Not My Daughter

by Suzy K Quinn

  I shout through the railings: ‘Hellooooo.’ But the green, shadowy woods swallow up sound.

  Skywalker chews at my denim cut-offs.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ I look up at the tall, tall gates. ‘Climb?’ But this idea is daunting. If I thought our gates at home were high, Michael Reyji Ray’s sprawling country mansion has prison-standard security. Ten-foot tall with spikes at the top.

  Mum and Michael have something in common: they both want to keep people out.

  Skywalker barks and I grab his collar. ‘What? What is it?’

  Then I see.

  Something’s moving in those woods. Or rather, someone – a person dressed in black, moving between the shadowy trees. It looks like they’re wearing a band T-shirt and black jeans.

  My hand tightens on Skywalker’s collar.

  ‘What are they dragging?’ I whisper. ‘Scaffold poles or something?’

  Skywalker lifts his brown and black nose to look at me, like, ‘Don’t ask me.’

  ‘Mum will be going insane right now.’ I feel a horrible pang in my heart. ‘But there’s no turning back. We have to do this, Sky. Or there’ll be no freedom for any of us.’

  I rattle the gates again. ‘HELLOOO!’

  The person dressed in black doesn’t notice us. He or she is engrossed in some activity with silver poles, movements organized and focused.

  Suddenly I have a vision: my mother, tearing my bedroom apart, sobbing hysterically, her worst nightmare coming true.

  Don’t think about her. Don’t think about her or you’ll chicken out. You have to do this. You have to meet him.

  I really have no choice. Things can’t go on the way they are. Mum is ruining all our lives.

  ‘Okay, dogface.’ I stroke Skywalker’s head. ‘It looks like climbing is the only option here.’

  I put an experimental foot on the railing, seeing if I can get any lift. I like climbing – maybe because a fifty-foot wall is the closest I’ve ever come to real freedom. But on purpose-built climbing walls, there are ropes and harnesses and no sharp spikes at the top.

  As I wedge my DM boot between two railings, I see someone coming out of the main house – a short dot of a man, wearing what looks like a flowing black silk dressing gown. His legs are bare and his hair white-blond above an orangey-brown face.

  Could it be?

  I hop down, watching as the figure trots into the trees, becomes invisible, then visible again, then appears in the clearing with the band T-shirt person.

  I suck in my breath, feeling both sick and excited. ‘I think it’s him, Skywalker. I think that’s my father.’

  I’ve studied Michael Reyji Ray obsessively over the last few months. He is your typical old rock dude, puffy and partied with a weathered face and weight clinging to his waist. But he still dresses young, rocking tweedy Fedora hats over his bald patch, bleaching his hair and always wearing black Ray-Bans. This dressing-gown guy is wearing sunglasses, even in this leafy, shaded forest glade. That’s a rock-star move, and no mistake.

  Now the man walks to a pile of tarpaulin, pointing, and I get a really clear view. His legs are darkly tanned and his black silk dressing gown billows open to reveal tight red Speedo shorts. Adidas sliders slip around his feet. He wears this casual ensemble like royal robes, strutting as he walks.

  It is him. Michael Reyji Ray.

  This man looks like me. I’ve seen the pictures. I have his face. Half of me came from him. If he’s as bad as my mum says, what does that make me? Half monster?

  This is like staring at the cream-covered sponge cakes in our village bakery window. Knowing they’re full of cream and eggs, but wanting a slice all the same. Everyone at school eats animal products. Why do I have to be so moral? Everyone else has a father. Why can’t I have one?

  ‘Hey,’ I call out, rattling the gates. ‘Mr Ray. MICHAEL!’

  A car horn blares behind me and Skywalker starts barking. I grab him. ‘Calm boy. Stay calm.’

  I turn to see a black Porsche creeping towards the gate on growling tyres.

  Skywalker watches the car with his brown ears pricked. There is a woman inside. She leans out of the driver’s window, face tight, lips softly pink and face snow-white. She’s attractive in a had-a-lot-of-work-done sort of way, with dark brown hair making a prominent widow’s peak on her pale forehead.

  ‘Get away from our gate with that big dog,’ she shouts.

  Skywalker starts barking.

  I pull his collar. ‘Shush, doggy.’

