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As I've mentioned, the attic bedroom never lent itself to harmonious slumber. That night, even before I fell asleep, my mind had conjured images of Ralph Steadfast, eyes bright with indignant zeal, dragging his metal bound legs up the stairs to my room while my grandmother and a man whose features had been scribbled over looked down at me from the skylight. The theme of retribution continued into my dreams. When I woke up I was depressed and apprehensive to a degree I'd not experienced since Stacey and I, abandoned and bored in the Willow Creek Mall, pelted diners in the food court with fries. One, soggy with ketchup, had attached itself to a bald-head which turned out to belong to Mr Pryor, my dentist, who looked up and caught my eye before I could duck behind the plastic foliage. On that occasion I devoted the rest of the week trying to convince mom that I was uncomfortable with Mr Pryor and that I'd prefer to see a female dentist. Mom thought I was being overly sensitive and it was left to Mr Pryor to tactfully resolve the problem by committing suicide only days before my next scheduled appointment. My adult self is stricken by the occasional certainty that Stacey and I contributed to his conviction that life wasn't worth living. At the time, though, I have to admit that my predominant emotion was one of relief.

Between the attic and the bathroom, I'd decided that, if cornered, I'd explain that I'd gone into Harrison's room to play with Fu Manchu. Finding the bathroom locked and identifying the occupant, from snatches of muttered profanity, as mom, I gave up hope of gaining access for at least another half hour and, still rehearsing my explanation, made my way downstairs. Entering the kitchen, the mad hope that I might again be spared embarrassment by a timely suicide was immediately shattered by the sight of both Harrison and Steven. Harrison, perched on the work surface, beamed “good morning” through apple filled cheeks while Stevenr, obviously anticipating the arrival of my mother, half rose as if to leave, resuming his seat when he realised the bathroom hadn't been liberated. Emitting a guttural groan, his face locked in a rictus of anguish which grew more profound as Harrison's mastication echoed around the room. From Steven's expression, the apple might have represented his own soul. As I sat down opposite him, I could actually hear his stomach percolating, a sound that was followed by a gust of feculence.

“I think the bathroom is still occupied,” said Harrison, cupping one ear and holding aloft a forefinger to indicate the distant sound of running water. “Steven isn't well,” he added for my benefit, smiling benignly toward where his brother, still clad in the same clothes as the day before, drummed a semaphore of distress with yellow tapered fingers on the table.

“Your mom realises,” said Steven, “that there are other people in the world apart from her?”

“I guess so,” I said, remembering that mom had once suggested that Steven's unhappiness could be attributed to two factors. The first was his persistence in the delusion that he possessed any talent whatsoever, the second committing himself to a lifestyle for which he was constitutionally unsuited. Reassured that he'd forgotten our encounter in Harrison's room, I was tempted to repeat this, or at least question the credentials of a nihilist reduced to squirming panic when denied access to a toilet. Instead I shrugged, wrinkled my nose in a manner I hoped he'd interpret as a comment on his personality rather than the mere stench emanating from his presence and turned my attention to the remnants of Harrison and Brian's buffet which were rapidly congealing on the table before me.

“Women take longer to get ready,” said Harrison mollifyingly, winking down at me from his vantage point in a manner which caused me to brace myself for an onslaught of buffoonery. It wasn't the first time I'd witnessed the spectacle of Harrison attempting to defuse an unpleasant situation with his version of humour. As a child his Grandfather Jackson, a very bad influence, had convinced him that nobody can resist a good joke or, in Harrison's nomenclature, a “howler”. Not only did Harrison collect magazine articles along the lines of “Laughter is the Best Medicine” or “Time Out For a Chuckle” but recorded other people's jokes in a large pad he referred to as his “Book of Jokes and Humorous Incidents”. More than once I'd seen him disappear from the table, braying with mirth which, to anyone who didn't know him, would have sounded so artificial as to be sarcastic, in order to preserve some wretched quip, bon mot or pun. Now, undeterred by Steven's look of sheer loathing, he embarked upon a five-minute spiel on female eccentricity, the frame of reference of which was so antiquated as to include references, not only to women drivers but mini-skirts, suffragettes and Betty Grable. As usual, his schtick was accompanied by “whaddaya know?” type shrugs, and the occasional wink, apparently to reassure his audience that he hadn't taken leave of his senses. The act continued uninterrupted until my mother's eventual appearance prompted Steven's immediate exit. A joke about a “pop singer” suggested that Harrison, sensitive to his audience, was embarking upon a new topic when a roar of frustration from upstairs indicated that Guy had made it to the bathroom before Steven.