Saving Daisy

by Phil Earle

  I welcomed the sit-down to be honest, as the racing of my heart had started my legs shaking. I was on the edge of the fear now and hadn’t a clue how to deal with it with anyone else around, especially Dad.

  ‘I gave a lot of thought to what we could come and watch today,’ he crowed, obviously proud of what he was about to unveil. ‘But none of the new releases were really cutting it. In fact I decided there was only one film that was good enough for you today, so here it is.’

  He lifted his head to the shadows at the back of the auditorium and waved quickly, before sitting next to me, his hand snaking into mine.

  ‘I’m so sorry I’ve let you down,’ he whispered, although I had no idea why. After all, we had the whole place to ourselves. ‘I hope this begins to show you that I want to put everything right.’

  I had no time to answer before the last of the lights disappeared, followed by a raucous fanfare as the studio logo swam into view. The second I saw the opening credit, I knew what he’d done, and the sheer kindness of it was enough for the fear to engulf me.

  Chapter 14

  There were many films that I really loved, but there was definitely only one that did the job whatever mood I was in. And that was The Shawshank Redemption.

  Dad knew it too.

  ‘I’ve been wanting to do this for ages, hire the whole place just for us. But it felt like if we were going to do it, it had to be the right film. So I had a word with the manager and he managed to track down a print. We got it imported from the States. Cost a few quid, but it was worth it, wasn’t it?’

  I heard the words but wished I hadn’t.

  It was so much more than I deserved.

  For weeks I’d acted like a cow towards him: ignored and shouted at him, hid away and cut myself, thrown myself at one of my teachers, for God’s sake.

  I deserved to be screamed at, to be taken in hand and grounded. Not treated like his princess.

  The seat turned into a radiator, forcing me to my feet too quickly, which led me to stumble across Dad’s lap. He steadied me by grabbing my arm and I winced, backing away as soon as I found my balance.

  I mumbled something, my brain failing to link up with my mouth. I had to get out of there, to somewhere I could breathe.

  I struggled towards the aisle, stumbling around the chairs, Dad’s voice bouncing off the walls around me.

  ‘Daisy? Daisy? Where are you going?’

  I didn’t answer, just ploughed through the doors and into the corridor, searching for the exit in a building that I knew like the back of my hand.

  The doors crashed behind me and Dad tore around the corner, relief on his face as he saw me, slumped against the wall.

  I turned away from him and flinched as his hands made contact with my back. He tried again, his body closer this time, and as he touched me, he made a gentle shushing sound, the sound that Hobson had made before kissing me.

  My arm flung out instinctively, catching him bluntly on the shoulder, knocking him off balance.

  ‘Don’t touch me!’ I yelled, surprised by the ferocity of my words. Then I repeated myself, quieter, but with the same desperation. ‘Please, don’t touch me. I can’t do this. I can’t.’

  Dad was rooted to the spot. Too shocked, too scared to step closer. ‘Can’t do what, Daisy? Can’t do what?’

  ‘Any of this!’ I gestured wildly at the walls.

  ‘This what?’ He was baffled, baffled and scared as he searched the ceiling for anything that would explain what I meant.

  ‘You being nice to me. The film, the new camera, the apologies. You should be giving it to someone who deserves it, not me.’

  He was trying frantically to catch and hold my gaze, but I wouldn’t let him, no matter how hard he pleaded.

  ‘Don’t be silly, Dais. Of course you deserve it. You deserve all this and more! And who on earth am I going to give this to if not you?’

  My mind was scrambling, incapable of taking any sense from his words. He had to hear the truth and he had to hear it now.

  ‘You should be giving it to Mum, shouldn’t you? You should’ve been giving all this to Mum for the last fourteen years.’

  This silenced him for a moment, his mouth open as the words struggled to form on his lips.

  ‘But she’s gone, Daisy. I’d love us to be doing this all together, but I can’t, because …’

  ‘Because I killed her!’ I cried, spitting the words out like poison. ‘That’s why she’s not here. Because I took her away, that’s why things are so screwed up.’

