Daddy Dearest

by Paul Southern

  Nothing. I took a deep breath, knocked again, louder this time. Still nothing. I tried the door. Locked. I always liked to think I’d be good in emergencies. I liked to think I’d be one of the few who would act rationally and save themselves, but really that’s more to do with instinct and nature than the way you see yourself, or the way you think you are.

  ‘Rashelle?’

  She’d taken my little girl. I fumbled with my keys, dropped them on the floor. Maybe she’d taken her to mine? I was about to pick them up when I heard a door opening and footsteps on the wooden floor.

  ‘Rashelle?’

  It went quiet.

  ‘Rashelle, is that you?’

  ‘Daddy?’

  The word sheared through the wood: she was alive.

  ‘Darling, open the door.’

  ‘I can’t. It’s locked.’

  ‘Just turn the latch, darling.’

  I heard her fumbling uselessly. ‘Which way?’

  ‘To the right.’

  She didn’t know right from left. She barely knew right from wrong. ‘Which way is right?’

  ‘Towards the bathroom.’

  The bolt kept slipping in her hands. ‘I can’t, Daddy.’

  ‘Darling, where’s Auntie?’

  ‘She’s gone.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  I looked round, trying to think what to do. ‘Hold on, sweetheart. Just stay where you are.’

  I ran into my flat and went straight to the kitchen. I opened the drawer where I kept all my junk. Beneath the light bulbs and boxes of matches and piles of instructions I never read were two bits of wire. I took them out and rushed back. I didn’t know whether other floors were the same, but I never seemed to see people on ours. I mean you could hear them, especially at night, but you never seemed to bump into them. I prayed that wouldn’t change.

  I knelt in front of Rashelle’s door and inserted the wires. I knew I could open it - I mean, I’d already tried on my own - but my hands were shaking so much, they kept slipping and the cam wouldn’t turn.

  ‘What are you doing, Dad?’

  ‘I’m trying to open the door.’

  She was fiddling with the lock on the other side.

  ‘Just leave it now, darling. I’ll do it.’

  Again the wire slipped.

  ‘Dad?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I love you.’

  She says it from time to time, out of the blue like that, and it kills me. All the time you think you’re providing for them, it’s a gentle reminder; you need them more. I don’t care if she’s just saying it for something to say; to me, it’s the kiss of life. When she said it, I could have wept. I didn’t deserve it. I didn’t deserve anything, not after the frightful things I was doing to her.

  ‘I love you, too.’

  It was then I heard the ring. Someone was coming out of the lift. Now, sometimes in life, things come along too quickly to make a choice. There’s no time to weigh up the pros and cons; you have to rely on instinct. For me, it would have been easier to jump down a lion’s mouth. When it comes to action I have been more Hamlet than Sweeney Todd. You can’t change your nature, can you?

  I stood there with the wires in my hands and wondered how I should go on. Should I give it one last try, or run back to my flat? Should I stay with my daughter or leave her on her own?

  ‘Darling, keep quiet.’

  ‘Daddy?’

  ‘Shh.’

  There were footsteps on the carpeted floor. I had no time to hide. Maybe it was Rashelle? Maybe she had her accomplice with her? I ran to my flat, fiddled with my keys. Someone was there. I put the key in the lock. Should I look now? I thought I saw yellow from the corner of my eye. Still I didn’t look.

  ‘You okay, man?’

  I turned.

  He was carrying a broom, and dragging it along the ceiling where frayed cobwebs hung down. ‘I was jus’ cleanin’ up.’

  ‘So I see.’

  The cobwebs blew just out of reach.

  ‘Any news of your little girl?’

  ‘No news, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Dat’s too bad. Maybe you’ll get it soon.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  I knew there was something he wanted to tell me. He swept the skirting boards and looked up and down the corridor. ‘Da police talked to dat Chinese couple today.’

  I put the keys in my pocket. ‘Really?’

  ‘Uh-huh. Dey took ’em away.’

  ‘That’s too bad. They found their stuff?’

  ‘Dey found everythin’, man.’

  He had a glint in his eye.

