Dark Father

by Cooper, James

  Every day he remembered the arm. Reaching for Jake through the trees. He pictured it stretching through the city, like a comedy prop, bending round corners, surging forward, looking for the boy it had touched. The boy it had forged a connection with. The boy it had no intention of letting go.

  When Frank’s life changed and his son was stolen, he had already been warned. But he had disregarded the darkness. And the darkness, as is so often the case, had come back…

  * * *

  They entered the house and all three of them automatically headed for the kitchen. Cindy filled the kettle. Frank sat down and unfolded the newspaper. Jake was looking through the patio doors at the garden.

  Frank saw him hold the doll up to his ear before turning to his mother.

  “Joey wants to see my den,” he said. “The one Daddy made for me out there.” He pointed through the glass.

  Cindy made to open the patio doors and Frank looked up from the paper.

  “I’m not sure−”

  Cindy stared at him. She looked exhausted. “Let’s get things back to normal, shall we? You’ll just be in the garden, won’t you, Jake?”

  The boy nodded and ran outside laughing. He was flying Joey through the air like a superhero. Frank smiled and looked apologetically at Cindy.

  Neither of them would ever see Jake again.

  The next half hour passed uneventfully. Frank read the newspaper. Cindy completed a cycle of washing and prepared a salad for tea. Neither of them can remember the point at which Jake’s customary racket outside ceased. They remember hearing him run and laugh and play; and then they don’t. That’s how quickly it fell apart.

  After thirty minutes, Cindy called in Jake for his tea. There was no response. She went to the patio door and called again. This time she noticed the silence.

  “Can you go down to that den of yours and drag Jake away from his new playmate?” she said. She looked untroubled, Frank remembered later. As though the idea of their son not being in the garden was utterly illogical.

  Frank placed the newspaper on the table and looked down the garden. He could see the den from where he was sitting. He and Jake had spent a whole morning making the damn thing out of canvas and wood. He stood up and looked a little closer. There was something lying near the entrance. Something that looked vaguely familiar.

  He walked to the patio doors and shouted his son’s name.

  “I just did that,” Cindy said, rolling her eyes. “Go on down and see what he’s up to.”

  Frank stepped out of the door and headed down the garden path towards the den.

  Weeks later he tried desperately to remember the point at which he realized Jake had disappeared, wanted to torture himself with the memory of that devastating lurch in reality, the moment at which the snow globe was shaken and the landscape of his life was changed. But his recollection of events threw up nothing. Just a dull imprint of another ordinary act of fatherhood, like countless others before it; of which this one would be the last.

  Frank stepped down the garden path and called Jake’s name again. When he heard nothing, not even a stifled giggle, he began to frown. And as he stepped closer to the den, the faded canvas already sagging inwards, he looked again at the objects lying near the entrance. Behind them the den was empty; his heart burst; he could feel a scream already lodged in his throat.

  He looked down and felt the axis of the world—his world—slip. He saw Joey’s black boots, lying in the grass. The last point of contact he would ever knowingly share with his son.

  CHAPTER 3: THE MOUTHS OF MEN

  Mack was sitting in the common room watching his daddies in white coats. There were five of them, all with exactly the same face. Some of them had tried to disguise themselves, but he knew who they were. He always knew. Occasionally, the disguise would crackle and shift, breaking up with static like a bad signal, and the face would slip from his daddy to someone else. A complete stranger, whose features, when they looked at him, were dull. But his daddy always came back. That’s how it worked. If he waited and closed his eyes and relaxed, his daddy would find him. It used to frighten him, but as he’d got older the idea had become more comforting. It reassured him to think that his daddies were never too far away.

  He adjusted himself in the seat, his frail body moving slowly. He looked at his hands and thought he could see deep ridges of bone beneath the skin. He didn’t know what the brown spots were patterning the back of his hand, but he didn’t like them. It looked like someone had been trying to leave him a coded message in brown ink. He squinted his eyes and tried to read it. Had one of his daddies done it while he’d been asleep? The scrawl of the writing looked familiar. He thought he recognized the word dig, but even that taken on its own terms was meaningless. Just another wretched riddle, the kind his daddy liked to confuse him with when he was pretending to be Dr. Faber. All those questions made him feel ill, and, when Dr. Faber tried to make him think about all the bad stuff he’d done, he struggled to find his daddy at all.

