‘Wasn’t there anything else you could do?’
‘They were knocking at the door.’
She had a point but, at that moment, I couldn’t see it. I could only see my little girl.
‘I want to go home.’
‘You can’t, darling.’
‘Where’s Mummy?’
Her face screwed up. She poured her little heart out.
‘She’s not there, darling.’
‘Is she still on holiday?’
I paused. ‘Yes.’
‘When will she be back?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I want to speak to her.’
She was looking directly in my face, her chubby arms round my neck.
‘When she gets back, we’ll speak to her. I promise.’
She put her head on my shoulder. I picked her up and took her to the window. Rashelle brought Jack and Sally over as peace offerings. She stood them on the ledge by my daughter.
‘You can’t keep doing this, you know.’
‘I know.’
She addressed the bears. ‘Now, I want you to listen to me. I have a very important job for you. The fairies are coming to visit today and I want you to let them in and show them round. Your buttons will have to be very bright and your fur will have to be combed and your clothes will have to be all washed and straight. Fairies don’t want to see messy bears or they’ll go away. They’re coming to see a very brave, little girl. It’s your job to introduce her. Is that understood?’
Jack and Sally nodded.
My little girl stared at them. She latches on to things very quickly. At her age, most of her friends have stopped believing in the Tooth Fairy and Santa Claus, and have concentrated on makeup and dollies. My daughter does that, too, but she lives a lot of her life in her head as well, just like me. My wife didn’t get it at all; she never had that kind of childhood; some people don’t. She never laid out Airfix ships on the carpet and devised war games, or had teddy bears fighting World War One German infantry and 14th century crusaders. I lived inside my head to compensate for the world I never saw outside. Nowadays, kids have an entire social network. They have satellite TV, computers, games consoles and mobile phones, for what good it does them. My wife was always trying to discourage my daughter’s flights of fancy, which I found odd - after all, she was always peddling her God. She said it would do her no good - she was worried she’d end up like me, I think - and hoped she’d grow out of it soon and I always said yes, but not today.
‘Who are the fairies coming to see?’
Rashelle looked at her.
‘Well, all I was told was that there was a little girl who was going to get a visit. I’m not sure who they meant, but I know they’re coming. So Jack and Sally have to get her ready. What do you think?’
‘Is it me?’
‘I don’t know.’
My daughter forgot her pain - I told you she didn’t bear grudges - and looked at me excitedly.
‘Daddy, I think the fairies are going to come.’
I did my best to go along with it. ‘Well, in that case, we better get ready, too.’ To be honest, I had too much on my mind to get really into it, but just to see her happy was enough. I put her down and opened the wardrobe doors. ‘Do you think any of these will fit me?’
‘Don’t be silly, Daddy. You’re a grown up.’
‘So what am I going to wear?’
‘You’ll have to put a jacket on like the bears.’
‘And Auntie?’
My little girl looked over at her. ‘She can wear a dress and makeup like me.’
I know Rashelle was looking for my forgiveness, and more importantly, my daughter’s. When she saw her smile, I think she felt exonerated. There was no need for her to feel that way; if anything, we owed her an apology, for getting her involved. They started polishing buttons and washing clothes and combing hair, and that was just Jack and Sally’s. Rashelle brought in a big mirror and they did their makeup together. I had glimpses of my daughter as a teenager which I tried to hold back. Not today. Today was for fairies and magic.
She chose a yellow fairy dress and Rashelle put a ribbon in her hair. Then, while my daughter and I got the room ready, Rashelle left to get changed. We put the zoetrope night-light in the corner and groomed Chester. Everyone looked really smart. There was only one thing missing. Or so I thought.
We were so busy looking out the window, we didn’t hear the knock. My daughter turned first. There was a golden wand sticking through the crack of the door. Then came an arm and a side and a head. It was nobody I recognised. They wore a giant yellow dress, billowing out at the hips and pinched at the waist like the ones you see Victorian women wearing. It was made of taffeta, I think, although I am no expert. It had lace straps on it and they’d been pulled hard, especially across the bosom, which struggled against the seams. They wore a filmy gauze across their neck and gauze gloves. Most striking of all was the yellow and black mask they wore. It was very Folies Bergère, with three black plumy feathers sticking up and a three quarter moon face. With the zoetrope fairies dancing on the ceiling, the effect was startling. We stood there mesmerised.
‘Have I come to the right place? I’m looking for a little girl.’
At first my daughter didn’t say anything. I think she was overawed.
‘I was told she’d be here.’
‘It’s me.’
‘Oh yes. So I see.’
The fairy came into the room and shook her wand. A light sprinkling of golden dust fell about my daughter. It did look magical.
My daughter did a pirouette and tried to catch some. ‘Look, Daddy.’
I was looking. I was looking at her face. The fairy had worked a magical transformation. I don’t know if my daughter knew it was Rashelle - I presume she did - or if she even cared. All I knew was, she was happy again. And that’s all I ever wanted.
