Missing Dad

by J Ryan

  ‘It is easier. Just look ahead, not at the wheel.’

  The jib unfurls and snaps as it catches the breeze. Then the mighty main is inched up the mast, and Monsieur turns off the engine as the Lisette moves smoothly through the small waves.

  ‘Do you get to sail very often, Monsieur?’

  He’s gazing across the sea, in the direction of France. ‘Very seldom, Joe. But as my business with the bank was quickly concluded, I felt that you and I deserved this little treat. Watch the main – the wind is changing direction.’

  I look upwards at the soaring mast and see the main starting to flap. ‘Which way should I turn her?’

  ‘The same as in your dinghy – closer into the wind.’

  I twitch the wheel and instantly the main is fat with air again. The Lisette puts on a spurt like the Bentley on a run.

  ‘You learn quickly, Joe.’

  ‘I wish they thought that at school, Monsieur.’

  ‘School can teach you very little about life, Joe.’

  For all the rest of that wonderful sail, staring at the horizon with my hands on the wheel, I’m in a kind of dream. Because in my mind’s eye I’m seeing that white yacht that Dad was waving to from the suspension bridge when I had that strange wardrobe moment. Is this the same yacht? Am I sailing with the man who waved back to Dad? The colleague that Mum said had sailed over from Marseille? But even if I dared to ask, I’m not sure where I’d begin.

  Later that day, after we’ve had a fantastic meal in a posh restaurant, and we’re cruising at a careful 70 on the M5, I try to come at the questions I really want to ask, in a kind of roundabout way. ‘The place where I park the Bentley, Monsieur. Is it a real cave? Like, it’s so far underground?’

  He replies like he was expecting me to ask, sometime. ‘It was a real cave, once, Joe. There are many on the way to Blackboy Hill, where the slaves were sold. They are all connected by an underground trail, much of it made by human hands.’

  ‘Did the slave traders make the trail?’

  His voice is cold now. ‘They would not have dirtied their pampered skin to do such work. Or face such danger. Many slaves died, carrying out that dreadful task.’

  I feel bad, like I should have known. ‘They’ve never mentioned any of that in my History GCSE.’

  His face lit by the stream of oncoming headlights, he looks at the road, without really seeing it. ‘It is not something to be proud of, Joe. The slaves would arrive on stinking ships, after terrible journeys, where thousands of them died of hunger or disease, or were thrown overboard, because they had become ill.’

  ‘Didn’t the police know about the slave traders, Monsieur? If it was illegal by then, couldn’t they have arrested them, and set the slaves free?’

  He shakes his head slowly. ‘The merchants were rich and powerful, beyond the reach of the forces of law and order. The abomination went on for years after the law was passed. Men, women and tiny children, snatched from their homeland, and marched up through those caverns. With no future ahead of them, except either dying on the way, or spending the rest of their lives belonging to someone else.’

  The conversation has taken such a different tack that now I have no way of getting it round to Dad and the yacht.

  When I’m back in my flash apartment, slumped in front of the TV and clutching a Coke, I can’t help thinking about what Monsieur has said. Underneath the foundations of this glamorous, blue-glass office block is a hell-hole where people struggled, starved and died long ago, with no hope. Powerful and merciless criminals caused that misery. Maybe they weren’t that different from the kind of criminals who Dad is fighting now, somewhere far away. And he is, because I refuse to believe that he’s dead.

  I wonder what Monsieur really feels about this ancient darkness beneath us. Perhaps, in some strange way that he tells no one about, he’s fighting this kind of evil too. Suddenly, I almost drop the Coke can. I fish Dad’s photo out of a drawer and stare at it; but it’s not his dancing blue eyes that take centre stage now. Monsieur’s hair is dark in the photo, but there’s no mistaking those grey eyes and that half-smile. Now I’m sure that I’m working for the man who was a friend of my dad.

