Daddy Dearest

by Paul Southern

  22

  Rashelle and I stayed inside for two days. We didn’t even take the rubbish to the chute. My daughter wanted to take them to Minus One.

  ‘You can’t, sweetheart.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘The chutes are blocked.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I think there’s something stuck in there.’

  ‘Like a monster?’

  ‘Yeah, a monster.’

  ‘Can I go and see it?’

  ‘No, you saw the police. They’re dealing with it. It’s far too dangerous.’

  ‘I want to.’

  I knew she did. The look of defiance was in her face.

  ‘You can’t.’

  She tried to get round me, but every time I caught her. I thought it was a game.

  ‘Let me past!’ she shouted.

  I clamped my hand over her mouth. ‘No,’ I said.

  Her expression changed. The defiance was still there, but there was confusion, too. I’d never done that before.

  ‘Let me go.’

  ‘Only if you behave and keep quiet.’

  She made a noise like a bear, like a gruff I hate you, and stomped off. Rashelle came in and acted as peacemaker.

  ‘Right,’ she said. ‘None of us can go out, not even to the chute. We all just have to sit here until the police say it’s okay.’

  For my daughter, this was impossible. Even with the windows open and the view from the playroom, she missed the outside world. She wanted to stretch her legs. Chocolate ice cream could only compensate her so much.

  We were all getting tetchy.

  The next morning, the flat reeked.

  ‘There’s a press conference.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Today. Sherlock just rang. I have to go.’

  ‘Have to?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She sat beside me on the L-shaped sofa. ‘I can’t keep this up.’

  ‘It’ll be over soon. This will be a distraction. They checked the flats and found nothing. The worst is over.’

  ‘You hope.’

  ‘I hope.’

  I knew something was up with her - I mean, more than the usual fretting and worrying. She was thinking of handing me in.

  ‘How long will you be?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I need to know.’

  I stood there, unable to answer.

  ‘Hopefully we’ll be here when you get back.’

  I’ve acted on many stages in my time - big ones, little ones, old ones, new ones - and in front of many different kinds of audience. I’ve had the spotlight shine in my eyes and the trapdoor open beneath me. I’ve waited in the wings for years hoping my time would come, and knowing it never would. I’ve been the understudy of fools who knew their lines no better than I, but who were recognised from soap operas or talent shows, and while their careers rose and fell, mine stayed where it was. I’ve always played Rosencrantz. That has always been my role. I made my living and paid my dues and never caught a break. I’ve been in classics and farces and Greek tragedies, and once played a buggered Celtic druid, though that wasn’t one of my better performances. I’ve sung in musicals and played the West End. I’ve walked by the Thames at night and felt the thrill of being part of a show. I’ve felt the magic of Theatreland sweep me up, high over the river, till I saw London shrinking beneath me and my name, tucked away at the bottom of the programme, growing larger than Hollywood. I’ve felt on top of the world. But, most of all, I’ve felt dreadful emptiness, boredom and failure.

  When I got to the police station, I was still thinking of Rashelle’s last words. Hopefully. My wife was waiting for me outside Sherlock’s room. She looked tense and frail, as though she hadn’t eaten since I saw her outside the church. The hobbit was with her, holding her hand. Sherlock swept by and took us in. The map behind his desk showed even more flags and pins. He looked at my wife, then at me, and his face set in sombre resignation.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I realise this is going to be difficult for you.’

  My wife’s head dropped to the desk. For moment, I thought she’d fainted. Then I heard the sobs. ‘No, no.’ She banged her hands on the table and called out our daughter’s name.

  Sherlock didn’t know where to turn. We watched as the hobbit put her hoofs round her. Then he looked at me. ‘Do you want me to postpone it?’

  ‘No. we’d rather get it over with.’

  ‘I’ll do all I can to keep it brief. Just field the questions you can.’

  I nodded.

  He led the way out. We came to a wide corridor. There were police officers there and some photographers loading cameras. Surely they couldn’t be there for us? We walked to a large, white door. Once or twice, my wife fell and I had to hold her. I didn’t think she was going to make it.

  Sherlock turned. I don’t think I’ve ever been so scared. Many times I have stared through the curtains or peered from the wings to see what awaited me - one time, I actually sat in the audience as part of the performance - but the stakes were never as high. He opened the door and bright, white light blinded us. The flashes of a hundred cameras ripped through the air. It was so hot in there, I thought I’d faint. My wife staggered again and I had to prop her on my shoulder. We were led to some seats in front of a bare, white table. The cameras kept clicking. At one side, there was a television camera and it bore down on us like a giant telescope. I remember reading once about the difference between screen acting and stage acting and people saying it was all about the little gestures and the expressions on your face. They were magnified a million times on celluloid. There was no escaping those little gestures now. Everything I did and said would be picked up.

  A single microphone was placed on the table in front of us. All my life I’d wished for a moment like this - to have the spotlight on me, to hold court before the press - now, all I could think of was getting out.

  My wife sat next to me; she had her head down, staring into her lap. The hobbit was on the other side. Sherlock sat next to me. He shuffled some papers and addressed the audience in a clear, calm voice. It was a rich delivery with some affecting turns. He ought to have taken a bow. He said all the right things.

