Daddy Dearest

by Paul Southern

  I sighed and got her a piece of melon. She smiled at me in the dark. I couldn’t help thinking this was a bit of an adventure. I wondered if she felt it. There was something primitive about cuddling and eating in front of our imaginary fire. It was like we were in the wilds of Africa, staring out across the plain. I stroked her hair and put her under the blanket and waited for the whites of her eyes to close.

  ‘Goodnight, Dad.’

  ‘Goodnight, darling.’

  ‘Are we on holiday yet?’

  ‘Yes, darling. It’s just starting.’

  She got all cosy under the covers and smiled herself to sleep. I felt guilty as hell we weren’t already gone and doubted we ever would be.

  I could hear cars and lorries outside. I’d left the window open slightly and the noise came up like an ocean. In the distance I heard a police siren and wondered if it was coming for us. My little girl was watching children’s TV. I told her to turn it down. It bubbled away in the background while I checked the fridge and cupboards to see what we had in. My wife could never work out how I lived so hand to mouth. I had exactly enough food for one day and no more. Even when my daughter came, I didn’t buy for the long term. I didn’t think I’d ever have her that long. Subliminally, I think, I didn’t want reminding.

  The programme she was watching was full of helpful neighbours and environmentally friendly kids. I hadn’t a clue when I was her age. I hated my neighbours. One was a miserable, old man who never gave my ball back. He had big glasses and a walking stick and used to semaphore it when I jumped across his fence to get it. He caught me once in his ginnel.

  ‘I’m going to teach you a lesson now, son. A real lesson.’

  I could never work out why my mum wasn’t cross with him, or why didn’t she get dad to batter him? It struck me as such injustice.

  ‘He only wanted to play.’

  ‘So why was he waving his stick?’

  ‘He wanted to get your attention.’

  ‘He had big eyes.’

  ‘He was long-sighted.’

  ‘Why didn’t he just say something?’

  ‘He tried. You kept running off.’

  ‘You liked him?’

  ‘We both did. He was a good neighbour. He used to leave you sweets.’

  I never knew that. I never knew half the stuff that went on. A few years later he was moved into a home, or died, and a boy took his place. I lived in fear of him, too. He was a bit older than me, and a bit taller, and used to kick a football into our garden. I was mortified when he jumped our fence to get it. That also struck me as an injustice.

  I looked at my daughter and wondered how she would cope with the gap in her understanding. I couldn’t imagine her thinking anything but bitterness towards me when she found out.

  There was a sudden noise in the corridor outside. I rushed to the television and turned it down. Somebody was moving something out there. I heard bangs on the walls and an electric hum. It passed my flat. My little girl wanted to see what it was. She has always been attracted to noise. When we were out in town she would wave at the gnarled, old men driving the street sweepers and point at the rotating toothbrushes guiding the rubbish inside. She would chase after them, get in the way, shriek when they appeared to be after her. I wondered if it made their day.

  ‘What is it, Dad?’

  ‘It’s the cleaner.’

  ‘Can I see?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Please?’

  ‘No.’

  She put her head into my midriff and tried to get by. I held her off.

  ‘I said no, darling.’

  ‘It’s not fair. You never let me do anything.’

  I think it broke me. I was tired, overwrought, stressed to breaking point. It didn’t excuse me; those are the job particulars of every parent. But, like I said before, I was a crap one. I hoisted her up, threw her down on the sofa, and prepared to read her the riot act. She had me over a barrel, really. I mean, I could hardly shout at her. I think she knew that. She tried to get up again. It was another one of those stupid games.

  I picked her up and threw her down. ‘I said no.’

  She huffed and puffed like the big, bad wolf. But today I was made of brick, not straw.

  ‘I’m warning you. This is your last chance.’

  But she was too far gone. Determination, stubbornness and spirit are ingrained in her. She has more fight than is good for her. She kicked me.

  My hand went up instinctively and a flash of contrition crossed her face. It was too late. The palm came down. For an adult it would have been a hard blow; for her, it was a thump. There was a momentary hiatus when she tried to work out what had happened - I don’t think she knew what hit her - literally; then her face screwed up. Hot cheeks went flush and tears rushed to douse the fires. There was no escaping it. Daddy had hit her. I never do that.

  Seeing your child cry is always miserable. I know some people think it’s cute when they cry over nothing, but like I said, it’s all relative. One kid’s missing book bag is another’s missing mummy. I wanted to say sorry; I wanted to take her in my arms; but I wanted more to make her shut up. I wanted her to see it from my side for once. I knew I was totally in the wrong. I didn’t need to see her hands wiping her eyes to show me.

  I sat next to her and listened to her sobs. I was a broken man. I didn’t think I’d ever get up. The noise of the vacuum cleaner ebbed and flowed down the corridor, then finally went out.

  It was about then I got the phone call. To be honest, I’d been expecting it. Ever since we had our talk about the clothes, I knew it was only a matter of time. At first I thought I’d let it ring, but it seemed stupid to put things off. If there was a time to get away, it would have been in the night.