  ‘That’s good.’

  ‘Dat rug we found?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It had traces of heroin in. Da mutts were all over it.’

  ‘You think it belonged to them?’

  ‘I’m only a cleaner, man. Not a detective.’

  ‘That’s a shame. You’d have made a good one.’

  He chuckled to himself. ‘I’d a made a good lot of tings, man, but I’m still here cleanin’.’

  ‘It’s not too late.’

  He looked at me for a second and I caught the same glint of regret and resignation that has haunted me all my life. ‘Everytin’s too late, man.’

  There was a footfall in Rashelle’s flat. For a brief second, I thought he was going to say something but he walked back down the corridor to the lifts. How was he to know, anyway? I waited for him to turn the corner, then opened my door. I stood in the entranceway and waited for the ring. I could hear him sweeping the lobby. Any second I expected my daughter to shout for me. I held the two wires in front of me and doused for hope. After a minute or two, the lift doors opened and he was gone. I went back to Rashelle’s.

  ‘Darling?’

  There was no reply.

  I inserted the first wire, then the second. I turned and twisted, then felt the cam turn. The lock was undone. I grasped the handle and pushed. Grey shadows came out to greet me. The living room door was open and a light breeze buffeted my face. I ran inside but she wasn’t there. I could sense the panic choking me again.

  ‘Darling?’

  I opened the bathroom door. The taps weren’t running; nor was there the slow lapping of water in the bath. I ran to the playroom, put my ear to the door, and heard a faint, mechanical whirring sound. I pushed it open.

  The first thing I noticed was the sun; the second was the open window; the third was my daughter on the floor. She looked up at me and smiled. She’d assembled the zoetrope night-light and the fairies were dancing round the room. She’d dressed herself in a fairy costume and was waving a magic wand at Jack and Sally and Chester the rocking horse.

  ‘Darling, what are you doing? Look at all the mess you’ve made.’

  She’d pulled all the costumes down from the wardrobe. The floor looked like a medieval battlefield; bears fought dolls fought toy soldiers. There were feathers and stuffing and clothes everywhere. I don’t know whether it’s in me to say something good. I mean, it wouldn’t have hurt to pick her up and give her a kiss. I know I wanted to. But I was panicking. I wanted to know where Rashelle had gone.

  ‘Darling, who opened the window?’

  She gave a cursory look and went on playing with the fairies. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Did you?’

  She shook her head. Even if she had, she wouldn’t admit it. I’ve told her a million times not to, whatever good it did. It was the same with the lifts. She was drawn to them. I think it’s a genetic disposition; like mine for lying. If she was lying now, I’d let her have it.

  ‘Well, who did?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  She pitched that just right. There wasn’t enough defiance in it to drive me over the edge, but there was enough insouciance for me to know she didn’t really care.

  I knelt down next to her and tried to swallow my anger. ‘Where’s Auntie, darling?’

  She shrugged again.

&n
bsp; I put my hand out and stopped the fairies’ dance.

  ‘It’s very important.’

  ‘She went out.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  She mewed that one and started playing with something else. I could sense myself getting more and more frustrated.

  ‘Did she say anything to you?’

  ‘She asked me to stay here. She said to get Daddy to tell the truth.’

  I was stung. The truth?

  ‘About what?’

  ‘I don’t know. I said you always tell the truth. So does Mummy.’

  That’s the last thing to go: belief in your parents. After the Tooth Fairy and Father Christmas and the Loch Ness Monster and UFO’s, you discover they were lying, too. There was no perfect marriage, no happy ever after. The anger I felt at their failure burnt long into my raucous, malcontented twenties, flared for a little in middle age, then became a quiet resignation as they grew old. That was punishment enough for all their reprimands and long sentences. Before they died it became sadness that I’d never made it up to them, even at the end.

  ‘Did she say when she’d be back?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Did she do anything to you?’

  I could see she hadn’t. There were no more bruises on her arms or tears in her eyes.

  ‘No, Daddy. She just said to wait for you.’

  I picked her up, squeezed her tightly, and walked over to the window. It hadn’t really sunk in, yet. Being without Rashelle.

