Читать книгу The Pimlico Kid - Barry Walsh - Страница 15

I sit down again on the Big Step and squeeze my palms into my eyes. Why not be like Kirk and simply say what comes into my bloody head? Being dull has to be better than being a liar.

I don’t often get caught out lying because I rarely tell complete lies. At a hint of doubt in someone’s face, I can adjust smoothly back towards the truth. I fib because in that second before speaking, there’s enough time to make things funnier, smarter – and I can’t resist. However, my ‘improved’ versions are often pathetic. Melty hot?

It’s when I’m scared or ashamed that I lose control. ‘Never farted’? For God’s sake! While I can laugh when others talk of bodily functions, I can’t bear it if it has anything to do with me. This goes back to when I was four years old. I was at sanatorium on the Kent coast: a ‘fresh-air haven’ for the chesty kids of smoggy London.

My stay began badly. On the first morning, the nurse stood me on the bed to pee into the wide-necked bottle. When she thought I’d finished, she took the bottle away. But there was more and my arc of pee splashed on to the floor. ‘Billy!’ she screamed and lunged forward to field the waning stream. Startled, I swung round, spattering her white apron and dribbling over the blankets. She stretched again to get the bottle between my legs but slipped to her knees on the wet floor. The bottle flew from her hand and spun along the ward, sprinkling left and right. The other kids scrambled to the ends of their beds to cheer its progress.

I was frozen with shame until I had to jump, two-footed like Spartacus in the gladiator school, above the nurse’s slap at my legs. Before she could aim a second swipe, sister arrived, scrubbed arms on hips.