  ‘I think every parent in the country can imagine the pain the family are going through…it’s a unique case, and one of the most traumatic I’ve had to deal with in fifteen years of service…a little girl has gone missing and that affects us all…we are appealing today for help and information…we’ll not rest till we’ve found her.’

  There was post sermon silence afterwards. Then the questions came flooding in.

  ‘Are you treating this as a kidnapping, or a murder?’

  ‘We have an open mind.’

  ‘How much progress has been made?

  ‘We’re still making enquiries.’

  ‘Are you following any leads?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can you comment on the arrests that have been made?’

  ‘No.’

  I don’t think Sherlock ever really disappointed me. He truly was a man for all seasons. He fielded the questions with a judge’s aplomb and kept cool even under the searing lights all the while I shook like a leaf. And I called myself an actor?

  Eventually, the questions came our way. There was a noticeable reluctance on the part of the press to force the issue with us; certainly with my ex-wife, who could barely look up. Even frenzy feeding piranhas have kids.

  ‘What would you like to say to the person who has her?’

  The question was directed at her. She shook uncontrollably and wiped the tears from her face. I could see she wanted to say something, but every time a word appeared at her mouth, it was choked back. I held her hand and she gripped it the way she used to when we made love, with all the passion of her being. The cameras stopped clicking; the chairs stopped moving; the phones stopped ringing. There was just the dreadful expectation of what she would say.

  ‘I just want my little girl back. Pleas
e. Let her go. I can’t live without her. I just can’t live.’

  It was another command performance and I think it affected everyone in the room. I did not begrudge her this time for I was crying, too. I was crying for her and for what I’d done. I was crying for that bastard to return our little girl so she could live her life again, go to America, live with Handshaker, do what she wanted; but most of all I was crying for fear. My mind was full of thoughts of jail and what would happen to me and being Public Enemy No. 1.

  She sobbed and broke down and the hobbit led her away. Sherlock asked if there were any more questions and tried to draw matters to a close, but I put a hand on his and asked if I could say something. He looked at me carefully. I think he was worried I’d prejudice the case. I don’t know what possessed me to say anything; it would have been better to say nothing; most times in my life I should have done that but this was my time, too. I might never have got it back.

  ‘I’d like to say something.’

  Whenever I’ve seen interviews with parents and relations of murdered children, I’m always convinced of their guilt; either they say too much or they say too little. There’s something not right about them or not right about the case. I’m always speculating on what they’ve done with the body. I don’t know if everyone feels that way, if they have my heightened sense of scepticism - maybe only police officers do - but my feelings are profound. I’d hate others to have the same opinion of me, however justified it was. I don’t want people thinking I’m a child killer or a kidnapper. I want them to understand me.

  ‘Neither of us thought we’d ever get caught up in anything like this. It’s something you read about in the papers that happens to other people. Like you, I’ve watched them being interviewed and felt their pain, but nothing prepares you for actually sitting up here and facing the world. No matter what our pain is, though, I know our daughter’s is worse. She’ll be looking for us and wondering where we are, and the thought of that is an agony I can’t begin to tell you.’ I paused a moment. ‘But we have to be strong for her like she has to be strong. We have to think of her.’

  The audience hung on my every word. I turned to the TV camera.

  ‘If you’re watching this, darling, I want you to know that we love you very much and we’re thinking of you every second. You’re going to be okay. Daddy’s going to make sure of that. When you come back, he’s going to take you on that holiday he promised you, wherever you like. The person who has you is confused but they’re going to do the right thing and bring you back safely. They’re going to bring you home. I want you to think of that. I want you to think of all your friends and your bears who are going to hold a big party for you when you come back. It won’t be long now, darling. Mummy and Daddy love you very much and we’re doing all we can to find you.’

  No clicks, no applause, nothing. Sherlock put a hand on my arm and closed the meeting.

  If nothing prepared me for the whirlwind of the press conference, the aftermath which followed was even more shocking. I think Sherlock tried to warn us in his own way - he said things could get ugly - but even he couldn’t have predicted the hurricane force media storm which blew up around us. Our faces, the faces of our little girl, were splashed over the cover of every newspaper in the country. I’ve always wanted to be famous; I’ve wanted to dine with kings and hang out on Sunset Strip with Hollywood stars; I’ve wanted to have beautiful women on my arm and have my peers cover me with praise, false or not; I’ve wanted strange and exotic girls to ask for my autograph, to offer to sleep with me, or suck me off in the back of a limo; I’ve wanted people to know who I am and to love me. I never wanted to be forgotten and face my failure every single day. That was not what I wanted at all.

  The worst kind of failure is knowing you’re a failure, knowing you’ll never get anywhere. I’ve known people who had dreams and let them go by before they even woke up; I’ve known people who struggled for years and then mysteriously gave up overnight; I’ve known people who died without tasting any success, but who chased it endlessly, because the dream was all they had. That was my lot. I know people say anyone can be famous now - that’s what they designed the internet for - but who wants to be one in six billion? I don’t want to be told that fame’s not what it’s cracked up to be, or that you get bored of it. If you don’t like it, give it to me. They say that so there’s more of it for them. I want all they have and more.

