by Greg Elswood
‘That was our hero of Liverpool Street, arriving at the Refuge, a homeless shelter in the Shoreditch area. Our investigations reveal that he is a former Army officer, who once again today faced down his country’s enemies. We understand that his name is Jacob Monk.’
The screen turned back to the profile picture of Jacob at Liverpool Street.
Brandon was suffocating. He was overwhelmed by the emotion of the day, the exhaustion of his endeavours and the raw tension and revelations of the past few hours’ news. But more than all that, it was the still image he would always remember afterwards. He forced himself to breathe, put one hand to the screen, then whimpered one word:
‘Dad…’
23
He had made up his mind; he would call Ginger.
After seeing Jacob’s face on screen, Brandon sat for over an hour wrestling with his emotions. He hadn’t seen his father for years and it would be easy to keep it that way, but Brandon had felt an intense yearning the moment his image appeared on TV. Perhaps it was the realisation that his father was homeless whereas Brandon lived a comfortable life, possibly it was watching replays of him almost losing his life, or maybe it was the simple fact that they were blood. Whatever the reason, Brandon was consumed by an urgent desire to see his father again.
As one of the Refuge’s previous residents and, nowadays, its major benefactor, Brandon knew most of the shelter’s administrative staff, and he had a high regard for their dedication, efficiency and, above all, their discretion. As a donor, they respected Brandon’s request for anonymity and protected his identity well, and he knew that Ginger would appreciate the sensitivity of the current situation. Even though he would be surprised at his request, Brandon was sure he would accede once he understood the circumstances. The question was, would his father agree? There was only one way to find out.
Ginger listened in silence while Brandon revealed his familial relationship with Jacob and the events that led to their separation. He avoided the more graphic details of his painful and personal history, but even so, by the end of his narrative Brandon could hear the occasional sniff from Ginger’s end of the phone. Brandon had guessed that he would be moved by the story, which would make him more amenable to his request.
‘Ginger, if he’s willing to see me, can you bring him to me, please? I know I’m asking a big favour, but I think it’s best we meet here rather than at the Refuge. It’s a lot more private, whereas judging from the earlier news report, I’m assuming you have quite an audience with all those reporters, and no doubt they will dig up the dirt on anyone who turns up right now.’
Brandon didn’t tell Ginger his other motivation for not going to the Refuge, that he didn’t want to be caught on camera because of his own activities earlier that day.
‘I guess you’re right. I think I can smuggle him out of one of the back exits as there aren’t any reporters by them. That’s one advantage I suppose of the way we have grown over the years.’
Brandon thanked Ginger and hung up. He couldn’t sit still, nor could he concentrate on his screens, and he resorted to wandering around the loft, his phone in his hand, while he waited. Now that he’d made the call, he wasn’t sure if he was doing the right thing. It had been eight years since they’d last met, and Brandon suspected he would be almost unrecognisable from the delinquent teenager his father had last seen. What would he remember of Brandon, especially given his own difficulties at the time? And how had he ended up on the streets too? Was it because of him, had Brandon pushed his father over the edge?
He was beginning to think that his father had declined the reunion, when the intercom buzzed. Brandon picked up the handset and heard the familiar, unhurried tones of Elwyn from reception, who announced that two gentlemen had arrived to see him.
‘Thanks, Elwyn. Can you let them up to my floor please and I’ll meet them at the lift?’
Less than a minute later, the bell chimed and Brandon saw his father, alone, rooted to the spot at the back of the lift. He made no attempt to move when Brandon took a hesitant step forward.
‘Where’s Ginger?’ Brandon asked, as if meeting his father after so many years was of less consequence.
‘He said we should be alone, he’d only get in the way.’ Jacob stared at Brandon. ‘Are you going to invite me in, or should we chat in the lift?’
Brandon stepped back. ‘Of course, sorry,’ he said, and held an outstretched arm towards his apartment door.