  Mack tilted his head towards the large window that opened onto the facility’s green expanse of landscaped garden. Even now he could see his daddy bending down, attending to one of the rosebushes. His face was soft, like putty, and Mack had to stare hard at him to make sure he kept him in place. Daddy’s eyes, Daddy’s nose, Daddy’s teeth. They were everywhere.

  He caught sight of a reflection in the window and vaguely wondered who the old man was staring back at him. He looked like a really old version of his daddy and Mack was quick to notice that his features didn’t flutter out of alignment once. He was wearing a skin-colored silicone mask over the bottom half of his face, covering the upper lip and the entirety of the jaw. In the middle of the mask there was a small opening through which Mack could see a hint of yellow teeth. He tried to remember if his daddy had ever worn such a thing, but his memory was unclear. His daddies would be no help either; whenever he asked them about the past, they always looked utterly blank. Their face would lose definition and change completely. Mack would close his eyes and scream until the daddies in white coats came back. Everything would be better after that.

  He turned his head back towards the common room and watched the patients whose faces he couldn’t see going about their early evening tasks. For many this simply meant pacing up and down the common room. For others it was a gentle game of drafts or canasta. Those that walked did so in a kind of slow delirium, trudging towards some dark inevitability that Mack could never quite see. When he stared at them, he was often appalled to see small tears in their mottled skin. The bones inside looked metallic and, if he concentrated, he could see steel filaments poking through the hosts’ flesh, straining to keep them alive. The walkers terrified him. They had from the moment he’d arrived. The facility had the capacity to do terrible things, and he felt a chill whenever he watched them shuffle by.

  He glanced towards the door and saw his daddy dressed up as Dr. Faber accompanying a gentleman whose face was still in flux. Mack watched them approach, intrigued. The man with Dr. Faber looked a little like Daddy, but there was something about the evolution of his features that Mack didn’t like. They didn’t seem to sit right on his skull, sliding over the bone and tilting between something known and something not.

  As they drew near, Mack felt a sudden panic attach itself to him. The man’s face was taking shape. It was Daddy after all. A version of him he had tried hard to forget.

  Dr. Faber stopped at his chair and looked down, smiling.

  “Good evening, Mack. How are you feeling?”

  Mack said nothing. He was staring at the daddy he didn’t like. His skin was hot; he was surprised to find he was close to despair.

  Dr. Faber turned to his companion and Mack did too. He thought he saw a sickness in the man’s eyes. “This is−”

  Mack interrupted, feeling proud that he had the courage to assume some degree of control.

  “I know my own father when I see him,” he said, averting his gaze.

  Dr. Faber
shook his head. “No, Mack, this is Dr. Kincaid. He’s come to talk with you. He wants you to tell him everything you can about your illness. We think he might be able to help.”

  Mack stared at Dr. Kincaid and saw something in the man’s swirling face that set his hands trembling. He looked again and the force of what he glimpsed made him blanch. He suddenly remembered. The memory of it was so strong, so vivid, he could barely believe he had failed to notice it before. This was what Dark Daddy looked like, he realized, the one Daddy threatened him with when he’d done something bad, the one who would occasionally appropriate his father’s face and turn it into something grotesque, where all the features were buckled slightly, as though the whole face had been rotated to the left.

  Do I have to call Dark Daddy? his father would say, showing a glimpse of the thing’s distorted face. I think I can hear him on the stairs…

  God, he had been petrified. He remembered lying in bed, thinking he had two daddies, the one who he saw every day of the week, and the one who occupied the cracks in the wall.

  This was his face, Mack thought. This is what he looked like exactly. And this time, when he looked at Dr. Kincaid, it was Dark Daddy that stared back, his face fully formed. Come to drag his wayward child back home.

