Missing Dad 3

by J Ryan

  Chairs clatter as they both get up and hug me. Like they were waiting for me to say something before they did. Mum’s brown eyes look me over. ‘Apart from the usual bags under your eyes, you look better than I thought you would.’

  Grandad spoons chilli and rice onto a plate. As I catch the scent of it, my stomach roars with hunger. I put the mug of coffee in the microwave, sit down and shovel the food into my mouth. Mum looks pointedly at Grandad. He fishes in his pocket for his glasses and doesn’t find them. Then he looks at me. ‘How did it go? Did you and Becks manage to warn your friends?’

  ‘It was…different from what we thought it would be. But, yeah, the friends are fine.’

  Mum runs a hand through her mop of hair. ‘How do you mean, different?’

  Chewing slowly, I mumble, ‘Well, we didn’t know Paris so it took a bit of time to…find our way around?’

  ‘Did you go on the Metro?’

  ‘That was so crazy, with those rubber tyres.’

  Jack stares. ‘Rubber tyres? On the underground?’

  Grandad chips in. ‘It was a technology pioneered after World War Two when they were short of metal.’

  Mum retorts, ‘And it is so French! I mean, what about tyre wear and punctures?’

  Grandad retrieves his glasses from the hob. ‘It’s a great deal quieter…’

  ‘And I suppose there’s the ride comfort. Like Citroens and Renaults. But the downside must be the running costs…’

  ‘I’m not so sure about that. Tyres are cheaper to replace than wheels…’

  Jack nudges me and we slip quietly out of the kitchen. On the way upstairs, he whispers, ‘I’ve got this new computer game. The latest ‘Mafia Wars’? Wanna play?’

  ‘Thanks, bud, but I’ve had enough of Mafia wars for a bit.’

  ‘Did you get to play it in France, then?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ***

  Becks calls later in the evening. ‘Joe, I’ll have to pass on the film and the meal tomorrow.’

  ‘You alright?’

  ‘Fine, except…’ Her voice is engulfed by a humungous yawn. ‘… I’m so tired. I just want to sleep all day and then curl up with three hundred boxes of chocs.’

  ‘Save some of them for Monday, won’t you?’

  I switch off my mobile and wonder if yawns are catching over the phone. My jaw is locked in Open mode. Andy told me that once, he spent an entire weekend in bed. He wasn’t ill. He said he just felt like staying in bed. I wasn’t sure whether anyone would want to do that, specially not our best striker. But this Friday night, I crawl into bed and I only wake up twice before Monday morning. I remember drinking cups of tea, left by Mum and Grandad. And platefuls of bacon, egg and beans come my way at regular intervals. The rest of the time I just sleep, without a single dream of those thundering seas and that howling wind machine.

  ***

  As Jack and I get on the bus, Mick gives us a wave. He and his mates have saved seats for us again. ‘Thanks bud. How’s it going?’

  He gives me a broad grin. ‘We thrashed Bentings. And Andy wasn’t even back yet.’

  ‘Nice one.’

  We get off the bus and Jack swings away towards his form base. Mick turns to me. ‘How did you and Becks get on, helping out those mates? Sorted?’

  ‘Yeah…just about…’

  Trying to concentrate in Miss Davis’ maths lesson, all I can see is a storm-ridden sky and all I feel is very old. Nothing here seems to matter anymore. It’s like the important parts of my life are across the sea in France, except for Becks. I wonder if she feels like this or if it’s just me. I can’t get to ask her as she’s on an ICT trip to Bletchley Park, where they decoded enemy messages and invented the computer during WW2. Becks would have been one of their top boffins, she’s got a supercomputer for a brain. All I’m any good for is driving.

  My thoughts fast rewind to Monsieur’s Bentley and that first incredible blast round the test track for my chauffeur’s job interview. Then I revisit those terror-filled runs, pursued by Bertolini’s hyperactive trigger finger; and that last duel, where I knocked over the XKR and Leah Wilks nearly strangled me. My mind wanders to White Driver in Paris and how strong he seemed for someone whose face looked quite old.