  ‘This is private property,’ the woman continues. ‘If you want to see my husband, buy a concert ticket.’

  ‘I’m not a fan,’ I say.

  ‘Then why are you here?’

  ‘Um … there’s a good reason.’

  ‘Yes, I have a good reason too,’ says the woman. ‘I live here. I’m Michael Reyji Ray’s wife. And I’m sick of girls thinking my husband is public property.’

  ‘You’re his wife?’

  I’ve read about Diane McBrady – the woman Michael married before he met my mother. Her Wikipedia picture shows a dimple-cheeked, cute teenager in wellies and a knitted jumper, holding hands with Michael on an Irish moor. This woman … if she’s Diane, the baby face has long gone, replaced by angular lines and plucked-to-death eyebrows. Attractive but definitely not sweet.

  ‘Look, can you just get away from the gate,’ the woman demands. ‘We have a right to privacy, just like you. How would you like it if I went peering over your front gate?’

  ‘Are you Diane?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes, I’m Diane. I told you. Michael’s wife.’

  ‘I’m Liberty. Michael’s daughter.’

  Diane’s pink mouth drops open, brown eyes glittering. ‘What?’

  ‘I’m Michael’s daughter,’ I say again.

  Diane watches me, unblinking. ‘You’re … you’re Michael’s daughter? Is that what you said?’

  ‘Yes.’ And then I add an idiotic: ‘Surprise!’ and do jazz hands.

  Diane climbs out of the car. She wears tight black jeans, leopard-print boots and a billowing polka-dot blouse. Sort of a punk look. It’s a bit dated now, especially on a woman Diane’s age. And she’s all skin and bones. Like she starves herself. She walks towards me, heels wobbling on gravel.

  ‘You look like him,’ says Diane. ‘I’ll give you that. And you’d be the right age.’ She watches me intensely, scanning my face with dark, black-brown eyes. ‘Actually, you more than just look like him. You’re the spit of him. Jesus. You’d better come inside. What’s your name?’

  ‘Liberty.’

  Diane swallows. ‘Liberty? And … your mother would be Lorna. Is that right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Diane shakes her head. ‘Hop in. I’ll drive you up to the house.’

  I hesitate. Once I’m through those gates there’s no turning back. Seriously no turning back.

  I feel Skywalker’s fur beneath my fingertips. We could just go home. Pretend all this never happened. Say sorry and remain beautiful prisoners.

  But no. No, no, no.

  Things have to change.

  Diane opens the passenger door.

  ‘Is it okay for my dog to come in the car?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes, sure,’ says Diane, still watching my face. ‘I grew up on a farm with pigs and goats and all sorts. I don’t mind animals.’

  ‘He’s a bit farty sometimes, and he dribbles—’

  ‘He’s fine,’ says Diane. ‘It’s okay, love. Come on. Let’s take you to the house and get all this sorted out. Jesus in heaven, you … you really do look like him. How old are you?’

  ‘Sixteen.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, you would be.’ She stares. ‘Well, this is some day. It really is. I think we’re all in for quite the event. Hop in.’

  I climb into the car, pulling a sprawling Skywalker onto my lap.

  Diane throws the car into gear and roars towards the gates. They open like magic and she drives through woodland towards the fake castle.

&
nbsp; ‘Fancy you coming today of all days,’ Diane says, staring absentmindedly ahead. ‘Life is a funny one.’

  ‘What’s today?’ I ask.

  ‘Our wedding anniversary,’ says Diane, skidding the car to a halt beside a purple Jaguar F-Type and a Chevrolet Corvette Z06 convertible. ‘Michael and I have been together twenty years.’ She parks at an angle right by the moat bridge, two wheels on grass, as two more people wearing black band T-shirts and jeans scurry past with scaffold poles. The band T-shirts, I realize, I have Michael Reyji Ray’s face on the front.

  ‘You see that team of people there?’ Diane continues. ‘They’ve come to set up a stage in the woods. Michael will be performing later. You know what he’ll sing? “Fever Few”.’

  ‘Maybe I should go—’

  ‘No, stay,’ says Diane. ‘You must have come a long way. Michael will be so happy to see you. Over the moon. He’s been waiting sixteen years.’

  ‘But … this is your wedding anniversary,’ I say.