  SESSION #F001/624

  Monday 5th September, 18:00PM

  Attending Physicians: Dr. Kincaid, Dr. Faber.

  Faber: Good evening, Mack. I’m glad you agreed to join us. You seemed a little uncomfortable earlier in the common room. Do you know why?

  [Pause]

  Mack: Dark Daddy made me feel scared. His face looked funny.

  Faber: What did you see?

  Mack: A shadow. It was moving towards me. Every time the light hit it I could see Dark Daddy. He was waiting to come out.

  Kincaid: Look at me now, Mack, and tell me what you see.

  [Pause]

  Mack: I see Daddy, of course.

  Kincaid: Do I seem angry or upset?

  Mack: No. You look like always.

  Kincaid: And who’s this?

  [Points to Dr. Faber]

  Mack: Daddy.

  Kincaid: You realize there can’t be two daddies in the room, Mack. It’s impossible.

  Mack: Sometimes it gets confusing. It’s been like that for a long time now.

  [Pause]

  Kincaid: Do you know what Fregoli syndrome is, Mack?

  Mack: Dr. Faber tried to explain it to me once. He said it’s what makes Daddy come.

  Kincaid: Sort of. It’s a delusional misidentification syndrome. There are lots of them. The one you have makes you think that everyone you see is your father. Sometimes people’s faces seem to change. Sometimes you think he’s in disguise. But he’s always there, isn’t he, your daddy? He’s everywhere.

  Mack: Daddy comes when I need him. That’s what daddies do.

  Faber: Even Dark Daddy?

  [Pause]

  Mack: That’s my own fault. I shouldn’t ever be bad. Then Daddy wouldn’t have to get cross.

  Faber: Does he get angry very often?

  Mack: Not really. Just when I can’t remember things and my head feels full. Then I usually get confused and do stupid things.

  Faber: Can you remember a time when Daddy was really nice to you?

  Mack: Course I can.

  Faber: What happened?

  Mack: He saved me, didn’t he?

  Faber: From what?

  Mack: From the light that creeps beneath the door…

  [Pause]

  Kincaid: I’m not sure I understand…

  Mack: The man was shining his light, looking for me. Daddy caught him and made him go away.

  Kincaid: I’m a little confused. You initially said he saved you from the light…Now you’ve changed it slightly. Did your daddy protect you from a man?

  Mack: Yes…but it was mostly the light. That’s what I remember.

  Kincaid: Why do you think that is?

  Mack: Because it was the light that scared me. I knew it would show me something bad.

  Faber: Can you remember how it made you feel?

  Mack: Course I can. It made me feel sick. I could see it underneath the door, moving around like an eye. It was yellow and sickly and I remember thinking that if I reached down and touched it, it would be hot.

  Faber: How old were you when this happened?

  Mack: I don’t remember.

  Faber: How old are you now?

  Mack: Nine, I think. Yes, nine, because Daddy came to my party and sang Happy Birthday to me.

  Faber: Look at your hands, Mack. And your arms. What do you see?

  Mack: I see someone else’s hands where mine should be. They look old.

  Faber: They are old, Mack. They’re sixty-three. The exact same age as you.

  Mack: That can’t be right. That’s even older than Daddy! [Laughs]

  Faber: Your illness affects the way you see things. It’s made your awareness of reality unstable. You see other people as your father. And your own identity has become so disengaged, you still think of yourself as the small boy you once were. Desperate to please Daddy.

  [Pause]

  Mack: Don’t you want to please your daddy?

  [Pause]

  Faber: Not in quite the same way. Not like you.

  Mack: I don’t understand.

  Kincaid: The person you grew up to be won’t let you forget your childhood, Mack. That little boy and the life you think you’re remembering, they’re not real. They don’t exist. I don’t think they ever did.

  [Pause]

  Mack: When can we play?

  Kincaid: Excuse me?

  Mack: You promised you’d play with me after tea. You said we could play football in the park. Don’t you remember?