  That afternoon the sky was clear. If ever there was a day to jump, it would have been then. But I’ve never had the appetite for suicide - it’s one of the good things about being a coward - nor did I want to be lumped with those selfish bastards who took their children’s lives. Not like that.

  ‘You know what time it is?’ I asked.

  She shook her head.

  ‘I think it’s holiday time.’

  There was a second before the words registered, then she grabbed my neck and exploded with life. ‘Are we going now?’

  ‘Yes, we’re going to pack our clothes.’

  ‘Oh, Daddy!’

  I couldn’t get her off. The thought she might alert everyone in the building didn’t even enter my head. I was too happy being in her good books.

  ‘Guess how much I love you today?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘This much.’

  She held her arms out wide.

  ‘That’s an awful lot.’

  She nodded. ‘You’re my Daddy Dearest.’

  ‘Daddy Dearest? What’s that?’

  ‘It’s my dear Daddy.’

  Yeah, I know it sounds sentimental. If it had been anyone else, I’d have thrown up. But the fact is, she said it, and she said it without a trace of irony.

  I closed the window and helped her put the toys away. I didn’t know how long Rashelle would be away. There was always a chance she’d come back. Maybe she’d bring the police? Maybe she’d say sorry and confess it all? Life was a lot of maybes.

  Too long have I stood on the watchtower, guarding against disasters that were never likely to come, watching my life ebb away with the yearly tide of inanity and heartbreak and let-down. I’ve missed sunsets and crowning glories to stand in the shadows of fools; I’ve listened to people I had no care for tell me what they thought and what they felt I deserved; I’ve been brow-beaten, fired, humiliated and every time I’ve taken it on the chin and turned my cheek till it burned. My life has been one long pursuit of a comet’s tail. I caught a glimpse of it as a child and I’ve been chasing it ever since. Once, it blazed fiercely and I felt I had the measure of it - I felt I had the ambition to get my palms burnt - but too many times I have let it go, or not realised it was in my grasp, and now it is well past perihelion. It has vanished into infinite shadow and the pulse of life I once had is no more than a flicker. I have missed all that I wanted to be, and worse than that, I seem no longer to care.

  I’m trying to explain to you, if you haven’t already got it, how I came to be here. You know how she got here. You will have made up your mind. She was my star, the something brighter that entered my firmament. But the same inexorable cycle was repeating itself and I found myself already looking over my shoulder, into the sky, for the moment when I saw her tail vanishing over the horizon.

  At first I toyed with the idea of staying in Rashelle’s flat. I mean, they wouldn’t look for me there, would they? Not immediately. There was the cupboard behind the water tank. There were places to hide. But it would only be a matter of time. Everything was just a matter of time. I needed to get out. We needed to get out. This was our chance.

  I sat in the living room and watched her sleep. She was washed, changed, fed, the way she was when she was a baby, though older now, and a little bit wiser. A few more years and she’d be like me, God help her. The flat was quiet. Rashelle had gone, the Greek had gone, even Laurence and Peter below us were gone. On any other night I would have appreciated the quiet. Now it felt like we were gone.

  Quite by chance, I checked my phone. I don’t normally get texts from people - or calls, for that matter; I use the land line most of the time - so it was quite a shock to see there was a message.

  It said simply: I’m sorry.

  I don’t store the numbers on my phone - I don’t know how. At first I thought it was from Rashelle, trying to make it up to me - but when I scrolled through to the end, I realised it wasn’t.

  It was from my wife.

  I checked the date at the bottom and my stomach reeled.

  She’d sent it the day she died.

  I slumped on to the sofa and the tears fell without end.

  30

  I didn’t think Rashelle would leave us; I thought she’d see it through. But I couldn’t blame her. When the tears dried and I got round to thinking of what to do, the horror of where she’d put me finally sunk in. I had to get my little girl out and I had to do it on my own. I’ve seen magic tricks in my life where people have gone missing - in dummy boxes and see-through cabinets; and even under assistant’s skirts - but never into thin air. I had no props or foils to engineer such a deception. The more I thought about it, the more remote the prospect seemed. I paced the living room floor and watched the hour hand go by, and at every turn, the voices in my head threatened to take over.