  After you, Mademoiselle Bowman, Monsieur Grayling.

  That quiet voice in my brain gets heard at last. My chair crashes to the floor as I leap to my feet and tear out of the classroom. The exclamations of the teacher and the giggles of the class are completely drowned out by those words. I run the three miles home, throw myself into the house and race up the stairs to my room. Thank God Grandad’s not home, I couldn’t possibly talk to him about what I’m doing here.

  My hands shake as I reach into the back of my bottom drawer and take out the photo. Dad’s amused blue eyes gaze out at me. He’s a lot younger here but then so is Monsieur, who’s regarding him with watchful eyes and that half-smile. But the Dad I looked at without seeing only four days ago had aged in a way that Monsieur hasn’t. And now I don’t even know if he’s still alive. Helplessly, I stare at the image of Commander Julius Grayling. ‘I didn’t mean it to be like this, Dad.’ My phone must have been ringing for at least ten seconds before I manage to pick up.

  ‘Joe, I am with your father.’

  Chapter 15

  Memory

  Now that I’m out of school and back in the real world, booking my flights and planning my itinerary, my brain works with a curious, almost clinical accuracy. I text Mum and Grandad, saying that I’ve got to make this brief trip and please to trust me that it’s incredibly important for all of us. I text Becks simply that Dad’s been found and it isn’t looking good. And I know for absolutely certain, when I see Monsieur waiting for me outside the entrance of the Centre Anti-Poison, St Denis, Paris, that Dad is no longer alive.

  Monsieur hugs me gently, ‘I am so sorry, Joe.’

  ‘When did you realise, Monsieur?’

  ‘I had known for some time who your father was working for, Joe.’

  ‘They why did you send me home, knowing…?’

  His face is troubled. ‘Your father could not speak much, but one thing he made me promise, Joe. For your own safety, you were not to be told. Even with her gone, he feared for you…’

  ‘I wish he hadn’t…was there ever any chance that he might pull through?’

  ‘In the early hours of this morning there were complications…secondary effects of the poison.’ We go past the security guard and into the foyer. ‘You will want to say your goodbye?’

  ‘Yes.’ I’ve done something which felt important to me. I’m wearing Dad’s Balmain.

  We take the stairs. ‘He is on the fourth floor.’

  ‘The same one as Talia. I’m so glad her operation went well.’

  ‘In a few weeks she will be at L’Étoile.’

  We come to a halt outside a white door that says Privé. Monsieur hesitates, and there’s a look in his eyes that I can’t understand. ‘I am afraid your father is much changed during the ten years since I last saw him, Joe. You must be prepared for that.’

  But I could never have been prepared enough. This man, lying in the silent dignity of death, is so unlike the blond haired, laughing Dad in the photo. I stand still in shock, taking in the closed eyes and the thick white, crew cut hair. And I realise that I never got a glimpse of James the chauffeur’s eyes; they were always behind those reflective glasses. Nor could I ever see much of his hair colour beneath that white cap. Commander Julius Grayling’s hands lie at his side; the skin is bronzed and lined and no rings are on any of the fingers. I look at this father who I cried for, year after year. This husband whose wife never knew whether she should mourn or hope. A hand touches mine. ‘Joe – you don’t have to love a father you never really knew.’

  ‘You can love so
meone without knowing them, Monsieur.’ My arms go round my father and my eyes can’t see anymore.

  ***

  With the dark presence of Notre Dame carving a huge black hole in the night sky behind us, Monsieur and I lean on this old bridge over the Seine called Pont de l’île Saint-Denis; we stare out over the water. ‘I’m finding it hard, Monsieur. He was so changed.’

  ‘Yes. The effects of the poison…and a job like your father had takes its toll.’

  I remember that evening when the two masks confronted each other, lit by those myriads of tiny candles. ‘He defied her, didn’t he? To try and protect us.’

  ‘A final act of great courage and love, Joe.’

