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； and I didn't doubt that he was also worried about me。 I represent a crime； and if Eric was to e back stirring things up The Truth About Frank might e out。
I was never registered。 I have no birth certificate； no National Insurance number； nothing to say I'm alive or have ever existed。 I know this is a crime； and so does my father； and I think that sometimes he regrets the decision he made seventeen years ago； in his hippy…anarchist days； or whatever they were。
Not that I've suffered； really。 I enjoyed it； and you could hardly say that I wasn't educated。 I probably know more about the conventional school subjects than most people of my age。 I could plain about the truth of some of the bits of information my father passed on to me； mind you。 Ever since I was able to go into Porteneil alone and check things up in the library my father has had to be pretty straight with me； but when I was younger he used to fool me time after time； answering my honest if naive questions with utter rubbish。
For years I believed Pathos was one of the Three Musketeers； Fellatio was a character in Hamlet； Vitreous a town in China； and that the Irish peasants had to tread the peat to make Guinness。
Well； these days I can reach the highest shelves of the house library； and walk into Porteneil to visit the one there； so I can check up on anything my father says； and he has to tell me the truth。 It annoys him a lot； I think； but that's the way things go。 Call it progress。
But I am educated。 While he wasn't able to resist indulging his rather immature sense of humour by selling me a few dummies； my father couldn't abide a son of his not being a credit to him in some way； my body was a forlorn hope for any improvement； so only my mind was left。 Hence all my lessons。 My father is an educated man； and he passed a lot of what he already knew on to me； as well as doing a fair bit of study himself into areas he didn't know all that much about just so that he could teach me。 My father is a doctor of chemistry； or perhaps biochemistry…I'm not sure。 He seems to have known enough about ordinary medicine…and perhaps still have had the contacts within the profession…to make sure that I got my inoculations and injections at the correct times in my life； despite my official non…existence as far as the National Health Service is concerned。
I think my father used to work in a university for a few years after he graduated； and he might have invented something； he occasionally hints that he gets some sort of royalty from a patent or something； but I suspect the old hippy survives on whatever family wealth the Cauldhames still have secreted away。
The family has been in this part of Scotland for about two hundred years or more； from what I can gather； and we used to own a lot of the land around here。 Now all we have is the island； and that's pretty small； and hardly even an island at low tide。 The only other remnant of our glorious past is the name of Porteneil's hot…spot； a grubby old pub called the Cauldhame Arms where I go sometimes now； though still under age of course； and watch some of the local youths trying to be punk bands。 That was where I met and still meet the only person I'd call a friend； Jamie the dwarf； whom I let sit on my shoulders so he can see the bands。
'Well； I don't think he'll get this far。 They'll pick him up；' my father said again； after a long and brooding silence。 He got up to rinse his glass。 I hummed to myself； something I always used to do when I wanted to smile or laugh； but thought the better of it。 My father looked at me。 'I'm going to the study。 Don't forget to lock up； all right？'
'Okey…doke；' I said； nodding。
'Goodnight。'
My father left the kitchen。 I sat and looked at my trowel； Stoutstroke。 Little grains of dry sand stuck to it； so I brushed them off。 The study。 One of my few remaining unsatisfied ambitions is to get into the old man's study。 The cellar I have at least seen； and been in occasionally； I know all the rooms on the ground floor and the second； the loft is my domain entirely and home of the Wasp Factory； no less； but that one room on the first floor I don't know； I have never even seen inside。
I do know he has some chemicals in there； and I suppose he does experiments or something； but what the room looks like； what he actually does in there； I have no idea。 All I've ever got out of it are a few funny smells and the tap…tap of my father's stick。
I stroked the long handle of the trowel； wondering if my father had a name for that stick of his。 I doubted it。 He doesn't attach the same importance to them as I do。 I know they are important。
I think there is a secret in the study。 He had hinted as much more than once； just vaguely； just enough to entice me so that I want to ask what； so that he knows that I want to ask。 I don't ask； of course； because I wouldn't get any worthwhile answer。 If he did tell me anything it would be a pack of lies； because obviously the secret wouldn't be a secret any more if he told me the truth； and he can feel； as I do； that with my increasing maturity he needs all the holds over me he can get； I'm not a child any more。 Only these little bits of bogus power enable him to think he is in control of what he sees as the correct father…son relationship。 It's pathetic really； but with his little games and his secrets and his hurtful remarks he tries to keep his security intact。
I leaned back in the wooden chair and stretched。 I like the smell of the kitchen。 The food； and the mud on our wellingtons； and sometimes the faint tang of cordite ing up from the cellar all give me a good； tight； thrilling feel when I think about them。 It smells different when it's been raining and our clothes are wet。 In the winter the big black stove pumps out heat fragrant with driftwood or peat； and everything steams and the rain hammers against the glass。 Then it has a fortable； closed…in feeling； making you feel cosy； like a great big cat with its tail curled round itself。 Sometimes I wish we had a cat。 All I've ever had was a head； and that the seagulls took。
I went to the toilet； down the corridor off the kitchen； for a crap。 I didn't need a pee because I'd been pissing on the Poles during the day； infecting them with my scent and power。
I sat there and thought about Eric； to whom such an unpleasant thing happened。 Poor twisted bugger。 I wondered； as I have often wondered； how I would have coped。 But it didn't happen to me。 I have stayed here and Eric was the one who went away and it all happened somewhere else； and that's all there is to it。 I'm me and here's here。
I listened； wondering if I could hear my father。 Perhaps he had gone straight to bed。 He often sleeps in the study rather than in the big bedroom on the second floor； where mine is。 Maybe that room holds too many unpleasant （or pleasant） memories for him。 Either way； I couldn't hear any snoring。
I hate having to sit down in the toilet all the time。 With my unfortunate disability I usually have to； as though I was a bloody woman； but I hate it。 Sometimes in the