  Someone once asked me - I don’t know why - if notoriety would do. Most times I’ve said no - you wouldn’t want to be remembered for gassing six million Jews or bringing down the Twin Towers, would you? Well, maybe you would - but Bonnie and Clyde, Al Capone, Attila the Hun? Of course, with the exception of the suicide bombers, none of them were doing it for publicity, but then, I’m no expert. What I do know is, watching things from the sidelines for so long, I would seize anything that came along.

  My wife was completely different. She was happy in herself. She had all her friends, her house, her job, and didn’t want for anything else. She didn’t want special treatment; she wanted to fit in. I envied her that but, when the press started to hound us and the pictures started appearing in newspapers, I began to see that it was me who was more able to cope with the way the world was, and I started to pity her. It was me who fielded the questions and talked to the press. I was the strong one and no one would have said that about us before that.

  The strangest thing was seeing the picture of my daughter in print. It was the picture I’d given Sherlock when he first came round to see me. It already seemed so long ago. What would my daughter say when she saw it? I’d never asked her about fame and whether she thought it was good or bad, although the way she sings and dances, I think she’d have liked it. I’d like her to achieve all she wants in life and not have to face what I’ve had.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  I wish I could have said it like the priest said it.

  She sat on a bench outside the police station with the hobbit.

  ‘Do you want me to take you home?’

  ‘I’m going to stay here.’

  The hobbit looked at me strangely, like my wife had told her everything about me and this was all my fault, which actually wasn’t far from the truth. For a second - a very weird second - I thought they’d become lovers. The thought made me a little bit queasy: bestiality is not my thing. I wondered if Handshaker knew what was going on. I hadn’t seen him with her lately; in fact, I hadn’t seen him at all.

  ‘Don’t you think you need a rest?’

  She looked up. ‘Where am I going to get that?’

  ‘We have to be strong.’

  She shook her head. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Do you want me to stay?’

  I shuffled a bit. I’ve never known why women don’t tell you what they want. It would make life so easy. I understand their rationale: I mean, not having to tell you means you know them; it means you’re on their wavelength; but why expect me to know? I am not a mind reader. And why get so upset when I get it wrong? I’ve had the craziest of conversations with them, and my wife most of all.

  ‘What am I thinking now?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Well, we’re together and it’s a lovely day.’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘So, what would we want to do on a lovely day?’

  ‘I don’t know. Go to the beach? Go to the park? Go to the cinema?’

  ‘No. Think again.’

  ‘Have an ice cream?’

  ‘No. Come on. Try again.’

  ‘I am trying.’

  ‘If you loved me, you’d know it.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose.’

  ‘So we’re over?’

  I turned to go. Even the hobbit was appalled.

  ‘You never get it, do you?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Me.’

  I paused. ‘No.’

  It was just like the old days.

  To be honest, I didn’t want to leave her. I wanted to mak
e sure she was okay, but I was more worried about my little girl. I’d left it too long already. Rashelle’s words began to press on me again. I walked through town and wondered how long I’d have my anonymity; how long before they pointed me out and said, ‘That’s him, poor soul.’ Or, ‘That’s him, the bastard.’

  The Sears building looked majestic in the sun. It gleamed like white marble. Young couples breezed in and out. I wished I could have rewound the clock and lived it all again with them. I kept my head down and made my way up to the seventh floor. Everything was quiet. I walked past the fat Greek’s door straight to Rashelle’s and knocked three times.

  There was no sound. I put my head to the door, then knocked again. Still nothing.

  ‘Hello?’ I couldn’t understand. Why couldn’t they hear me? ‘Rashelle?’ I whispered it louder. Had she gone? Had she turned me in? I looked own the corridor to see if anyone was there. ‘Rashelle?’

  Still nothing.

  I rushed to my flat. Maybe they’d gone there; maybe someone had come and they had to get out? I fumbled for my keys. Money spilled out. Still no one came out.

  Then I heard a door bang. The key jammed in the lock.

  I heard laughter. One turn, two.

  It was child’s laughter and it was coming from down the corridor.

  I waited in the doorway and looked down. A second later, Rashelle and my daughter turned the corner. I couldn’t move for shock and fear. They saw me immediately and my daughter ran towards me. I don’t think there’d ever been a time I didn’t want to see her, but this came close.

  What the hell had Rashelle done?

  23

  You know there’s something wrong with you when people start looking at you funny; or when you’re the only person who thinks like you; or, indeed, when enough people tell you there is. There was a time in my teens when I got off on this idea, you know, being a bit kookie; I thought it’d give me some cachet at school - be a big hit with the girls - but it didn’t work that way; they just saw the weirdness and didn’t want me to hang around them. Even my mother used to say, ‘You can be a strange boy sometimes’, as if I had some control over it. My ex-wife said it, too: ‘Well, that’s the kind of screwball thing I expected you to say’ or ‘Who do you think you’re kidding? Stop trying to be different.’ To put the record straight, I don’t think I’m weird at all. It’s everyone else.