  I let it ring five times.

  ‘Be quiet,’ I said to her, putting my finger to my lips.

  ‘Hello?’

  It was Sherlock. ‘We have a lead.’

  A lead? My heart shot out of my chest. To who? Aren’t you going to arrest me?

  ‘Have you seen her?’

  ‘It’s best I tell you in person.’

  ‘Right. I’ll be there as soon as I can.’

  Of course they weren’t going to arrest me. They don’t ring up beforehand. They just turn up.

  My little girl hadn’t stirred. Normally, she gets up when the phone goes. I think I’d knocked it out of her.

  ‘Darling?’

  She wasn’t for turning. I put my hand on her head.

  ‘I’m sorry, darling. Will you forgive me? Daddy wasn’t really cross with you. He was cross with himself.’

  It was no good. Her breath came in big gulps, and her body shook. For a terrible second, I thought I’d done some internal damage to her. I picked her up and tried to look in her eyes, but she kept her face averted. It wasn’t a good sign. I read once that haemorrhage victims can’t bear the light.

  ‘Darling, talk to me. I need to know you’re okay.’

  A teary hand came slowly up to her face. ‘I want Mummy.’

  ‘You want me to get her?’

  ‘I want her now.’

  ‘Then you’re going to have to do something for me.’

  She rubbed her eyes. ‘What?’

  ‘I need you to stay in the flat.’

  ‘On my own?’

  The crying was about to start again.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ll be scared.’

  ‘It won’t be for long.’

  ‘I’ll still be scared.’

  ‘What of?’

  ‘Monsters.’

  ‘Auntie said there weren’t any.’

  ‘You said there were.’

  ‘I was wrong. The police checked.’

  ‘Then why can’t I go with you?’

  ‘Because it’s dangerous.’

  ‘Are you coming back?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Is Mummy coming back?’

  ‘Yes, I’m going to get her.’

  ‘Now?’ />
  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ll be scared.’

  ‘You won’t be scared. I’m going to lock the door and leave you some food. Just wait for me. Okay?’

  She wasn’t okay. You could hardly expect her to be. I’d just hit her. Now I was going to leave her. She put her arms round my neck and clung to me.

  ‘Darling, listen to me.’

  She wasn’t listening.

  ‘If you want Mummy back, I have to go now. I can’t take you. It’s too dangerous for little girls.’

  ‘But what about the monsters?’

  ‘There are no monsters.’

  I wish I hadn’t lied to her. I wish I’d just told her the truth. Adults are so conniving.

  ‘There are.’

  ‘There aren’t. Now, I’m going to leave the TV on. Don’t answer the door and don’t answer the phone. Do you want me to bring you a chocolate ice cream?’

  See how I tried to deflect her? See how I tried to take her mind off things?

  ‘I wish I was coming with you.’

  She was depressed.

  ‘So do I, darling.’

  Now I was doing the hugging.

  ‘Listen, Daddy loves you more than anything in the world and is very proud of you. Other daddies couldn’t leave their five old girls on their own. They’d be like babies, always crying.’ I made my best impression of one and she smiled a bit. ‘There are only a few who are grown up enough to be left. You’re one of them.’

  I was making inroads. Some of her natural colour returned. It started to mask where I’d hit her.

  ‘I’m still a bit scared, Daddy.’

  ‘I know, darling.’

  I picked her up and took her into the kitchen. I opened the wire drawer. Along with the instructions and matches and light bulbs I kept some pictures she’d drawn for me. One of them was of our handprints. I took it out and showed it to her. I forgot it had her mum’s on, too. Happy days.

  ‘Just leave this here and every time you get scared, put your hands on the handprints and think of us altogether, because in a little bit, we will be.’

  She put her hands on hers and saw that they no longer fitted.

  ‘Look, Dad. I’m not a baby any more.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘You’re not.’

  What kind of man leaves his five-year-old daughter in a flat on her own? A man who’s taken leave of his senses? An evil man? I could point to the children left outside shops, or in the house while parents nip next door to borrow some milk, or kids left in baths, to show it goes on all the time. I could reassure you that I removed all dangerous objects before I left and made sure nothing was switched on that shouldn’t be on, and that she couldn’t get on to any worktops, although I couldn’t stop her using the computer chair to get up there. I could tell you the oven was off, the hobs were off, the bath wasn’t running and that I’d pulled the phone out and hidden it - and you’d still think the worst of me. I did everything I possibly could: I left sandwiches and crisps and drink out; I brought her toys in; I closed all the windows and locked them. You think I wanted to leave her? You think I wanted to leave my little girl? I die just thinking about it.

  I put my hands on my prints and they fitted exactly, although I can’t think how. I remember nothing of that man, whether he was happy or who he was. ‘I’m not going to be very long, sweetheart. Remember what I said. Stay in the living room and don’t answer the door.’

  ‘Okay, Daddy.’