Jacob passed Brandon without a sideways glance and stepped into the apartment. He stopped after a few strides, surveyed the loft and then turned to look back at Brandon, who had closed the door behind them. Jacob’s expression was one of confusion, as if he didn’t know what to do next or what to say, whether to proceed further or wait until invited.
Brandon could bear it no longer. His emotional dam burst in a torrent of pent up sorrows. Despair, betrayal, loneliness and regret all cascaded down, and he threw himself into the arms of the only man he had ever loved.
‘Dad, oh Dad,’ he cried, and buried his face into Jacob’s chest. He didn’t smell the grime and sweat from Jacob’s lowly existence, nor did he feel the debris and dried blood of Liverpool Street’s darkest hour ingrained in his tattered clothes. Brandon was back in his childhood, and all he smelled was his father and all he felt was the tender, unsure hug of an embarrassed dad suddenly faced with a distraught child. Racked with sobs, he let it all flood out.
Taken aback by the force of Brandon’s outpouring, at first Jacob placed his hands on his shoulders, not knowing what else to do. But when burning tears rolled down his own cheeks, he held the back of Brandon’s head and buried his face into his hair, and succumbed to the emotion of the moment.
Brandon’s sniffing eventually subsided and the two men parted. Jacob wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and turned away to hide his embarrassment. ‘I could do with a drink,’ he said.
‘Of course,’ Brandon said, and turned towards the kitchen, relieved at the distraction. ‘Tea, coffee, juice?’
‘I was thinking of a proper drink, you know, alcohol.’
‘Sorry, I don’t have any. I haven’t had a drink since my time on the streets and I don’t have many guests here. In fact, none. You’re the first.’
‘Tea then. Please.’
Jacob stepped further into the loft.
‘Nice place,’ he said, not with any malice or sarcasm but with a genuine appreciation of the space. He stopped in the middle of the wide living area and looked around, until his gaze rested on the windows.
‘What’s that? Modern art or a puzzle?’ Jacob pointed at Brandon’s diagram, scrawled over the glass with the blinds still drawn from the night before.
‘Oh, nothing, just a few doodles, I’ll wipe them off.’ Brandon reached for a cloth.
But Jacob had already moved on and he stopped at the door of the den. He stared at the screens, each still showing market data or news.
‘You’re big news now, Dad. Everyone wants to know about you and your story.’ Brandon lowered his head. ‘So do I. We have a lot of catching up to do.’
‘Yes, we certainly do, Leila, perhaps starting with why you left us.’
Jacob’s tone was curt, almost accusing, and it took Brandon by surprise. He studied his father’s face and wondered if he had used his former name as a taunt, or did he not realise who Brandon really was? It was too important to let go. If they didn’t address this now, they would never be able to move on.
‘Dad, you’ve just demonstrated one of the reasons. I’m not Leila anymore, I’m Brandon. You never understood how I felt growing up, trapped inside the wrong body.’
‘You didn’t give us a chance, you kept it to yourself. The first we knew that anything was wrong was trouble at school with bullying, then drink and drugs. Everyone told us it was due to moving schools frequently, or because of my work. It wasn’t until just before you left that you told us you wanted to be a boy.’
‘I didn’t keep it to myself and Mum cer
tainly knew. I tried to tell you, but you were never there, always away in some far-flung war zone helping other people.’ Brandon sighed, but knew he had to press on. ‘You have no idea how we struggled when you weren’t there. When you left the Army, we were relieved as we thought you’d spend more time at home, but it wasn’t any better. You started spending more time with your colleagues and clients, wining and dining, and hardly saw us.’
‘Oh, so I’m to blame for everything am I? Well I’ve certainly paid for it since, in spades.’ Jacob’s expression was surly and his mood dark.
Brandon was conscious that he had opened the lid of a box full of potential incrimination, and the conversation wasn’t going the way he wanted. He had to steer away from blaming his father and bring it back to less acrimonious topics.
