When the bell rang, a man and a woman were waiting for me outside the classroom. We’re going to take you home today, they told me. We’d like a word with your mother. Fine, I said. They drove me home in a red Cortina. Rachel was lying on the sofa watching television. She had a hand down the front of her tracksuit pants. She stood up when the man and the woman came in, unsteady on her feet. There were wine bottles on the floor. Who have you been talking to, you little shit, asked Rachel, advancing on me, and the woman stood between us. I’ll make the call, said the man, taking a phone from his pocket and stepping out into the hallway.
I was told to pack a bag and a couple of hours later I found myself in a house near Dartmouth Square with a couple named George and Sarah Day, and their son Eugene, who offered me a game of Monopoly. I was told I was to stay with the Days until a decision was made about me.
Fine, I said.
I always say you have my number when I leave someone’s house but it’s unusual for a man to call me twice. Perhaps I’m not good at my job. It’s a possibility, of course, but I do try to give value for money. I think it’s more likely that men don’t want me to remember them. If I see them more than once, then I might recognize them as they walk down Grafton Street, holding their children by the hands as they look into the Christmas window at Brown Thomas. Or maybe they think that if they become familiar to me, I will blackmail them. Or, I suppose, murder them. But these are the things that happen in films, not in real life. I would never acknowledge a client on the street. Nor would I blackmail one. Nor would I commit a violent crime. I know this in my heart. But of course they do not, for they don’t know me at all.
There is one couple, however, that I have seen several times. They are both in their fifties. Roger has a strong Galway accent; Jim tells me that he is Glaswegian. Roger and Jim live together off Parnell Square. They own an extraordinary amount of DVD films, which they shelve alphabetically on beautifully constructed shelves. Roger is visibly excited whenever I appear and undresses me quickly, his mouth on every part of my body. There is no small talk. Jim holds back and seems embarrassed to be part of this. He looks away when Roger kisses me. I can see that he hates where their life has led them, this intrusion of a young boy into their bedroom. I am certainly not the first; I will not be the last. When Roger is finished with me, he lies back and says fuck over and over in a tone that suggests that we have both been overwhelmed by the encounter. Jim looks away and gathers up my clothes for me, gives me my money. He asks me whether I would like to use their shower. I wash myself thoroughly before going downstairs even though I will shower again when I get home. By now, Roger is seated on the sofa wearing a faded dressing gown and flicking through the television channels. He never looks at me then.
The last time I left their house Jim walked me to the front door. Do you live far away, he asked me, and I shook my head. Not too far, I said. Do you mind if I ask what you do, he said. When you’re not doing this, I mean. Of course you don’t have to say if it makes you uncomfortable. If I tell you, will you tell Roger, I asked him. No, he said. I’m a student, I told him. He seemed disappointed by my reply. He thought I was lying. I wasn’t lying. He put a hand on my shoulder and said that if Roger called again, would I mind saying that I was busy? He said that he knew this would cost me money but that he would be happy to make this good. He would give me one hundred euros for every time I said no to Roger. I shook my head and said that I would never come to their house again. That if Roger phoned me, I would not answer. But he’ll call someone else, I told him, you know that, don’t you? Yes, I know that, he said.
I wanted to stay with the Days but I couldn’t. They were a halfway house, a place for boys like me to go in an emergency situation. Sarah was kind and efficient but her job was to prepare me for wherever I was going next. George talked to me about football. I didn’t understand; he didn’t care. He kept trying. Eugene didn’t seem to mind having another boy in the house. He confided in me that he wanted to be a priest, a strange profession for someone our age. He said that he felt a calling inside him. Sarah and George Day asked me whether I wanted to talk about Rachel and Peter and I told them no, that I didn’t.
I knew from my social worker that Rachel had been brought to a clinic where she was being treated for alcoholism. After that she was brought to a second clinic, where she was treated for depression. My social worker said that my sister’s death had affected Rachel badly. She asked me whether I understood about Peter. Understood what, I asked. It doesn’t matter, she said, consulting her file. Understood what, I asked again. I’m sorry, I spoke out of turn, she told me. Rachel is in hospital, my social worker told me. She has a long road to recovery. Would you like to see her, she asked me. No, I said. My social worker told me that was probably for the best, as Rachel wasn’t emotionally equipped for visitors yet. Then we’re all happy, I said.
I asked Sarah Day whether I could stay with her, George and Eugene, and she shook her head. You know that you can’t, she told me.
I was brought to a house in Drumcondra to live with a family whose name was Grace. There was another foster child there, an angry girl named Chloe who refused to talk to me. My new foster parents took no interest in either of us. They had a son, Francis, nine years old, who did nothing but play video games and told me that I was there so the state would pay the mortgage. He pretended that I didn’t exist, even though we shared a bedroom.
I excelled, however, in school. I was naturally gifted. My teachers took a particular interest in me. I overheard my English teacher telling my mathematics teacher that I had a tragic back-story, as if I was a character in a novel. I sat quietly in class, I did my homework, I answered questions politely. And of course I was good-looking, and adults prefer attractive children. Even if they are not looking at them with sexual thoughts in their mind, I noticed how the teachers were instinctively drawn to the attractive boys and girls. They sought our approval. They wanted us to like them.
The possibility of a scholarship was raised with me. There were certain grades that I needed to achieve. I felt certain that if I studied hard, I would achieve what my invigilators required. I succeeded. At my school graduation the headmaster brought me on to the stage, clutched my arm and declared me a triumph over adversity. The parents applauded. I felt nothing. A reception was held afterwards – tepid soft drinks and supermarket party food. On the way home I made my way through a park where two boys accosted me, asked me whether I had money, told me they wanted whatever I had. I fought them and hurt them.
A woman phoned. Do you meet women as well as men, she asked me. Yes, I said, even though I never had. There was a long pause. I could hear her breathing. I’m lonely, she said eventually. They’re all fucking lonely. Yes, I said. Are you clean, she asked me.
She didn’t want me to come to her home. She said she’d book a room in a hotel where the elevators didn’t require a key card and I could come straight up.
I followed the corridor around to her room. I knocked on the door. I could hear her standing on the other side. I waited. She opened the door. Hello, she said.
She was wearing a heavy white bathrobe, the kind you only find in hotels, and smelled of bath salts. I could see steam on the mirror of the bathroom through the open door and knew that she had prepared herself for me. I feel ridiculous, she told me. Don’t, I said. I’ve never done something like this before, she told me. I have, I said.