‘You doin’ ma job for me again, man?’
‘I was just trying to help.’
‘You’re gonna get in the way.’
There was a brush standing against the wall by the door. It had a metal handle. I picked it up and brought it over. It was cold to the touch. ‘Here, let me.’
He looked up at me. ‘I said you was gonna get in the way.’
‘I heard.’
I took the metallic end and arrowed it into his head. At first, I thought I’d missed. He stood there, swaying in the smoky air like he was before. Then his hands clutched his temple and he roared with pain. He swore at me, then came lumbering blindly towards me like a great black bear.
I aimed it again and caught him in the same place. This time I knew the blow was hard. I felt the impact of metal on bone and saw the head explode with blood. I thought that would stop me; I thought I’d become me again and my limbs would freeze. But the anger didn’t abate. He fell to the floor amongst the shards of glass and I kept bringing the metal head down. At first, he tried to grapple with it, tried to hold on to the end and wrestle with me, but as each successive blow struck home, the arm movements weakened and so did his body. To my shame, I kept beating and beating him afterwards. When I sat down on one of the boxes and looked at him, it seemed as though I had punctured his skull. I’ve played stage killers in my time, and imagined myself in wild, vengeful dramas in my dreams, but I never thought I’d be one. But then, do you ever think you’ll become something till you are? Does it ever sink in?
It was then I heard the tip tapping sound. At first it didn’t register. I thought it was the sound of the brush on the skull, but then the spell broke and I realised I’d heard it before. It was the sound of the lift coming down. I rushed to the door and turned off the lights. I was alone in the dark with his body. I got out my phone and shone the light at his skull. I’d never seen death so close. I’d never seen the end of things. Panic flared inside me. He should have taken his own advice: hear nothing, see nothing, say nothing. It was the only way to live.
I grabbed his hands. I knew what I had to do. I had to make him disappear. I wasn’t strong enough to carry him, but I knew where I could take him. I dragged him along the floor to the back of the room. When I got to the passage, I stopped. The cold, damp air of the pump room rushed up to greet us. I stared into the darkness, then felt for the steps. I couldn’t shine my light in front so the going was slow. I felt the tendrils of cold on my neck. The slop and drip of water echoed behind me and the chains sounded louder than ever. I glimpsed the shadows of the metallic tanks and imagined darker shapes behind them coming out to get me: vengeful ones punishing me for the evil I’d done.
My feet hit the water. His body seemed more and more like an anchor. I dragged him across the floor till I got to the middle chamber on the far side. The smell of the water made me gag. It wasn’t just brackish this time. It was the smell of effluent. Maybe one of the drainage pipes had burst. I tried to lift him up. He seemed twice my weight. I leant him against the concrete and sat him up. His head rested against his chest. There was a part of me that wondered whether he was actually dead; maybe he was just unconscious. I didn’t think he was. I didn’t feel a heartbeat.
Using the wall as leverage I managed to get him up against the window. I turned him round, then pushed his head through. He flopped over the side like a whale. The rest was easier. I lifted his feet and pushed him the whole way. He slipped into the water, face down. I shone my light and could barely make him out under the dark surface. The chains had stopped rattling overhead. I threw my guts up. It slopped into the brackish water and dissolved.
I don’t know what I thought when I got out of the pump room. I was drained with sickness. Whoever used the lift hadn’t come down. I put the lights back on and placed boxes over where the blood was. I left the glasses and the ashtrays of smack where they were. Maybe the police would think there had been an argument. The image of his body floating in the water kept resurfacing. I ran a cloth of turpentine down the brush and took it with me, then made my way to the bin room and out of the double doors at the back.
The street cleaner had long gone. I left the doors open and smelled the cool, midnight air. They’d have come this way. They’d killed him and left him after an argument over money. I noticed a sheet of paper on the ramp and stopped to pick it up. It was lucky I did. I saw the handprints staring back at me. She must have dropped it when I held her.
I made my way round the building, stared at the litter blowing across the car park and, for the last time, entered the Sears building by the main entrance.
When I got to the flat and knocked, it was gone half past one.
She opened the door. She’d been crying. ‘Well?’
I paused. ‘Well,’ I said. ‘I’ve sorted it out.’
35
I couldn’t sleep that night. I couldn’t banish the image of him face down in the water. It seemed such an ignoble end, slung in a pit like that. I kept wanting to go back and turn him, let him see the glimpse of the ceiling rather than the depths of the pool. It took a while for me to accept the fact he was dead and it didn’t matter.
When the sun came up and shone through the blinds, part of me was still down there with him. I wondered how long it would be before someone discovered something was wrong. How long before they found him? I heard my daughter in the playroom and the soft patter of her feet. There was so much to explain and no way of doing it.
She had the pink fairy nightie on. I told her she needed a bath. She was dirty. She smiled at me like she didn’t need one and ran out of the room. I went into the bathroom and ran the taps. I watched the water swirl round and thought of him. I hadn’t told Rashelle what I’d done.
‘Tell me the truth.’
‘I am telling you the truth.’
I couldn’t.