  Diane raises a neat little eyebrow. ‘Yes. It is.’

  ‘Well … I mean, you’ve been married twenty years.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And I’m sixteen. So Michael and my mother …’

  ‘Oh, you’ve figured it out, have you? Yes, your mother threw herself at my husband when we were not long married.’

  ‘If I’d known it was your anniversary today, I would never have—’

  ‘It’s okay, love. Look, Lorna’s little scheme failed, didn’t it? I kept my man. Michael and I are still together all these years later. Until death do us part.’

  ‘But seriously, I shouldn’t have come today. It’s the wrong time.’

  Diane looks tired. ‘It’s not your fault. What happens on tour stays on tour. Isn’t that what they say? Michael is the life I signed up for. Your mother wasn’t the only one.’

  ‘But the only one he had a child with.’

  Diane gives a harsh laugh. ‘As far as we know. Look, it was a long time ago and we survived it. Lorna put us through hell. She tried her best to ruin us. But we came out the other side stronger than ever.’

  ‘My mother is a good person,’ I say. ‘I don’t think she would have intended to have a relationship with a married man or try to … you know … ruin anyone.’

  ‘Relationship?’ Diane shakes her head. ‘There was no relationship. Lorna was just a groupie and a fantasist and … sorry. I shouldn’t be saying any of this to you. Look, none of this is your fault. You’ve only heard your mother’s side of things.’

  ‘Not really,’ I say. ‘My mother’s never told me anything. Except what a monster my father is.’

  ‘Yes, Lorna would say that. But what do you think? You can’t think he’s all that bad if you’ve come to see him all on your own.’

  ‘I want to hear his side. It blew my mind when I found out who my father was. I’ve been reading up about Michael for weeks now, and … you know, all the good things he’s done for the environment and his charities. And his music … the lyrics are beautiful. I’ve always had this picture of my real dad – sort of a cross between a serial killer and a vampire. To find out he’s this cool, mega-famous, environmentalist and musician … I mean, wow. And do you want to know something really weird? I’m in a band too.’

  ‘You’re in a band?’ Diane’s brown eyes turn wide and sincere.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You know, Michael started Crimson when he was sixteen. Maybe the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.’ Diane takes a deep breath. ‘Okay. Let’s go and talk to Michael.’

  I shake my arms out, inhaling and exhaling. ‘Right. Yes. I’m ready.’

  ‘Come on.’ Diane pats my arm. ‘Don’t be nervous. He’s going to be blown away. Just blown away.’

  I climb out of the passenger side, heaving Skywalker out onto dried mud and tree roots.

  There are peacocks nearby, strutting through the trees. They watch Skywalker with cocked heads, seemingly unafraid. In fact, it’s Skywalker who is afraid, darting back from the birds and barking.

  ‘Skywalker. Heel.’

  ‘There’s Michael,’ she Diane, pointing at the short man standing on a now half-built stage. ‘Look at him, bossing people around. The lord of the manor.’

  In my head, I rehearse the words over and over again:

  Hello. My name is Liberty. I’m your daughter.

  Hello. My name is Liberty. I’m your daughter.

  Once upon a time …

  ‘You’re getting a belly.’ Michael knelt down to pinch flesh around my middle.

  We were onstage at Wembley Arena – me sitting with legs crossed, looking out at thousands of empty seats flipped up like sad mouths.

  Michael was striding between instruments, glaring at me and the set-up, finding fault with everything. Paul’s guitars were taking up far too much of the stage. The lighting was pointed at Paul too much. And I was getting fat.

  ‘It’s just the way I’m sitting,’ I said, rearranging my clothing and pulling at my tight jeans.

  ‘Don’t let yourself go, now. I’m not into big, hefty women. You don’t want to go turning into your sister now, do you?’

  ‘My sister is beautiful,’ I say. ‘The most beautiful person I ever met.’

  Michael’s eyes darkened. ‘Okay, okay. Enough of the hero worship. Beware of false idols, isn’t that what they say? Because from what I’ve seen, your sister resents you. She doesn’t want you to be happy. Remember how she was when I turned up on the doorstep?’

  ‘Dee doesn’t resent me. She just … She had to be a mother to me, is all. At a young age. It’s a lot to ask of a kid. She never said she resented anything. That’s just me, filling in the blanks.’