  ‘What are you talking about? You’re not making any sense.’

  ‘I found the report, Dad, in the loft. The one from the hospital. It told me what I did, the trouble I caused and what it did to her. That’s why you won’t talk to me about her, isn’t it? Because you blame me for what happened.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Stop PROTECTING me. That’s why I’m in this mess now. That’s why everything else has gone to pot.’

  He took a single step forward, worry consuming him. ‘Everything else, Daisy? What’s everything else?’

  I wished I could cram the words back into my mouth and make them fall out in a different order. But it was too late, and I was too tired, too anxious to think of a way to backtrack. So I said nothing.

  He repeated himself.

  ‘Did you hear me, Daisy? What’s everything else?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. It’s too late.’

  ‘Of course it matters. All that stuff you just said to me. It’s nonsense. All of it. You didn’t kill Mum. What happened was an accident. It wasn’t your fault. And if I can’t talk to you about it that’s not because of you, that’s down to me. If anything, you being around helps me. You keep me sane. Do you understand me?’

  I couldn’t nod. He was kidding himself, protecting me as always.

  ‘But I need to know what’s going on. Why you’re sweating like you are. What it is that’s making you feel like this. Because whatever it is, we can deal with it together.’

  My eyes closed as he spoke, hands covering my ears, to stop his words reaching my brain.

  Whatever he said, I couldn’t allow myself to believe it. Too much had gone on to allow him to be right. Everything that had happened was down to me.

  His muffled words fought their way through my hands and I sensed him move closer. I pushed my palms harder to my ears and turned my shoulder against him, but it wasn’t enough to put him off.

  I felt his touch on my left arm as he wheeled me back towards him. But as his other hand made contact with my right arm, landing directly on top of my latest cut, I flinched, wrestling myself away instinctively.

  I knew I’d given the game away. Knew it before I dared even open my eyes. The contact had been enough to knock the cut open and within seconds the blood had fought its way past the plaster, seeping through the fabric of his shirt.

  Dad’s face crumbled as he watched the pattern emerge on my arm.

  ‘What’s going on, Daisy? You’re bleeding.’ His calm voice was at odds with his expression.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ I bluffed. ‘I had an accident this morning. Banged myself on a nail when I was rushing out of the house.’

  His hands flew to my arm, but I couldn’t allow him to touch me, to see the extent of things, so I backed further away, until there was no more corridor left to play with.

  ‘Let me see,’ he whispered, his voice firm.

  ‘It’s nothing, Dad. It’ll stop in a minute.’

  ‘Well, if it’s nothing, then let me see!’

  ‘There’s no need. Really, it’s –’

  ‘Daisy, you’re scaring me!’ he bellowed, jolting us both in surprise. ‘You’re sweating like you’ve got flu, you’re ridiculously jumpy, and you’re bleeding. Now if that nail was rusty it could be infected, so let me have a look!’

  I tried to shuffle r
ound him, but was trapped, and before I could stop him he was easing the shirtsleeve up my forearm, revealing my secret in all its hideous glory.

  He aged a decade in that moment, as the little girl he thought he knew turned into someone he didn’t understand. There was shock on his face, and anger, and he had no option but to aim it at me.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ he cried, eyes flitting from my arm to my face. ‘What on earth have you done?’ He rested my arm gently in his palm, the heat of his touch soothing the throbbing slightly. ‘Who’s done this to you? What happened?’

  ‘Nobody did it to me.’ I didn’t know what else to say.

  ‘Well, of course they did! You can’t have done this on a nail. I mean look at it, there’s a dozen cuts here. Who’s done this? Was it a lad? Someone at school?’

  ‘No, it’s not like that, I promise.’

  ‘Don’t you DARE protect them. I want to know their name, and I want to know it now.’

  ‘There’s no names to tell, Dad. I promise.’

  ‘Then how did it happen? There’s not just one cut here. They’re all over your bloody arm.’