  Chapter 8

  Big Head

  The next afternoon I drive a passenger to Birmingham. It’s the dude with the big head, who I saw leaving the room with the chandeliers on my first day in my new job. Unlike Monsieur, he takes the back seat, and he never says a word to me all the way. He doesn’t care about being overheard on his mobile, although I can’t make much sense of it. He keeps on about ‘That woman’ and how ‘time is running out’. The worst bit is when he lights up a cigar and stinks out the whole car; I resolve to give the Bentley a huge spring clean when we get back.

  The house he’s visiting is in a really run down part of the city. The streets are littered with old newspaper, and kids who look eleven years old are sat smoking on the pavement with their feet in the gutter. The building itself has a broken window upstairs, and the garden is full of dog poo. From somewhere inside, there’s a persistent barking. Big Head opens the front door with his key and goes in. Keeping a close eye on those kids in case one of them decides that it would be a laugh to key the Bentley, I wait for a good twenty minutes.

  As Big Head comes out, I get the shock of my life when I see the face looking out of a ground floor window. It’s half hidden behind the ragged curtain, but it makes me go cold, it looks so like Leah Wilks. In a flash, it’s gone, and I tell myself, ‘Get a grip, it can’t be her.’ All the same, it gives me some bad dreams that night.

  The next day, I drive Big Head to the Kensington address. He’s just as silent, and he must have got through ten cigars by the time we get to that posh house with the brass knocker. I watch him disappear through the front door. After he’s gone, I open all the windows and sit there in a haze of smoke. Now, I’m not quite sure whether Big Head is Monsieur’s minder or not. Unless he’s checking out the security, in case Monsieur visits his clients here? I run my finger along the inch thick surface of the window glass, wondering if anyone’s ever fired at the Bentley. Suddenly, someone’s face appears right in front of mine and I recoil; it’s the dude who took the last delivery at this place. ‘You’re not needed. Just get back.’

  All the way back to the blue-glass office, the question of Big Head nags at me. The kind of swaggering way he acts, it’s as if he’s not an employee at all. And there’s something creepy about him; I don’t like being on my own with him in the Bentley. In the underground car park, I open all the doors and wipe the leather upholstery to try and get rid of the smell of cigar smoke. I’ll have to put my uniform in the wash, as that stinks as well.

  As I climb the stairs from the cave, my curiosity about Big Head gets too much, and instead of going up to my flat, I stop outside that room with the chandeliers. The door is ajar. I listen, and there’s no sound. Pushing the door gently open, I tiptoe in and look around. A few papers lie on the huge expanse of the gleaming mahogany table, but they just look like invoices, with the 16-point star logo of L’Etoile Fine Wines. They’re held down by a crystal paperweight that’s the same star design. It’s such a beautiful thing that I can’t help picking it up and taking it to the window to gaze at its flashing rainbow lights. Cool and weighty in my hand, it glows with an inner fire.

  Putting it carefully back, I look around the room once more. Apart from those invoices, there’s no sign that Monsieur runs his business from here – not even a computer or a phone. And you’d expect maybe a personal photo, although he’s never mentioned that he has family. In fact, Monsieur never talks about himself at all. So just where is his office if it’s not here? Madame has her office, and you’d think it would be next door to his. And what about Big Head? He behaves like he’s important enough to have an office of his own. Wondering if I might dare to ask Claire or Justine in Reception about all this, I slip quietly
back up to my flat.

  At eleven that night, I’m sat in my kitchen, eating a bacon buttie, too tired to take off my smelly uniform. I call Becks again. At last, she answers, her voice full of sleep. ‘Joe, sorry… I got your messages, but I’ve been up to my eyes in coursework.’

  I cling onto her words like a lifeline. She’s not talking Stupid Great Kid. ‘How’s it going? Your art project was looking so brilliant.’

  ‘Tracy Emin, look out!’

  ‘And the Eng Lit? Wordsworth, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Byron. I’m getting a bit fed up with him. Too attention-seeking. And his poetry wasn’t that much.’

  Her bright voice in my head, I look around my flash, empty apartment. I can see her impatiently brushing strands of red hair away from her ears. ‘Don’t work too hard.’

  She starts to sound a bit like my mum. ‘What about your English coursework, Joe? You’ve got an awful lot of catch-up to do.’

  ‘I’m putting some deep thought into Raymond Chandler… when there’s time.’