  The twinkling lights from the bateaux mouches look like a fairy tale as Monsieur’s quiet voice explains what was in my father’s head on the night I last saw him alive. ‘He could see that you hadn’t recognised him. And he didn’t want you to.’

  ‘He called me Monsieur Grayling. I only realised a few hours ago that meant it had to be him. I’ll always wonder if he was trying to reach out to me, or if he just didn’t know that we’d had to change our name. But why didn’t he want me to recognise him?’

  ‘He would not have wanted to put you in still greater danger. If he had broken his cover, you could all have been killed.’

  ***

  In the bright lighting of the hospital restaurant, I swig my Coke and watch Monsieur as he sips a café noir. ‘Monsieur, when you worked with Dad were you, like, secret agents? ’

  ‘There were hundreds of us worldwide, operating undercover in small cells, like the one your father commanded.’

  ‘And is it still going on?’

  Monsieur nods. ‘Covert operations are the only way to tackle the drugs trade and the terrorism it feeds.’

  ‘But why, when you and Dad could have had a quieter life?’

  ‘I think you know how much your father was attracted to danger, Joe.’

  ‘Mum said the same thing once…’

  ‘As for myself, I was younger at the time and I wanted to change the world. My wines business was useful as a cover…for a while.’

  Until he lost his wife and then, so nearly, his only son to that darkness. ‘What was Dad’s cover?’

  ‘He was adept at getting himself hired as a bodyguard to some of the most deadly names in the business.’

  I remember Dad’s letter, describing so casually his suspicious and dangerous employer. ‘Like her…’

  ‘Yes. And like me, he didn’t know what that evil could do to him and those he loved.’

  ‘It’s good that you were here with him, Monsieur.’ I swirl the remains of my Coke round in the bottle. ‘I wish I had been.’ The restaurant is emptying slowly. An old guy in a dressing gown, sitting in a wheelchair, is pushed out into the corridor by a woman who could be his daughter. ‘What are you going to do now, Monsieur?’

  He says quietly and matter-of-factly, ‘Firstly, I will help you bring your father home, Joe. You will have to decide how much to tell your family.’

  I watch the middle-aged woman as she murmurs gently over the old man’s shoulder. He nods and smiles and they move off towards the lift.

  ‘It’s not normally like this, is it Monsieur?’

  ‘It is some time since you have lived anything that could be called a normal life, Joe.’

  ‘I think I want them to know that Dad, like, died in action? And that he was very brave. Because all of that’s true, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, Joe. All of that is true.’

  ***

  It’s a grey, windy day as the little crowd of us gather at Dad’s memorial. The small country churchyard is peaceful, with just a faint thrum of traffic from the M5 a few miles away. Mum looks pale, but younger than she ever did during all those years when she didn’t know whether Dad was dead or alive. She’s in a black, tailored suit, with a red carnation in her lapel and her dark hair is curly and shiny. I reach for her hand and she squeezes mine.

  A small granite tablet lies amongst clusters of daisies. It says ‘Julius Alexander Grayling. Beloved husband and father.’ Mum walks slowly with Jack and Grandad, carrying a glossy-leaved plant in a metal pot. She has to step over mounds of flowers that were already there when we arrived; there must be at least fifty bouquets.

  Becks and I had got there first with Monsieur and she and I took a quick glance at some of the messages. One read: ‘Always, mate. The Highwayman.’ And another, ‘See y’later. Icebreaker.’ Then there was, ‘à tout à l’heure. Le Loup.’ And, ‘Aufwiedersehen mein Freund. Zeitgeist.’ We looked at Monsieur and I said quietly, as the others were getting out of the cars, ‘The network?’

  His grey eyes roamed across the sea of flowers. ‘They never forget their own. And they will keep a watchful eye on you and your family, Joe.’ He stepped forwards and laid a wreath on Dad’s grave. It had tiny white lilies and dark green leaves. There was an envelope amongst the leaves. I didn’t open it because it could have been personal, between him and Dad. Then he said farewell to Jack and Mum and Grandad and hugged Becks and me. ‘You must both come again soon to L’Étoile. Talia and Arnaud will be longing to see you.’