  ‘I did it, all right? It was me. I did it. I cut myself.’

  ‘Don’t be so ridiculous.’ He was angry now, the volume in his voice reaching levels I’d never heard before. ‘You don’t just go around cutting yourself like this. Now tell me the truth!’

  He was gripping my arm. Unintentionally, but with enough force to start the blood running off it and on to his fingers.

  ‘I am telling you the truth. It was me who did it. I’ve been doing it for months. In my room.’

  He took a small step back in horror, like I was contagious.

  ‘Why are you saying this? Why would you do something like that?’

  ‘I didn’t want to do it. But I didn’t know what else to do. I’ve been having these attacks, these panic attacks, and sometimes they take over so much that it’s the only way that I can stop them.’

  ‘By cutting yourself?’ he yelled, his face incredulous. ‘You actually did it on purpose?’

  ‘I didn’t want to. I just didn’t know what else to do.’

  ‘What sort of excuse is that?’ The vein on his forehead was throbbing so hard I couldn’t take my eyes off it. ‘You should’ve come to me!’ The words were catching in his throat. ‘Why didn’t you come to me?’

  ‘I wanted to, honest, but I didn’t know how to tell you. I didn’t want you to be mad at –’

  ‘Mad at you? Mad at you? Don’t you think I would’ve been calmer if you’d told me and let me help, rather than finding out in the middle of a sodding cinema?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I took a step towards him, only for him to back away, hands held up in front of him, another barrier rising up between us. ‘I’m so sorry. It’s all my fault, all of it.’

  ‘I just can’t believe you’ve been doing this to yourself, for months, and I’ve not even noticed. Does anyone else know?’

  Hobson flashed into my mind, his threats confusing me, the chance of taking Dad away still too big to comprehend.

  Dad was impatient for an answer. ‘Daisy? I said does anyone else know? Any of your friends at school?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And what about anyone else?’

  I paused for a second, a second too long.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Well what?’

  ‘Daisy, I need to know who knows about this. I want to know what’s going on, and why they didn’t tell me themselves! Who knows? Not one of your teachers?’

  My face must have betrayed me, given him a flash of recognition to leap on.

  ‘Which teacher, Daisy?’

  ‘No one else knows, Dad, honest.’

  ‘Don’t lie to me. Not again.’

  I was trapped, looking for somewhere to hide the truth.

  ‘DAISY! Tell me who knows. NOW!’

  ‘It only happened yesterday,’ I sobbed. ‘I wanted to tell you as soon as I got home, but you weren’t in. And it’s not his fault, it’s mine. If I’d not asked him to keep me company, then it wouldn’t have even happened …’

  ‘What are you talking about? What wouldn’t have happened?’

  My mind was addled, unable to order the words in any intelligent way.

  ‘He said if I told you, then he’d have to go to social services. Tell them about me skipping off school and how I was cutting myself. He said he didn’t mean for it to happen. And he was right, I made him do it. I’d led him down there, hadn’t I? He said kissing me was the last thing he’d expected to do …’

  I thought the roof was going to blow off the cinema when Dad erupted.

  ‘Hang on,’ he yelled. ‘A teacher … kissed you? Is that what you’re saying to me?’

  ‘Yes … well, he did, but it was my fault …’

  He was on me in a flash, his hands gripping my arms, not knowing or caring if he was hurting me. ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter, it’s my fault –’

  ‘HIS NAME!’

  He was pressing hard now, hurting me more than the scissors ever had, and I had no option but to whisper, ‘Hobson. Mr Hobson.’

  I hoped that once I’d said it the temperature in there would drop and that Dad would calm down, pull me into him and tell me it was all going to be OK.

  But that didn’t happen. Dad simply dropped my arms, turned quickly and marched towards the exit.

  ‘Where are you going, Dad? DAD! Where are you going?’

  I’ll never forget the irony of what he said next. They were the last words I heard from him. They might have been the last ones he ever actually spoke. But he said them loud and clear, in the calmest voice imaginable.