  I waited a few seconds to make sure she hadn’t come after me, then left the flat. I checked the lock once, twice, five times, then ran down the corridor.

  I know I said I’d never used text since it all blew up, but I did then. I didn’t really know what I was thinking, just that I needed help.

  I wrote Please come back. It’s all I could think of to say.

  31

  I was scared, never mind her. I was scared of the things she could do to herself and the things they were going to do to me. I took the fire escape out the building. There were shoppers unloading their cars in the car park and tramps sleeping in doorways. I smelt their piss and saw the puddles growing around them and wondered if that would be me one day when all this was over; when I’d served my time and come out to nothing. I passed a newspaper vendor on the corner and stalled when I read the headline: Missing Girl’s Mum’s Tragic End. News travelled fast. They hadn’t even held the inquest.

  I’ve never been a runner, not that I haven’t the build for it - indeed, at school, I was famed for outrunning bullies - it was more a case of how stupid it made me look. My limbs went everywhere and my face contorted like a gargoyle’s. The same thing happened when I made love, though less people were looking (I think). Some of the faces I’ve seen at the height of their concupiscence, you’d think I’d killed them. They were like faces found in peat bogs with wire garrottes round their necks. Maybe that’s the way we should all go.

  That day, I didn’t care who saw me. I ran through the back streets and felt alive. I think it was the moment I’ve risked most in my life. I’ve been conscious of these moments - I wouldn’t call them opportunities - several times before, where the hint of danger lifted me out of myself and I realised something life-changing was happening. They didn’t happen enough for my liking, but then I’ve always been careful.

  I risked a lot when I walked out of a performance of Krapp’s Last Tape. You’d think that was no strange thing with Beckett but I was playing Krapp at the time. There was no one left to play the tape. I don’t think the audience appreciated the irony. I risked a bit more - a lot more - when I got back in touch with that Chinese girl I saw on the bench. It turned out she sat there quite a lot. I didn’t intend to start anything with her; we just sort of fell into it, although everyone comes up with crap like that, don’t they? I used to meet up with her several times a week and waited for the conversations to lead us to bed. When my wife found out, she remembered that first time and the signs I was making to her before our little girl was born, and she thought I’d embarrassed and humiliated her in a most terrible way. I had, of course.

  The thing is, the consequences of what I was doing never really hit me till we were in that dingy hotel. Before that, I could convince myself we were just friends, albeit ones with bad intentions. I remember thinking everything was still okay right up until she took her clothes off. Then things took a less forgivable turn and I started kissing her body and she gave out short high-pitched squeals but still we were okay, I thought. It only changed when I penetrated her. There was no excusing that. I was aware of the risk I was taking, but even then it seemed less. I didn’t realise I was going to lose everything. I thought I could get away with it. My face contorted like a gargoyle’s and she let out higher pitched squeals and we kept at it. I remember thinking I should stop for a good long while, but then I just gave up. It was a rotten, cheating thing to do and there was no excuse; which is probably why I did it again and again.

  I was reminded of this and Krapp’s Last Tape when I arrived at the police station. Sherlock had one on his desk, though more high tech than the one we used on stage. He seemed really agitated - more agitated than I’d ever seen him - and I realised he thought things were coming to an end. I wondered if this would be my last tape and who would play it if it was? Would it be read out in court as my last confession?

  Mole came into the room after a few moments and squinted at me. He shuffled some papers and waited. I didn’t know where to turn.

  ‘You said you had some news?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is it significant?’

  ‘We think so.’

  ‘Have you found her?’

  It was a bold gambit, going straight in there, but the feeling of being alive was still with me. I wanted to turn the tables. I wanted to be the one asking the questions. I wanted to be out of there. Every second away increased the chance that something would happen to her.

  ‘No. But we think we know where she is.’

  I know I should have
felt overjoyed at that news; I should have been down his throat with both feet; but I was dreading the she’s in your flat bit.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘The rug you found, we’ve found the owners.’

  ‘Who?’

  He paused. I don’t know what procedures the police have in place for telling you things; you’d think I’d have a right to know who the suspects were; but there are so many legal loopholes to get through, you have to be careful. Sherlock was very careful. ‘A Chinese couple on the top floor.’ I think he wanted to see how I would react. ‘You know them?’

  ‘There’s quite a few Chinese in the building.’

  He put two photos on the desk - mug shots, actually - of the couple I’d met in the basement. It’s strange how cruel, how mean, how guilty they now looked. Already I was seeing them as drug dealers and kidnappers.

  ‘They deny everything, of course. They say they don’t know how the clothes got there.’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I said at the outset that I’d always level with you; I’d always tell you the truth. I don’t like hiding things from people.’

  ‘I remember.’

  I was giving it my best shot.

  Mole remained unmoved. He sat there shuffling his papers, waiting for us to start. I wondered if he’d been primed before. I suspect all judges and police officers and solicitors are in it together. They probably bet on which way it will go.