The Dumb House by John Burnside Read Free Book Online

is fine,’ I answered, smiling.
    She did not return the smile. She put the tray on the coffee table and began to pour. The tea was transparent, almost colourless.
    â€˜I’m afraid it’s not very strong,’ she said.
    â€˜That’s fine for me,’ I replied, still smiling. This time she smiled back faintly, as if to apologise for the weakness of the tea.
    . There was an awkward silence. It was as if she was waiting for me to speak, to explain myself, and I realised I had nothing to say. I had made no preparation for our meeting; I had no idea what I would do when I met the child. I had no props, no credentials; in all likelihood, she would take me for an impostor, or worse. I tried to think of something to say, something technical, something scientific. My mind was blank. Finally, to break the silence, Mrs Olerud began asking me questions: how far I had come, what work I did, whether I had any children of my own. The manner in which she presented the questions suggested a system, as if she had read a guide on how to make small talk; I might have imagined she was interviewing me, except that she hardly appeared to register my answers to her questions and I was sure, if I had asked her to repeat what I had said, ten or twenty minutes later, she would have forgotten everything. She seemed apprehensive; I had the impression that she was nervous about letting me see the boy. The talk was a diversion, nothing more. She asked no questionsabout my intentions or my method of working. She asked for no identification, or credentials. She didn’t even mention the child. I was beginning to think she had forgotten why I had come, or perhaps that she had changed her mind, and would send me away without seeing her son, when she stopped talking and looked at me sadly, the resignation in her face quite undisguised.
    â€˜I imagine you’d like to see Jeremy now,’ she said.
    â€˜If it’s convenient.’
    â€˜Of course. I’ll fetch him. I keep him upstairs in the evenings.’
    She smiled – that same faint, apologetic smile – and went out to fetch the boy. I wondered what she meant by keeping him upstairs. Was he confined in some way? Bedridden? Bound? I listened, but I heard nothing out of the ordinary: footsteps on the landing, a moment’s pause, then more footsteps, descending the stairs. I drank some tea, and tried to look neutral, like a casual visitor, when the boy entered the room – though it occurred to me that casual visitors were probably scarce in that house, and for a moment I had a fleeting thought that neither the child nor the woman had seen anyone in months, even years. But that was absurd; if he was seven years old, he would go to school. His grandparents would visit. He would have doctor’s appointments, trips to the dentist, a normal life, like any seven-year-old.
    As soon as I saw him, I understood why Mrs Olerud was afraid. He was thin and pale, small for his age, with wild, yellowish hair, like Struwelpeter in the old children’s story. His eyes were as blue as his mother’s, but they were hard and opaque, like metal. He walked quickly into the room and stood looking at me in surprise. I was struck by the overwhelming sense of something animal in his presence, an unbelievable tension; he was like a black hole, an intensity that drew energy from everyone around him, and gave back nothing.I glanced at Mrs Olerud. Once again, I had an image of the child in a cage, or locked into the midden of his room, squatting on the floor, crunching on bones like the feral children in legends. Yet he was reasonably clean and, except for his hair, he looked presentable. He was wearing a pair of dungarees over a red and blue striped shirt. They were good enough clothes; his mother had probably chosen them carefully, to set off his light colouring. Nevertheless, I felt uncomfortable. There was something in the boy’s manner that suggested an almost unbearable