  ‘I’m going to kill him.’

  But of course he wouldn’t manage it. The only one capable of murder round here was me.

  Chapter 15

  The rain drummed urgently on the roof of the bus, threatening to puncture it at any moment.

  We hadn’t moved for ten minutes and the impatient vibrating of the engine buzzed through me, heightening my anxiety.

  I had no idea how close Dad was to school by now. I’d hared after him as he sprinted from the cinema, but by the time I reached the car park he was already out of sight.

  I knew he’d head straight for Mr Hobson, but had no idea how I was going to get there before him. I didn’t have enough cash for a taxi and the heavens had opened, delivering the storm that the radio had promised.

  It took the bus fifteen minutes to arrive and an awkward few more to leave as I rummaged in my bag for enough change to pay my way.

  It didn’t take long for me to realize that the mixture of heavy rain and some delay up ahead was going to scupper my chances even more, and so I sat and fretted about arriving at school as Hobson’s body was lifted into an ambulance, with Dad being led, handcuffed, into a riot van.

  I pinched at the skin on my wrist, the sharp twinges calming my heart, which was banging out of control. Why was it taking so long? When was the rain going to stop?

  Craning my neck to look through the front window, I could see endless rows of cars, their windscreen wipers flicking irritably at the rain. We were going nowhere, and I could only hope that Dad was held up in it too.

  At that moment I made a decision to get out and run for a while. If Dad was stuck, then there was a chance I could get to him and talk him down. It was worth a go, it had to be, so, turning the collar of his shirt up, I begged the driver to let me off before the next stop.

  It was muggy and humid despite the rain, and it didn’t take long for my lungs to feel starved of air, but I had no option other than to push on. The guilt I was feeling, in every part of my body, meant that I couldn’t give up, not without trying my best.

  My feet were sodden by the time I reached the edge of the bypass, and the blood-stained right sleeve of my shirt had been
dyed a soggy pink. I saw the frustration of the drivers as they sat in their cars, hands wiping at their windows as they tried to work out what sort of idiot had caused such a tailback.

  I’d been running for about ten minutes when I saw the glow ahead. I knew instantly it was the lights of a police car and I picked up the pace, fearing as I approached the root of the problem that my chances of finding Dad were fading. But as I got closer, my heart leapt as I clocked the back of Dad’s car sat alongside the flashing light. I thudded on, desperate to reach him before he got past the crash.

  This was the one chance I needed to put it all straight. If my legs carried me there, I promised myself, I wouldn’t waste it.

  I didn’t notice anything strange about the car until I felt two arms wrap around my chest. Didn’t see the strange angle it had stopped at, or the smoke rising from the bonnet, until the same arms lifted me off my feet, stopping my progress.

  I wanted to turn round and see who had grabbed me, to scream and hit them and hurt them until they let me go. But I couldn’t take my eyes off Dad’s car, or what was left of it. As the arms carried me to the side of the road, I saw the wing of the car crumpled and buckled. I could see the space where the bonnet and windscreen should have been. But they weren’t there any more. There was just a twisted mess of tyre marks, metal and shattered glass, joining seamlessly with the barrier in the central reservation.

  I think I screamed at that point. At the policeman holding on to me, at the people that littered the scene – coppers, firemen, paramedics. I have no idea what I managed to say.

  My eyes scanned the road, desperate for a sight of Dad, head bowed, smoking a fag, but there was nothing other than smoke and chaos.

  It wasn’t until a squad car to the right of the crash moved that I knew where Dad was. As it pulled away, I saw a gaggle of uniformed people huddled over a body, grabbing for equipment. I saw their hands pummel at his chest, their mouths cup his and their lips move, encouraging him to stay with them.

  I fought and fought, but my captor held on, long enough for me to see the crouching men by my father finally climb to their feet, shaking their heads.

  One of them checked his watch, another scribbled something on a pad before walking away.