  I try to sound casual, but Becks has picked up like she has radar. ‘How’s the job? Boss OK?’

  ‘He’s well OK. There’s just…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Something… I can’t put my finger on…’

  ‘Have you seen any more of that dude who gatecrashed you in the hospital, Joe? Is that it?’

  ‘No, nothing like that. It’s cool, Becks, really.’ I haven’t told her about the cinema ambush because I don’t want to worry her. I haven’t reported it to DIW either, in spite of what he told me to do, because he might ask some uncomfortable questions about this job.

  ‘Steve says your flat’s awesome. Can I come visit?’

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘Can’t tomorrow. Deadline for History coursework. Thursday?’

  ‘Thursday. Take care.’

  ‘You take care, Joe. Big Sister is watching you, OK?’

  In the background, I can hear Steve shouting, ‘Becks! Put the phone down, I’ve got this internet game all lined up for eleven thirty!’

  As I switch off my mobile, the phone in my flat rings. Five minutes later, I’m in Reception, and one of the movie stars is there too. Madame says briskly, ‘Joe, we have orders that there is an urgent delivery for you to make with Justine. The Kensington address. You need to be there in ninety minutes.’

  I’ll never know how women in such high heels can move so fast without breaking their ankles. The Bentley’s sliding out of the cave, Justine’s sat herself in the front seat with one endless leg folded over the other, and I’m almost gasping in this fog of Chanel Number 25, or whatever it is. Bet Becks would know. Or maybe not, as this perfume smells just so expensive. But I’m used to it now. I’ve been in and out of Reception so many times, and the movie stars seem to like chatting with me. Must be the uniform. Becks says, ‘A uniform always makes dudes look good as they have no idea how to dress otherwise.’ Steve didn’t think so. But he doesn’t know everything.

  We cruise along the M4 at a speed that’s totally boring for Monsieur’s Precious but fast enough to get us there on time, unless there’s a really big problem when we hit London. I tune in to the Traffic Alert system which has these cameras on the motorway, sending signals to a control centre that tells you where the jams are.

  Then Justine says, and she’s never had any kind of a French accent either, ‘Are you liking your new job then, Joe?’

  ‘I love it, and the car is so cool.’

  ‘You don’t mind working all hours?’

  ‘I like driving at night. People aren’t quite so stupid when it’s dark. What are we delivering, then?’

  ‘Oh, just a couple of cases of Pomerol, Chateau Petrus 1995. Worth around thirteen thousand. Our client had to have that year, and we just happened to have it in stock. He wants it tonight. So, here we are.’

  On all the runs I’ve done, no one ever talked money. ‘That’s an awful lot of dosh for twelve bottles of wine, isn’t it?’

  Justine shrugs, and she does look a bit French now. ‘Of course, it’s not just the wine he’s ordered. We’re bringing the accessories as well.’

  ‘What are the accessories?’

  She looks at me like I’m an eleven year-old kid, and not driving her at eighty mph in this Bentley that’s worth a quarter of a million pounds. ‘Well, you know, the cigars.’ Then she says the next words like she just can’t resist, ‘And the rest.’ And she laughs and laughs, like she’s made a really brilliant joke.

  I can hear the young dude’s cold voice saying, ‘Get the rest.’ And Justine’s eyes, when I glance at her, look so bright and shining in the light from passing headlights. But her face is pale, in spite of all that movie star make-up. I can see a trickle of sweat on her forehead, beneath that blonde, tightly combed-back hair. Justine’s not a movie star anymore; she’s someone I don’t know at all.

  Maybe she thinks I know what she means with The Accessories. Monsieur has never mentioned cigars. Although I guess it makes sense. Fine cigars and fine wines, they go together, don’t they? But what is The Rest?

  My voice is croaky, deeply uncool. ‘The traffic information system’s telling me there’s a jam near Kensington. We’ll have to take a detour round the back streets. We should still get there on time, no worries.’ But I am worrying.

  Justine has gone quiet. No more laughter. She just dabs at her face with a tissue, still looking pale. It’s like, the movie script has been changed, but no one’s told me. I’m paralysed with the script changing like this, because my part could have changed too. But I have no idea how.