I took my daughter’s nightie off and frogmarched her into the bathroom. She tried to run away again - maybe she knew what was happening - but I picked her up and dunked her in. ‘Get yourself clean. We’re going to see Mum.’
She threw some bubbles at me. ‘You said that yesterday.’
‘I know. But yesterday was different.’
My daughter is very forgiving. She doesn’t bear grudges. Have I mentioned that to you before? It really is a fine quality.
I watched her playing in the bath, picking up the plastic bottles and soaps and staring into the miniature mirror. I wondered what she made of herself. Did she know who she was, or would that come later in the fountainhead of adolescence? I can remember covering a mirror with bubbles and doing just what she was doing. I can remember a lot of things if I think about it, but I can’t remember where it all went wrong. I think when my daughter is older, she will look back and blame me for all that went wrong. I say that without a trace of self-pity. What I want to say to her is that I didn’t intend it. I didn’t intend it at all.
I stared at the showerhead and the two taps and thought of other children in other baths. Rashelle came in and looked at me. She hadn’t slept, either. More and more she was starting to look like my ex-wife. I got some shampoo out and washed my daughter’s hair. She closed her eyes and her skull felt delicate in my hands. She had fine hair and I washed the suds out with one of the empty, plastic bottles. She was singing to herself. I hoped she was happy. She was going to see her mum.
I left the bathroom and stared out of Rashelle’s living room window. It was a beautiful day. I can remember it clearly. September is always beautiful. The sun comes out like a contrary maid. She gives us a last golden hurrah and sets behind the harvest fields, a glimmer of what could have been.
My daughter was still in the bath. She liked a little time after her hair was washed. I didn’t begrudge her that. Time was the only thing you had. Rashelle was talking to her. My daughter didn’t sound scared of her; they sounded like they were getting on. I realised then that life is about who you believe as much as what you believe. Even what you believe is shaped by who
you’ve heard it from - this wise man or that wise man. It could very well have been that Rashelle was responsible for her daughter’s death, but I had only her husband’s legal counsel to go on, and that wasn’t exactly impartial. True, I also had the mark on my daughter’s arm, but there was no way of verifying that. Children bruise very easily even if Rashelle had just grabbed her. There was a whole lot of other stuff that pointed to her innocence.
I don’t really trust anybody and that’s because I don’t really trust myself. I got married knowing I fancied other women and that, what I signed up to, I was incapable of giving; I had a child knowing I wasn’t going to be the best father in the world and took on roles I knew I was unsuitable for, and lied to my mother about the things I was up to, because I couldn’t face the truth. I have lied all my life, maybe no more or less than any other man or woman, but they’ve brought terrible hurt to everyone around me.
I believed Rashelle like I believed my wife at the end. When something terrible has happened, there’s no point covering any more. It’s time for honesty. I thought I loved my daughter more than I loved myself, but I realise I didn’t. There was the same self-serving coward beneath it all. I hadn’t changed. You must believe me when I say I wanted what was best for her: I didn’t want her to suffer or fall behind at school, or think her mum and dad didn’t love her despite all our ridiculous differences. On that, we were both agreed. She gave me life where before there was none. When I washed her hair, I didn’t need to think about what it takes to end a life; I already knew. Killing the cleaner made me see that. There are those men who have killed their children to spite their partners, or taken them with them in some heathen sacrifice, because they couldn’t bear to go alone; there are those who have killed them in anger and desperation because they couldn’t cope. Don’t tell me they never cared for them. Just think of the children and hope to God yours learn to forgive, and even be grateful for the happiness you gave.
My daughter came out swaddled in towels. Herod never came for her that day. She seemed happy enough. I told her to get dressed. We were going.
I was in the playroom with her. I watched Rashelle pick out some clothes and fold them on the bed.
‘Can’t I wear my fairy costume?’
‘Not today.’
‘Why not?’
‘People will look at you.’
She looked at the clothes. ‘I don’t want to wear those.’
‘You have to.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I said so.’
She flashed a look at Rashelle to see if she could drive a wedge between us, but Rashelle wasn’t having it. ‘My little girl used to wear them.’
‘Why doesn’t she now?’
‘They don’t fit her any more.’
‘They don’t fit me.’
It was a good response. Nearly six and talking like that? What hope was there?
Rashelle got out a red coat for her. It was the Little Red Riding one. She did up the buttons and pulled the hood up. Instantly, my daughter vanished.
‘Well?’ she said.
‘Well,’ I said.
‘What if someone recognises her?’
‘They won’t.’
‘What if they do?’
‘Just keep walking.’
There is a fine line between being an accessory to a crime and actually committing one. Rashelle was standing on it right then. Incrementally, she’d increased her involvement till the only way out was to cross it. That’s what happens when you begin a lie. You think you’ve everything under control. But then the questions start and you start having to take greater risks and tell bigger lies to cover for them, and quickly the whole thing takes on a life of its own till you’re this tiny thing at the centre of a huge maelstrom and it’s sucking everything into its path. Eventually, it consumes you. It consumed Rashelle. She could barely get my little girl out the door.
She didn’t look like my little girl any more. She looked like a stranger’s little girl. I gave her a kiss and told her I loved her. I didn’t want to dwell on it too much; it would have made it impossible.