I saw Rashelle that night. I went into her bedroom to say thank you. She wasn’t really talking. I wanted to unlace the straps on her dress and kiss her bosom. You see, the fairy had had an effect on me, too. I wanted her to rescue me like she had my daughter, to put a smile on my face. I had my ex-wife and the fat Greek on my mind and it was bothering me a lot. She looked at me sadly and held my hand and stroked my head when I put it on her lap, but that was as far as it got. I think the guilt was killing her, too.
21
That night my visitor came back. I was lying on my bed, trying to sleep. At first I tried with the lights off, but whenever I closed my eyes, I saw Jesus on the cross, and whenever I opened them, I saw my little girl. I tried with the bedside light on, the one I use for reading whenever I can be bothered. I normally fall asleep after a page or two. I used to be able to read all night, but I can’t do it any more; maybe because I don’t read page-turners any more. Someone should make serious literature less of a yawn.
The book didn’t do any good. I got up to get a glass of water and wondered if I needed another piss. My bladder doesn’t know what it’s up to these days. A few drips usually come out. I wonder if I’ve got cancer of the bladder or if it’s old age creeping up on me. I sat on the bed and rearranged my clothes, then lay back in the half-light. I must have been down five seconds before the voices came. I sprang up and rearranged the clothes again. When I had them pretty much lined up, I tried again.
‘You haven’t turned the light off properly.’
‘Shut up.’
‘You won’t sleep till you do.’
‘Watch me.’
I tossed and turned for a bit and looked up at the ceiling.
‘See?’
‘If I do it once more, will you let me sleep?’
‘Of course.’
I got on my side, switched the light on, then turned it off. It didn’t feel right. I can’t begin to tell you what I mean when I say that. You won’t understand. I have to turn the light off in a certain way. My fingers have to flick the switch and not stay on the plastic too long or too short a time. I don�
��t know why that is. My doctor told me people with OCD like to control things.
‘That was rubbish.’
‘I know. I’ll try again.’
Again and again and again. All rubbish. The light came on.
‘For fuck’s sake.’
‘Calm down. Just once more.’
‘I can’t.’
‘You have to.’
‘I’m not going to listen.’
I did. I was up and down for hours, drinking, pissing, turning things on and off, and the longer it went, the more remote sleep seemed to get, till I closed my eyes and saw Jesus again.
‘Lord, why have you forsaken me?’
I knew just how he felt.
‘Okay, here’s your chance. Help me.’
Now, I don’t believe in miracles - I think everything has a scientific and rational explanation - but after I saw him, things got a little better. I started to drift and the drifting became a kind of liquefied sleep like I was etherised. The next thing I knew it was morning.
There was a banging in my head.
‘Shut up.’
It got more incessant.
‘Shut up.’
Then I realised it wasn’t in my head. It was coming from behind me: from Rashelle’s bedroom. I leapt out of bed and changed.
‘Darling, you can’t bang on the wall.’
‘Why not?’
‘You have to be quiet.’
‘I can be noisy at Mummy’s.’
‘Mummy doesn’t have neighbours who’ll shout.’
She pulled a sullen face. Rashelle had gone out to get some shopping. The advantage of living in the city is that everything is on your doorstep. Three minutes from the Sears building, you’re in Tesco or a big department store. My daughter used to love going round them. She would pick up tops and hats and model them in front of the stand-up mirrors and delight the middle-aged ladies who were in town for the day. I used to hope she made a similar impact on the sales girls in their tight, black trousers and white shirts, but they never seemed quite as impressed. Occasionally, there was one. They were nearer my daughter’s age than mine. I used to get a kick out of making them laugh as I did my daughter, but I knew there were sexual overtones in everything I said. They knew it, too. It’s why I never got anywhere.
I’d made my daughter a prisoner. At that point, I’d no idea what I was going to do, other than take her away somewhere. I knew I couldn’t keep her here indefinitely. I played with her in the playroom and watched some TV and read books with her, but I knew there was something missing, too. It was the freedom.
Rashelle came back about fifteen minutes later with her hands full of bags. She had bought two tubs of chocolate ice cream which did nothing to dampen my daughter’s excitement. Or the noise levels.
‘Can I have some, Dad?’
‘Just a little.’
She took a small bowl away with her.
Rashelle looked at me.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘I think they’re making another arrest.’
My blood pressure always rises when I hear the word.
‘Who?’
‘Laurence and Peter downstairs.’
‘How do you know?’
‘They were in the lobby. Police were carrying out a computer.’
It didn’t surprise me. Middle-aged queens always look suspect. I’ve got nothing against gays. When I was in the theatre, most of the company was. It’s the only time in my life I didn’t need to worry about the competition. I was the leading man.
‘You’ve got to do something.’
‘What?’
‘Tell them.’
‘Tell them what?’
‘That they’re innocent.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Well, she’s here, isn’t she?’
‘It might be something else.’
‘Are you going to take the chance?’
I’d already offered up the fat Greek; now Laurence and Peter were on the table.
‘What can I say?’
Now hindsight can be a real swine, as I’ve said, but occasionally it vindicates you, so you can tell me if I was right or wrong to keep quiet. Of course, I’m not saying that my motives were altruistic - I’ve said that, too - but God works in mysterious ways. Within a few days, things started appearing in the local papers. Now, you shouldn’t believe everything you read, but they made you think.