  We get to the house, and I open the boot of the Bentley. There’s the wine case with the Pomerol. And, as usual, there’s the bigger wooden boxes, two of them this time, like the ones I’ve delivered before. Justine grabs one of them. I see how easily she picks it up. I take the case of Pomerol up the steps towards the white-painted door with its shiny brass knocker, and we stand there, me and Justine , and the door opens, like the other nights when I drove up here.

  Except this time, it’s not a dude I don’t know who opens the door. It’s Big Head. He’s still here. He doesn’t look at us, he’s staring behind us. I glance round, but can’t see anyone. The street’s well-lit, and it seems empty. As you’d expect, at one thirty in the morning in Kensington. It’s not quite the same as the middle of Gloucester at this time. Justine goes past him and disappears through a door, clutching her wooden box.

  Big Head signals at me to put the wine case on the hall table. I’m about to go and get the second wooden box, when he waves me further inside, and shuts the door. He’s standing really close to me. ‘Get back to Bristol now. You see someone following, you don’ go back till you lose them. You understanding me, Joe?’

  His voice sounds like he smokes those cigars for breakfast. He takes another breath and I can hear the faint wheezing; his lungs are not in good shape. The hard, dark eyes stare at me, and there’s something in his look as he takes me in. Double chin bulging over the collar of his Armani shirt and tie, he breathes through his mouth, showing nicotine-stained teeth. I’ve never had a chance to take a good look at Big Head before, but now his face is so close to mine that a good look is what I’m getting, like it or not. And I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all.

  Big Head’s sweating, so much that now I can smell him. It’s not Chanel. And I can hear him, I’m making the connection. I can hear that rasping breath. I can smell that smell. I’m back in the hospital, that endless night. Big Head is the Shadow on the Wall.

  Chapter 9

  Hell

  I take a flying jump down all the steps, slam the boot, and hurl myself into the driving seat. Precious slips away through the quiet streets, staying on thirty; a cop car is the last thing I want behind me, now that I have a horrible idea what my real job description is.

&
nbsp; There’s nothing in my mirror except for an occasional taxi, as I head back towards the motorway. On the M4 there’s just a procession of lorries cruising in the slow lane, and a few BMWs flying past.

  I wish it was the middle of the rush hour. Then I wouldn’t have time to think about all the other connections that are clicking into place like Lego. And the final link is in that wooden box. We’re well clear of London as an exit junction looms into view. My throat is dry as I turn off, take a left at the roundabout, and drive a few miles before finding a lay-by to park in. It seems quiet enough. The headlights pick out an abandoned fridge and a pile of bin bags by the hedge, but I can’t see anyone around. I open the boot. The second box looks just like the first, as I pull it towards me. It’s sealed with small nails that are just tapped in.

  I open the boot-well and take out the tool kit. It must be put there as a joke for dudes who buy Bentleys – they probably give it to the gardener to service the lawn tractor. I can’t imagine your Bentley owner getting his hands messy to change a wheel, or even a light bulb.

  A small wrench levers off the lid, and the boot lights gleam on a row of aluminium cigar cases lying in fake straw. I pull one open, and sniff. It smells of tobacco. But the box is deeper than where these cigars are.

  There’s a sudden rustling in the hedge. I stare around me, expecting to hear Big Head’s wheezing breath in my ear. Nothing moves. My hands shake as I dig down into the fake straw, and find wood that moves slightly under my fingers.

  The cigars and straw slide all over the boot, as I lift out the false floor. And I can see them now. They’re each about the size of a singles pack of Revels, these small polythene bags with white powder in. Must be twenty of them, each one neatly sealed with a wire tag. I’ve never seen real cocaine before, but I’ve watched enough movies to know that this can’t be anything else.

  My mind is racing faster than this big powerful car ever could. With every delivery I do, I’m running Class A drugs under the cover of very expensive legal ones. DI Wellington’s voice is in my head. ‘Organisations like this never forget. They’re a kind of Mafia… They could be looking for revenge.’