‘Dad, that’s not what I meant. I know it was difficult for you, as it was for all of us. It’s just that school was a bad time for me, as no one understood what I was struggling with, including me to be honest. I wasn’t mature enough to deal with it, I felt all alone, and leaving home seemed the only way out. I was wrong, I know that now. I’m sorry.’
Jacob looked at Brandon, but in his own mind he still saw Leila, his daughter. Still gentle and vulnerable, still struggling to be heard and, after all these years, still damned right. He hadn’t been there for Leila, but not because he hadn’t wanted to be. Jacob had had his own demons to deal with, no less real to him just because they were in his head. That’s why he had failed Leila, and afterwards Selma, but that was no reason to fail Brandon. He took a deep breath and tried to explain.
‘Leila… sorry, I mean Brandon. I will try to get it right, honest, I just have to get it straight in my head. You’re right, I never understood what you wanted and I wasn’t able to see what you were going through. After you left, we looked for you, tried to find you, but you had done too good a job at disappearing, covering your tracks. Maybe you got that from me.’
Jacob smiled and was encouraged by Brandon’s impish look in return. ‘So, what happened to you, after you left us?’
Brandon wasn’t ready to describe the full horror of his time on the streets, and might never be able to tell his father everything. But he gave Jacob an abridged account, how he had slept rough for a time before falling into the wrong company. That was when the abuse started; physical, sexual and psychological. He had been used as a prostitute, although he hadn’t received any money, only a few scraps of food to survive in a squalid house north of the City. Through a haze of drugs, Brandon had somehow managed to escape and then forced himself by sheer willpower to walk for hours, before he eventually stumbled into the Refuge.
‘That was the worst year of my life and I wouldn’t wish it on anybody. Not even those murderers at Liverpool Street today.’
Jacob said nothing. He had heard similar stories during his time on the streets and he knew it was all true, but he couldn’t think of any comforting words. Maybe there weren’t any. He waited for Brandon to continue.
‘The day I found the Refuge was the day my life changed for the better. I felt safe for the first time in years. They listened to me, looked after me and gave me chances I’d never had before. The biggest thing was the computer room. I’d been pretty good at school with that sort of thing, probably because I could do it alone and I’d always had a logical, mathematical mind, and I seemed to understand computers and their language the way I couldn’t understand people.
‘I was also intrigued by the City, which was right on our doorstep, and I spent almost all of my time at one of the Refuge’s computers, researching the financial markets and writing programs to track market trends. Everyone at the Refuge encouraged me, and in fact one of the volunteers even gave me a little money to open a trading account. Incredible generosity. That tiny account soon grew, and by the time I was eighteen I’d made enough money to buy this place. Hard to believe, but true.’
Brandon paused and looked at his father’s rapt expression. He realised that he’d done all the talking and had been in full flow. But he’d said everything he wanted to, for now, and the rest would come out in time.
‘So, now you know about me. What about you and Mum, what happened to you? Is Mum OK, do you know?’
As soon as the words left his mouth, Brandon saw a change in his father and instantly knew the answer to his last question. When Jacob didn’t answer, he tried again in a softer voice.
‘Dad, how’s Mum?’
Jacob rested his furrowed brow on his fingers as he struggled to find the words. Then, through bloodshot eyes and tears, he told Brandon what he’d already guessed.
‘There’s no easy way to say this. I’m sorry, Brandon, your Mum died. I thought you’d have known already, somehow...’
Jacob’s voice trailed off and silence filled the void between them, punctuated only by a single high-pitched gulp when Brandon drew in air and fought to retain control of his emotions. But he didn’t cry, not yet. That would come later. Instead, he sat in shock and watched his wretched father, the agony and guilt etched on his tear-soaked face, and wondered how often he relived this torture. Eventually Brandon asked the question, even though he wasn’t sure he wanted the answer.
‘How did it happen, Dad?’
‘Overdose... sleeping pills. I came home from work one night, after wining and dining as you called it, and there she was, in our bed. Beautiful, even in death...’