Laurence and Peter had been together years. They worked in retail and design. They had mannequins in their apartment window from time to time, which you could see in the reflection of the building opposite. They weren’t too bothered about drawing blinds or closing curtains. Maybe they didn’t realise they could be seen from the other flats, or maybe that was part of the thrill. Once, my little girl saw them manhandling one of the mannequins into the lift. It was male and boasted a large, plastic bulge. I don’t know why it drew my attention; I thought it was because I was with them, but maybe I have a thing for penises.
Laurence was bleached blonde and sun-bed brown and smelt of aftershave. He fussed round the mannequin, making little piggy grunts. Peter was sallower, with dark brown hair and a moustache. I don’t know anyone who can get away with a moustache; they’re something from another age; having one would be like walking down the road with a top hat. I know they are de rigueur in some cultures but, to me, they look ridiculous.
‘No, turn it this way.’
Peter was having his way and Laurence had to give another piggy snort.
‘Is it real, Daddy?’
‘No, sweetheart. It’s a mannequin.’
‘Can I touch it?’
‘No, darling. You might break it.’
I thought they might have let her; I thought they might have said it was okay, and let her put her hand out. But there was a certain fastidiousness about them - maybe it was an unfamiliarity round children, maybe it was something to do with what the police found - that made them keep their distance.
They didn’t come high on my radar of prejudice. They weren’t scallies or thieves or uncouth in any way, even the stuff they did in bed. The only thing I couldn’t abide was the music they played. The occasional thump through the walls in the early hours drove me demented. I thought they’d be past the clubbing stage of their lives, but I think, on reflection, that was just me. Everyone wants to stay young; surrounding yourself with a bronzed Adonis and wanting to hang around pools was not so far removed from me wanting to bathe in the reflection of my daughter’s youth.
There’s a widely held belief among the rabble of the lower classes that homosexuals are paedophiles, just as there is an assumption that middle-aged men who live on their own are sinister and likely to meddle with your daughter. I have some sympathy with the latter view as I am now a middle-aged man. There are, indeed, girls of eighteen and nineteen who I fancy; there might even be sixteen or seventeen-year-olds who fit the bill. To be honest, I don’t know their ages. My penis doesn’t, either. He acts on sight. I presume it’s the same if you’re gay. If you like boys of sixteen or seventeen, that’s no surprise. If it’s thirteen or fourteen, well the age of consent is thirteen in Spain; sexual distinctions are arbitrary.
Now, I don’t know exactly what pictures they found on Laurence’s and Peter’s computer, but they were deemed serious enough to take away. Papers said the police found over six thousand pornographic images which seemed shocking till you considered the average porn website has a thousand thumbnails which your computer logs as soon as you visit. I don’t know if the pictures were ones they’d taken themselves, or ones they’d downloaded, or even if it was boys and girls: I just know I probably have at least that number stored on mine. I’m a middle-aged man, after all. You think I’m not going to look because I have a daughter?
I had some sympathy for Laurence and Peter. I know they weren’t responsible for my daughter’s disappearance. I know I could have probably saved them some agony over the computer. Shit like paedophilia (if you’re going to call it th
at) sticks with you for the rest of your life; but the police found enough evidence to charge them with separate offences which would otherwise never have come to light: possession of pictures of minors and attempting to solicit a minor over the internet. Take that for what you will. I just thought about the mannequins in the windows and whether things would have been different if they’d let my daughter touch it.
The case of the fat Greek was different and more complex. On the surface, he seemed a far more likely suspect. He had that oily look. He lived on his own and his English wasn’t perfect - all the things you’d expect from a kiddy napper. When they took him away in the car, it seemed only a matter of time before he was released. But it seemed Sherlock’s enquiries had unearthed a possible other connection to Greece. A boy had gone missing on a fishing expedition some years ago. His body was found on a remote beach in Ithaca. He’d been sexually abused. The fat Greek had left the island about the same time. I didn’t need Sherlock to make the connection for me. I remembered what he told me and felt sick.
I’ve often wondered why he confided in me; if he was trying to confess, or if he was, in some strange way, trying to warn me. Did he know what I was up to? If he did, he’d surely have told someone? Maybe he wanted me to learn from his mistakes, to get away with it? Things always turn up, he said. Well, they had for him. In the story he told me Kostas had come back. It must have been his way of coping with things: to have written a different ending. I guess I knew why he gave me that look in the lobby now. It wasn’t about my daughter at all. It was about the boy who disappeared. He didn’t want me to say anything. Luckily, I never needed to. There was enough evidence to convict him without my testimony. I don’t know if I would have done, anyway. I had enough on my plate; and it wasn’t olives.
My daughter’s disappearance had brought a child killer and two dangerous paedophiles to book. If that wasn’t justification for what I did, I don’t know what was; but I would be lying if I told you I ever thought that way. I was far too consumed with the other things that were going on. Afterwards, I often thought about Kostas and the fat, amiable looking Greek, and wondered how such a terrible thing had happened. How did it reach such a moment of crisis? Was it a just moment of madness? One thing I do know: things like that happen, and once they start, there’s no stopping them.
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