements and actions. It was clear he was too measured, too aloof to be fazed by thoughtlessness. I needed to be calculating to get under his skin and reap an intended reaction.

"He died years ago... when I was in school."

He slips a photograph tucked in a makeshift pocket that has been amateurishly fashioned to the back cover of the journal. It is basic but innovative – the kind of thing your Design and Technology teacher would applaud you for coming up with at KS3 level. The photograph is small with four identical images – the kind you use for passports.

The man in the image is stone-faced, his eyes glowering at the camera. If I didn't know the context, I would say this was a headshot for a modelling agency... that's how striking the man's features were.

"How old was he?"

"When he died?"

"In this picture," I divert.

"Late twenties, early thirties. I couldn't tell you for definite."

I tread lightly. "Did you know him?"

He shrugs, resuming his aloof demeanour with ease. "Not in life."

I know what he means. Death has a funny way of forcing you to get to know a person all over again. You roll the concept of that person over and over in your mind – the good and the bad. You find them in things you'd never associate them with: taste, weather, clothes. Suddenly they are alive through all that is inanimate.

He turns to me and it is in this moment in time that I realise that during this whole time of sitting near me he has not looked at me once. But now he is watching, studying, marvelling at my face.

"What?"

He smiles wryly. "You look like your dad."

I freeze but retain composure. "You look like yours too."