‘Where are you going?’
I wish she hadn’t said that. I wish she hadn’t put me on the spot.
‘I’m going to get our things ready. You go with Auntie and do as she says and I’ll be down in a minute.’
‘Are we going on holiday?’
I paused. How many times had she said that? How many times have I let her down? What was I meant to say? The maelstrom was as tall as the sky. ‘Yes, darling.’
I watched them go down the corridor to the lift. You won’t believe how difficult that was.
I heard the ring and the lift doors opening. Now you see me, now you don’t. I counted the twelve long seconds to the bottom.
Maybe there’s something to be said for waiting in the wings. You get to see it all without suffering the consequences. There is life after the play has ended. I would take that now. I would take anything. I took the stairs down to the lobby. I didn’t bother trying to break my record. Who would remember it? I left the Sears building and walked out into bright sunshine. I felt a weight had been taken off me. I looked at the faces of the people who passed me to see if they could see it, too. They smiled at me. I stopped by the window of a department store and saw a middle-aged man staring back at me. He was greying and balding and on the thinnish side, though nothing that a good meal wouldn’t fix. He mimicked every move I made. He frowned, smiled, stuck his tongue out at me. If I had to describe him to you I would say he looked relieved, though I’m sure you wouldn’t believe it.
He went to the city centre gardens and saw her up ahead. She was in a red coat holding a balloon in one hand and an ice cream in the other. The woman she was with was on the phone. He knew who she was ringing. He looked up to see if there were any clouds in the sky and there weren’t. Today it was clear like a blue sea. He sat on a bench and waited. There were shouts from children and the whiz of skateboards and the laughter of pregnant mothers cooing by prams. Life was going on.
After a few minutes, he saw them coming towards her. They were rushing through the crowd. For a second, he wanted to intervene. He wanted to sweep her away and take her with him the way they’d planned. She was looking round her at all the things he’d planned on showing her and all the places he’d planned on taking her. Maybe she was looking for him. The world was a bit weird but she’d get used to it. She’d get used to being without him.
36
I sat on the other side of the desk from Sherlock. He’d pieced it all together, of course; he didn’t need my testimony. He had phone conversations, CCTV images, circumstantial evidence, and now a body. He didn’t baulk at all the things I told him. I suppose he was trying to keep an open mind. That is the very hardest thing to do. At the end, he turned off the tape recorder and looked at me. I’ve been there many times in my life, waiting for judgement, but now wasn’t one. He didn’t even ask why. There are some things you just can’t explain.
I was led away to face the obloquy and hostility of all those who couldn’t keep an open mind, who rushed to judgement on my dead wife’s, my dear daughter’s, and the poor cleaner’s part. I was branded love cheat, murderer, molester and liar, the very nomenclature of evil, yet I recognised none of it but the last. I had my day, my five minutes in the spotlight, and it burned brighter than a star, and some said I put on a bravura performance, and some also said it was a tragedy, but most were glad to see me locked away.
And you may also feel the same, and I couldn’t really blame you. But maybe some of you have been listening to what I’ve been saying and understood me, and to those I leave my little girl, and all little girls like her, in your safe keeping.
About the Author
Following an induced labour some time in the 1960s (due date: Halloween night), Paul Southern had his subscription to a normal life revoked by itinerant parents, who moved from city to city. He lived in Liverpool, Belfast, London and Leeds, then escaped to university,
where he nearly died of a brain haemorrhage. After an unexpected recovery, he formed an underground indie group (Sexus). Made immediate plans to become rich and famous, but ended up in Manchester. Shared a house with mice, cockroaches, and slugs; shared the street with criminals. Five years later, hit the big time with a Warners record deal. Concerts at Shepherd’s Bush Empire, Melody Maker front cover, Smash Hits Single of the Week, Radio 1 and EastEnders. Mixed with the really rich and famous. Then mixed with lawyers. Ended up back in Manchester, broke.
He got a PhD in English (he is the world's leading authority on Tennyson's stage plays), then wrote his first novel, The Craze, based on his experiences of the Muslim community. Immediately nominated to the Arena X Club (the name Arena magazine gave to a select group of creative, UK-based men responsible for shaping the way their readers lived and enjoyed their lives). Wrote a second book, Brown Boys in Chocolate, which predicted the London bombings. Fell foul of the censors and subsequently gagged by the press. Got ITV interested in a story on honour killings and inter-racial marriages and was commissioned to write a screenplay (Pariah) based on his life story. ITV balked at the content. Subsequently, trod the wasteland before finding the grail again: a book deal with children's publisher, Chicken House. Killing Sound, a YA horror set on the London Underground, was published by them in September 2014.
Daddy Dearest is his fourth book.
Paul Southern’s personal website is www.paulsouthern.org and he can occasionally be found on Twitter @psouthernauthor.
Also by Paul Southern
The Craze
Brown Boys in Chocolate
Killing Sound
Reviews
The Craze
'a taut example of Manchester noir and a worthy look at the shady interactions between white, black and Asian culture in the crime capital of England.'
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