  Becks sounded a bit uncharacteristically wobbly as she whispered, ‘Try and fight us off, Monsieur!’ I remember thinking how awesomely smart she looked in the grey two-piece that she’d bought especially for today. It was the same colour as my Dad’s Balmain that I was wearing. I knew she’d thought of all that for me and Dad.

  Then another question popped into my head and I found myself following Monsieur out of the churchyard towards the black Bentley Continental. He turned, like he was expecting my footsteps. ‘Monsieur, that day when I came for the job interview…did you know Commander Julius Grayling was my father?’

  ‘I could not fail to recognise you, Joe, despite the change of name. You are exactly the young version of your father.’ He smiled, ‘In your driving skills as much as your appearance. But most of all in your courage and quick brain.’

  Embarrassed, I shoved my hands deep into the pockets of Dad’s jacket. My fingers touched the little plastic disc. I handed it to Monsieur, the pale sunlight glinting on its oyster coloured surface. ‘This is Dad’s suit I’m in…I found this tiddly wink thing in the pocket on the day I came for that job interview with you. What is it, Monsieur?’

  He took it gently between finger and thumb. ‘It is a gambling chip from the casino in Monaco, Joe. Your father and I played there, the first time he had some leave. He won quite a lot very quickly, I recall, and cashed in the chips he had left, except for one. This must be the chip he kept as a souvenir of that evening.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought of you as a gambling man, Monsieur.’

  He smiled. ‘You are quite correct, Joe. But your father could be very persuasive.’

  ‘Casino Royale, eh? Dad sounds more Bond than Bond.’

  ‘That is no exaggeration, Joe.’

  As he spoke, I remembered Dad’s letter, where he talked about going with a colleague to the casino where he’d taken Mum on their honeymoon. As soon as I got home, I tucked the chip in the drawer with Dad’s letter and photo. One day, I’ll show it to Mum and I’ll tell her what Monsieur said. But that could be a while, when Dad’s loss isn’t so hard to bear. Monsieur said when we were bringing Dad home that losing someone you love never gets less painful. You just learn to deal with the pain.

  ***

  The next day, Mum asks Becks and me to go back and tidy up a bit, in case of plastic flower wrappings flying all over the place. As we’re stuffing stray flower wrappings into a dustbin bag, I notice that the envelope on Monsieur’s wreath is actually addressed to me. ‘Look, Becks.’ I open the envelope and read the familiar handwriting:

  My dear Joe

  During his time in the network, your father achieved extraordinary fe
ats of bravery in the cause of justice, and this should forever be your consolation for his tragic death. As any of his trusted colleagues will tell you, he has saved countless lives from the tyranny of the drugs trade, and dealt many massive blows to the terrorist atrocities that it feeds. It can truly be said that Commander Julius Grayling was a hero of our time. We shall never let the sun go down on his memory.

  Come again soon to L’Étoile, and we will all ride the Camargue once more together. Give my love to Becks and your family.

  Your friend always,

  Christian

  Becks pushes a stray red curl behind her ear as she looks at the message. ‘I bet, if you asked him, Monsieur would tell you all about those ‘extraordinary feats’.’

  ‘I think, before it all went wrong, they went through a lot together.’

  She stoops to tidy Icebreaker’s bouquet. ‘So many mates…’

  ‘Y’know, it’s weird, but I feel like I know Dad quite well now, after everything you and me have been through.’ I tell her about the times when I thought I heard his voice in my head, telling me what to do.

  Becks says softly, ‘If you were that close to him, he won’t ever leave you, Joe.’

  ***

  I know that tomorrow is going to feel very different from yesterday and today; because Mum and I have been crazily brave for each other, and Monsieur told me how grief takes time to really hit you.

  But I hope I can always feel close to Dad whenever I talk to Monsieur. And I hope he’ll tell me more about their friendship and the adventures they had. And the memory I’ll keep of Dad forever will be us two standing together, holding hands on that old bridge above the river, as he waves to Monsieur on his white yacht far below. I hope…