  ‘If you don’t do it five times, they’ll find you; they’ll take her away.’

  ‘They’ll find her, anyway.’

  ‘You can’t be sure.’

  ‘Leave me alone.’

  ‘Have you checked the front door?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You better check again.’

  ‘I locked it and put the chain on.’

  ‘If you didn’t, they’ll get her.’

  ‘They won’t get her.’

  ‘You won’t sleep till you do.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Just once.’

  I stopped pacing and went into the hall. My daughter stirred. Was it really worth waking her up? I peered down the corridor. The chain was on.

  ‘See. I told you.’

  ‘What about the lock?’

  ‘If I did the chain, I’d have done the lock.’

  ‘So you say, but chains are easy to slide off. You won’t even know they’re inside.’

  I felt myself being taken to the door. I made sure it was turned as far to the right as it would go. I touched it again and again till it felt right to leave it.

  ‘Are you satisfied?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I hate you.’

  ‘You hate yourself.’

  It was true. I stared at the door and wondered how much more I could take. I could hear my daughter breathing in the next room.

  ‘Will she be okay?’

  ‘She will if you do as we say.’

  ‘You always say that.’

  I went back into the living room and resumed my vigil. While she slept, my visitors and I held a midnight sé
ance. I wanted to speak to my wife. I don’t believe in all that MacGuffin normally - I had enough trouble speaking to her when she was alive - but the mood was on me. I don’t know if she heard me - I suspect not; she was quite adept at turning a deaf ear - but I said my piece. For some men, the chance of giving a moving and fitting tribute to their wife would inspire them; for others, a simple see you in hell would do. I told her simply I was sorry, that I’d always be sorry, and that if there was lots of forgiveness floating round up there, could she spare some, if not for me, for our daughter?

  I must have dozed off after that. I remember thinking of the different ways out of the building and wondering which one to choose. I imagined taking her down the fire escape and trying to get across the car park at the back. I saw police cars bearing down on us and street lights with CCTV cameras turned our way.

  ‘Don’t look back.’

  We were halfway across the car park and I had no idea where we were going. She kept touching my neck and I kept telling her not to. I ran from one streetlight to another and she followed me. She thought it was a game. How could I explain to her that this was the last time she’d see her dad, and that she wasn’t going on holiday; she was going to be on the run for years and her mum was never going to catch up with her because her mum was dead?

  I kept swatting at the back of my neck. Something was tickling me. ‘Get off.’

  I woke with a start. It was dark. Or rather, grey. I felt very disorientated. I could make out the computer on the other side of the room and the vague outline of the paintings on the wall. I had not entered hell. Not yet. I was on the sofa.

  There was something on my shoulder. I thought it was a spider and I jumped up.

  ‘Whoa.’

  I could hear a giggle.

  I stared at her. She was kneeling up.

  ‘What are you doing? How long have you been up?’

  ‘I’m hungry, Dad.’

  I didn’t know what to think. Part of me was very cross with her. I tried to keep it at bay. ‘It’s not breakfast yet. It’s early.’

  ‘But I’m hungry.’

  ‘You can’t have anything at the moment because it’s sleep time.’

  In the gloom, she looked despondent and pained. I knew just how she felt. I didn’t know why I didn’t just get up and get her a piece of fruit. It wasn’t as if I didn’t wake in the middle of the night and raid the fridge. I used to pinch Kraft triangular cheeses when I was a kid (the tomato ones) and take them up to my room. It was a particular delight eating them from the silver foil. I collected all the wrappers and hid them under my bed. I must have collected about thirty till my mum found out. When she asked me how they got there, I said I didn’t know, which was like telling Sherlock I didn’t know how my daughter’s clothes got in the rug. Soon after, the cheeses disappeared. I couldn’t blame my daughter for being hungry and I couldn’t blame her for waking me. I’d have been crosser with her for taking something and not telling me. With some parents, you just can’t win.