Jacob took a moment to compose himself. ‘The coroner ruled it accidental, but I don’t think it was. The thing is, she never had any trouble sleeping, except when I woke her up with one of my nightmares. They were becoming more frequent, more violent, maybe because I was drinking too hard. The sleeping tablets were mine.’
Jacob let the words sink in before he added, in a voice so low it was barely audible, ‘I killed her, as surely as if I’d fed her the pills myself.’
Brandon didn’t know what to say, so he sat still and let Jacob gather his thoughts. He knew there was more to come. After a few moments, Jacob continued in a hoarse whisper.
‘After she died, I tried to carry on without her, but it was no use. I was drinking heavily and my nightmares were getting worse. Every night I’d wake up drenched from a horror I couldn’t really remember, just fading shapes and shadows. My demons. One day I drank too much and started a fight at a bank function, and I knew that was the end. I didn’t even wait to be fired. That night I didn’t make it home, I just drifted into the Barbican and found a bench to sleep on. I never went home again.’
They fell silent. Neither knew what else to say or how to console the other, and they reverted to their tried and tested method of handling their grief and sorrows, the way they had learned through thousands of nights in solitude and fear. They kept their thoughts to themselves and suffered alone.
Brandon was first to break the silence. He stood and reached for his hoodie.
‘Where are you going?’ Jacob asked, perplexed.
‘I’ve changed my mind,’ Brandon said, before giving a wan smile. ‘We both need a drink. Wait here and I’ll bring something back, I’ll only be a few minutes.’
Jacob raised his eyebrows in surprise but said nothing.
‘Make yourself at home and take a look around.’ He pointed towards his spare bedroom. ‘That’s your room, that is, assuming you’ll stay the night.’
When he returned clutching a couple of bottles, Brandon had half expected to find his apartment empty. But Jacob still sat in the same spot, lost in his melancholy thoughts and dark memories, as if oblivious to Brandon’s short absence. But he looked up when Brandon placed the bottles on the table, and Brandon knew from his father’s expression that he had made the right choice.
They drank together, cried and laughed together and, both exhausted, fell asleep on the sofas together.
He tipped his head forward and kissed Leila’s hair, the smell of salt mingled with her own natural perfume as they sat on the sofa after spending the afternoon on the beach. She had fallen asleep in her father’s ar
ms to the sound of him reading one of her favourite stories, the Frog Prince, and was now curled up in the crook of his arm, which moved to the rhythm of her slow, deep breathing.
It had been one of those clear, bright early-autumn days where the cool breeze did its best to erase the final residue of summer, but the sun’s rays were still strong enough to stay warm, just. They had all donned light jumpers and had wandered along the shingle beach, where Leila had collected shells in her bucket and chased seagulls. After turning back for home, Jacob hoisted Leila onto his shoulders and she squealed when the sea breeze blew her hair into her eyes and around her head. Selma clutched Leila’s bucket in one hand and squeezed Jacob’s free hand in the other.
They so rarely had time together. Even when Jacob was home from a tour he would be shattered, both mentally and physically. Afternoons like these were so few, so precious, and Jacob wanted to stay snuggled up on the sofa until Leila woke. But he glanced up and saw Selma looking at him, her contented smile full of love for them both, and he ached for her. Torn, he asked if he should carry Leila to her bed, but Selma shook her head, still smiling, and said, ‘No, Jacob, stay with her, you don’t have enough time together and she needs you.’
For once, Jacob wasn’t jolted back to reality panic-stricken from a terrifying nightmare. Instead, he drifted into consciousness longing to return to his dream, where he could escape his miserable life. It took him a couple of seconds to remember where he was, and then his eyes settled on Brandon asleep on the other sofa. The lights were still on and half-drunk glasses of whisky sat on the table next to a near-empty bottle.
Jacob’s head pounded when he stood to go to the lavatory, choosing the one in the room Brandon had indicated earlier. The bathroom was spotless and he instantly regretted drying his hands when he saw the vivid streaks across the towel afterwards. He felt grimy and worthless, and his reflection in the bedroom mirror on the way out didn’t alter his opinion.