Daddy Dearest (18 page)

I sat in the living room and watched her sleep. She was washed, changed, fed, the way she was when she was a baby, though older now, and a little bit wiser. A few more years and she’d be like me, God help her. The flat was quiet. Rashelle had gone, the Greek had gone, even Laurence and Peter below us were gone. On any other night I would have appreciated the quiet. Now it felt like we were gone.

Quite by chance, I checked my phone. I don’t normally get texts from people - or calls, for that matter; I use the land line most of the time - so it was quite a shock to see there was a message.

It said simply:
I’m sorry
.

I don’t store the numbers on my phone - I don’t know how. At first I thought it was from Rashelle, trying to make it up to me - but when I scrolled through to the end, I realised it wasn’t.

It was from my wife.

I checked the date at the bottom and my stomach reeled.

She’d sent it the day she died.

I slumped on to the sofa and the tears fell without end.

I didn’t think Rashelle would leave us; I thought she’d see it through. But I couldn’t blame her. When the tears dried and I got round to thinking of what to do, the horror of where she’d put me finally sunk in. I had to get my little girl out and I had to do it on my own. I’ve seen magic tricks in my life where people have gone missing - in dummy boxes and see-through cabinets; and even under assistant’s skirts - but never into thin air. I had no props or foils to engineer such a deception. The more I thought about it, the more remote the prospect seemed. I paced the living room floor and watched the hour hand go by, and at every turn, the voices in my head threatened to take over.

‘If you don’t do it five times, they’ll find you; they’ll take her away.’

‘They’ll find her, anyway.’

‘You can’t be sure.’

‘Leave me alone.’

‘Have you checked the front door?’

‘Yes.’

‘You better check again.’

‘I locked it and put the chain on.’

‘If you didn’t, they’ll get her.’

‘They won’t get her.’

‘You won’t sleep till you do.’

‘No.’

‘Just once.’

I stopped pacing and went into the hall. My daughter stirred. Was it really worth waking her up? I peered down the corridor. The chain was on.

‘See. I told you.’

‘What about the lock?’

‘If I did the chain, I’d have done the lock.’

‘So you say, but chains are easy to slide off. You won’t even know they’re inside.’

I felt myself being taken to the door. I made sure it was turned as far to the right as it would go. I touched it again and again till it felt right to leave it.

‘Are you satisfied?’

‘Yes.’

‘I hate you.’

‘You hate yourself.’

It was true. I stared at the door and wondered how much more I could take. I could hear my daughter breathing in the next room.

‘Will she be okay?’

‘She will if you do as we say.’

‘You always say that.’

I went back into the living room and resumed my vigil. While she slept, my visitors and I held a midnight séance. I wanted to speak to my wife. I don’t believe in all that MacGuffin normally - I had enough trouble speaking to her when she was alive - but the mood was on me. I don’t know if she heard me - I suspect not; she was quite adept at turning a deaf ear - but I said my piece. For some men, the chance of giving a moving and fitting tribute to their wife would inspire them; for others, a simple see you in hell would do. I told her simply I was sorry, that I’d always be sorry, and that if there was lots of forgiveness floating round up there, could she spare some, if not for me, for our daughter?

I must have dozed off after that. I remember thinking of the different ways out of the building and wondering which one to choose. I imagined taking her down the fire escape and trying to get across the car park at the back. I saw police cars bearing down on us and street lights with CCTV cameras turned our way.

‘Don’t look back.’

We were halfway across the car park and I had no idea where we were going. She kept touching my neck and I kept telling her not to. I ran from one streetlight to another and she followed me. She thought it was a game. How could I explain to her that this was the last time she’d see her dad, and that she wasn’t going on holiday; she was going to be on the run for years and her mum was never going to catch up with her because her mum was dead?

I kept swatting at the back of my neck. Something was tickling me. ‘Get off.’

I woke with a start. It was dark. Or rather, grey. I felt very disorientated. I could make out the computer on the other side of the room and the vague outline of the paintings on the wall. I had not entered hell. Not yet. I was on the sofa.

There was something on my shoulder. I thought it was a spider and I jumped up.

‘Whoa.’

I could hear a giggle.

I stared at her. She was kneeling up.

‘What are you doing? How long have you been up?’

‘I’m hungry, Dad.’

I didn’t know what to think. Part of me was very cross with her. I tried to keep it at bay. ‘It’s not breakfast yet. It’s early.’

‘But I’m hungry.’

‘You can’t have anything at the moment because it’s sleep time.’

In the gloom, she looked despondent and pained. I knew just how she felt. I didn’t know why I didn’t just get up and get her a piece of fruit. It wasn’t as if I didn’t wake in the middle of the night and raid the fridge. I used to pinch Kraft triangular cheeses when I was a kid (the tomato ones) and take them up to my room. It was a particular delight eating them from the silver foil. I collected all the wrappers and hid them under my bed. I must have collected about thirty till my mum found out. When she asked me how they got there, I said I didn’t know, which was like telling Sherlock I didn’t know how my daughter’s clothes got in the rug. Soon after, the cheeses disappeared. I couldn’t blame my daughter for being hungry and I couldn’t blame her for waking me. I’d have been crosser with her for taking something and not telling me. With some parents, you just can’t win.

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?’