  Kincaid: Yes, of course. We’ll play soon, I promise.

  [Pause]

  Faber: Does Daddy always keep his promises, Mack?

  Mack: Not all the time. Sometimes he’s too busy. He works a lot and doesn’t come home.

  Faber: How does that make you feel?

  Mack: It used to make me feel sad, but now it makes me feel happy. There’s no more shouting, and I stay up late with Mommy watching scary films on TV.

  Faber: Don’t you miss Daddy when he’s away?

  Mack: Course I do. It’s just better when Mommy and Daddy aren’t fighting.

  Kincaid: Tell me a little about your mommy.

  [Pause]

  Mack: She loves Daddy very much.

  Kincaid: What does she look like?

  Mack: She has black hair and blue eyes.

  Kincaid: Are you sure?

  Mack: Yes.

  Kincaid: Black hair and blue eyes…just like your father.

  Mack: She loves Daddy very much. We both do.

  Faber: When was the last time you saw Mommy?

  Mack: [Laughs] A few minutes ago. She was making a packed lunch for me and Daddy to take to the park.

  Faber: Can you remember what she said to you?

  Mack: She told me to hold Daddy’s hand when crossing the road, which is silly.

  Faber: Why?

  Mack: Because I always hold Daddy’s hand.

  Faber: To make you feel safe?

  [Pause]

  Mack: So he never leaves me behind when I look away.

  CHAPTER 4: BREATHE

  Jimmy Hopewell hobbled back towards the house, his face warped like one of the plasticine men Billy sometimes made just so he could bash in their heads. When he touched the left side of his skull, he felt a dent in his temple that made him think of the tormented man in that painting, the one with the stretched, elongated head, captured forever in a silent scream, as his reality turned inside out.

  He raised a hand to the seeping wound in his face and spat out a string of barely coherent curses. He could feel cold air blowing into the empty socket of his left eye and he wondered what he’d touch if he inserted his finger; considered with a kind of juvenile detachment whether it would now travel all the way to his brain.r />
  He stumbled back into the house and closed the door behind him. At the end of the hallway, illuminated by the flickering light, was the entrance to the kitchen. It looked like someone had spilled a can of dark red paint across the threshold. The linoleum was smeared with the stuff and it startled him to see so much of his own blood in a room where he had cooked with his wife, eaten dinner with his family, laughed with his friends. He could also see exactly where he had lain unconscious, a body-shaped island of largely unbloodied linoleum that existed like an outline of his past self, when he had still been in possession of his left eye, and a wife. And a son.

  He limped down the hallway, his feet making hollow clops on the parquet flooring, each footfall reminding him how much he had lost. As he approached the kitchen the flickering light taunted him, showing him snatches of the horror it had bore witness to, forcing him to replay it in his mind. He saw the silver steak mallet by one of the stools, the head seamed with blood and jet-black hair. He saw Kate’s silver watch, the one he had picked out for her one Christmas in a boutique off Oxford Street, now thrown halfway across the floor, the strap damaged, the glass face a perfect red oval. And worst of all—more harrowing than even Jimmy was prepared to admit—he saw the wet ruin of his own displaced eye, the white ball almost crimped flat, the severed optic nerves splayed in the trailing gore.

  Jimmy turned away, a little too quickly, and felt the emptiness in his left socket throb.

  “Fuck.” He propped himself against the door and felt a wave of nausea wash over him. The empty socket was aching, as if something in there was desperately trying to atone for the lost eye, the electrical impulses still firing in his brain, straining to remember how to see. He tried to recall the sequence of events that had led to the injury, but his memory was unclear, revealing only a dizzying montage of himself and Kate swinging wildly at each other and rolling on the floor. He thought for a moment that he could remember Kate’s long, polished nails, on fingers that he had once kissed and sucked and stroked, reaching towards his eyes… But the image was fleeting and felt more like the product of something half-hidden in a nightmare, drawing him towards a false memory rather than something definitive, where, like the man in the painting, reality folded in on itself and he was lost in an endless scream.