  ‘She resents you, Lorna. You know she does. She’s jealous. What fat girl doesn’t hate her skinny little sister? Still. She won’t be jealous soon, will she? Because you’re getting fat too.’

  ‘I’m not fat,’ I said, hating how desperate I sounded. ‘I’ve lost weight on this tour. Look.’ I pulled my jeans from my stomach to show they were looser – which they were.

  Michael turned to look at rows and rows of blue seats. ‘You know, this place will be full tonight. And then the tour will be over. What will we do with you then? I can’t very well send you back to that sister of yours, can I? Maybe I’ll keep a hold of you. What do you think?’

  I swallowed. I hadn’t dared ask what might happen when the tour ended. To tell the truth, I’d been worried Michael was getting sick of me. All he ever wanted me for recently was soulless sex, and even that was less frequent than it had been.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said.

  Michael’s eyes burned. ‘You don’t know? You don’t know? I’m asking if I should keep a hold of you and that’s your answer? Who do you think you are? You’re an arrogant bitch, that’s what you are.’

  Like an idiot, I started crying. I’d been doing that more recently. Most days, actually. ‘I just didn’t understand the question,’ I sniffled. ‘Please. It didn’t come out right, that’s all.’

  ‘You’re nobody, Lorna. Nobody. You don’t deserve to be here. I was going to ask you to live with me. Do you get that? I was going to ask you to move in. But now it’s all messed up.’

  ‘You want me to move in with you?’ I asked, eyes big and incredulous.

  ‘I did. But you can forget that now. You can pack your bags and go back to your family.’ Then he added a sneery, ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Please, Michael.’ I got onto my knees, hands together, literally begging. ‘I didn’t mean it like that. Of course I want to move in with you. There’s nothing I want more in the world. I love you so much, Michael. Please.’

  Michael stood up and paced around, toying with me. He bossed around some men in hi-vis jackets. He shouted at the stage manager about the mic. After twenty minutes of torture, he returned, hands on hips, standing over me.

  ‘If you want to live with me, you’ve got to make me a promise.’

  ‘What?’


  ‘You’ve got to shut up about my wife. Not one more word about me being married. Things are the way they are with Diane. We’re friends. We’re separated. But we’re not going to divorce anytime soon, and that’s just the way it is. You’ve got to be my cool punk princess who doesn’t care about that stuff. Okay?’

  ‘Okay.’ I nodded and nodded, relieved at an easy way out of Michael’s bad books. He’d ignored me for days before. ‘Okay. Of course.’ I wiped away tears and managed a smile. ‘Will we go to Ireland where you grew up or will we go to the States or …’ I hesitated as his expression darkened.

  ‘Don’t get too cocky now, Lorna. Stop with the questions. You know I hate a cocky girl. I have a house here in England. It’s a work in progress, but it’s gonna be a stunner.’

  ‘I thought … don’t you live in Ireland?’

  ‘Ireland is my past. England is my future. I’m building a castle. Can you imagine that? King Michael’s castle. And a whole forest to go with it. Every girl’s dream, right? Like a real princess.’

  I jumped up and threw my arms around him. ‘I love you, Michael. I love you so much.’

  As I was clinging on to Michael for dear life, a woman’s voice, husky and deep, boomed through the speakers: ‘Michael Reyji Ray. Step away from the girl, Michael Reyji Ray. You are a married man.’

  Michael pushed me away so hard I nearly fell over. I’d never seen him look afraid before. But when he saw who was talking into the mic – a messy, bleached-blonde woman – his shoulders sagged with relief.

  ‘Very funny, Cat. You’re hilarious.’

  The scruffy blonde woman laughed as she untangled her bare legs from trailing cable. ‘Relax, Michael. Did you think it was Diane? Or a journalist?’ Acres of pale flesh spilt from her barely-there flowery babydoll dress. There was a huge tattoo on her back: Annalise in Celtic lettering.

  Michael purses his lips. ‘Tend your own garden, Cat Cannon. You’ve got enough of your own problems, haven’t you? Without getting into mine.’

  ‘Trying to change the subject?’ The woman clicked the mic into its stand and strolled towards us. ‘It won’t work.’ She slung a heavy, pale arm around Michael’s shoulder. ‘When did you ever get me to shut up?’