The Mute and the Liar (3 page)

They’re
trying
this
new
technique
with
me
called
desensitization.
It’s
supposed
to
make
me
feel
more
comfortable
with
the
idea
of
communicating
with
Father.
They
don’t
understand
that
I’m
perfectly
fine
with
the
idea
of
'
communicating
with
Father.
'
I
just
choose
not
to.

It’s
just
a
waste
of
time,
but
Fa
ther’s
convinced
I’ll
crack
sooner
or
later.
He’s
always
talking
to
me. Or
thinking out
loud,
I
should
say. He
just
rambles
on,
speaking
everything
on
his
mind,
everything
that
flits
into
his
head,
not
even
caring
whether
it’s
nonsense
or
insulting.
The
lines
have
long
since
blurred
between
talking
to
me and talking
to
himself.

It’s
been
going
on
for
years.
Appointment
after
appointment
after
appointment.
What
has
it
been
now?
Seven
years?
Oh
yes.
Exactly
seven
years
ago
yesterday.
I
almost
forgot.

They’ve
tried
everything
they
can.
They
put
me
in
sign
language
lessons
a
couple
of
years
ago.
They
were
considering
putting
me
in
a
special
needs
school
or
giving
me
a
sign
language
interpreter
in
lessons
in
case
I
ever
need
to
ask
for
help.
The
thing
is
though,
I’m
clever
and
I
get
things
at
school;
I
can
write,
if
I
need
to
say
something;
I
don’t
really
need
that
kind
of
help.

And
secondly,
it’s
selective
mutism;
in
theory,
I
can
start
speaking
again
whenever
I
want.
So
they
decided
putting
me
in
a
special
school,
etc,
would
just
discourage
me
from
speaking
and
so
for
now
things
remain
roughly
the
same,
not
including
the
private
tuition
sessions
with
a
teacher
who
speaks
sign
language
I
have
to
go
to
on
a
Saturday
morning
to
check
I’m
understanding
everything
at
school,
and
the
endless
appointments
I
have
to
go
to
with
various
psychologists
and
speech
specialists.

They
don’t
understand
that
I’m
not
going
to
speak
because
I
don’t
want
to.
The
moment
I
open
my
mouth
there
will
be
questions,
and
then
there
will
be
answers,
and
then
there
will
be
problems.
Problems
that
I’m
not
allowed
to
solve. And
then
there
will
be lies.

Why
do
I
need
to
start
talking
anyway?
I
don’t
care.
I’m
top
in
my
year.
It
doesn’t
matter
that
I
don’t
have
any
friends.
People
annoy
me,
and
I
didn’t
have
friends
even
back
when
I
did
talk.
See?
I’m
doing
absolutely
fine
without
their
help.

*****

I
wasn’t
going
to
write
again
until tomorrow, but
after
I
had dinner,
things
got
interesting, which
is
pretty
rare
around
here.

I
live
in
Elmview,
a
quiet
town
in
the
south
of
England.
There
is
a
high
street,
fitted
snugly
with
a
few
shops,
a
bakery
and
a
Newsagent.
We
have
a
library,
too.
And
there’s
a
shopping
centre
in
Grand
Tyson,
the
city
nearest
to us. And that’s
about it.

Traffic
is
rare,
the
people
are
reclusive,
and
you
could
murder
someone
in
one
of
the
isolated
alleyways
around
here
and
no
one
would
ever
even
find
the
body.
Not
that
anything
interesting
like
that
happens.
The
worst
thing
that
has
happened
here
in
the
past
three
years
was
when
Mr
Patel’s
shop
got
covered
in
graffiti.
We
don’t
get
tourists.
In
fact,
we
probably
have
more
cats
living here than
people.

Most
of
our
neighbours
are
stuck
in
low-paid
jobs.
There
are
no
train
stations
nearby,
and
the
nearest
motorway
is
quite
a
few
miles
away,
so
travelling is
difficult.
In
some
ways,
it
seems
the
detached
people here
actually
like
that.
They
don’t
need
to
travel.
They
don’t
need
adventure.
All
they
have
ever
needed
is
right
here,
in
this
sleepy
town
tangled
in
greenery.
We’re
pretty
much
cut
off
from
the
rest
of
the
world.
All
of
us
are
just
suffocating
in
a
balloon, our
lives
consisting
only of
the
journey
to
work
and
back
home.

I
made
my
own
dinner
in
the
way
I
did
every
day.
I
cut
the
bag
of
pasta
in
a
perfectly
straight
line,
poured
it
in
the
saucepan,
put
it
on
the
hot
plate
to
simmer.
I
put
the
tomato
sauce
to
heat
up.
I
waited
exactly
fifteen minutes.
Then
I
drained
the
pasta,
combined
it
with
the
sauce,
and
took
a
plate
from
the
perfectly
stacked
pile,
and
poured
the
pasta
in.
I
placed
it
exactly
in
the
centre
of
the
table
and
arranged
the
knife
and
the
fork
vertically
together
on
the
right
hand
side
of
the
plate.
I
ate
the
pasta
in
exactly
seven
forkfuls. Just like always.