Daddy Dearest (6 page)

I had a lot of things to think about that night. I got so agitated, I got up and turned the light switch on five times. Then I moved the living room rug five times till it lay perfectly parallel to the sofa. My nerves were at me. I kept thinking of the basement and the open door and if I had missed anything. You should never revisit the scene of a crime; if you do, you’re either a ghoul or the culprit. In my case, it was both. I was responsible for the disappearance of my daughter, and there was some morbid part of me that needed to retrace her last steps.

All parents mourn their children; whether it is the premature grief of miscarriage, or abortion, or the bitter sight of them in their prime, thrown through a windscreen, reduced to bone in some isolated hospital ward. The tears start when they’re born and never go away. My daughter is only five and already I’m looking back. I can smell her in her babygrow right now, looking at me through the bars of her cot, and I can tell you, it’s making me cry. I can hear her crawling up the stairs to the attic, laughing and gurgling and trying to open the door I locked so I wouldn’t be disturbed. I want to be disturbed now. I want her the way she was then so I can enjoy her more. There are what ifs and what might have beens, naturally, but above them all are the dreadful reminders of what was. There is no controlling what happens to your children; once you give them life, they’re on their own. That’s a tough thing to accept.

I left the flat about two in the morning. It was eerily quiet: no music, no voices on the stairwell; just the soft hum of the lights and the tapping of wires in the service shaft risers. I passed the middle-aged tart’s door; she would understand. She knew loss like no one else. I put my ear to her door and stroked the wood like it was her skin. I’d done that before, years ago, in a hospital ward, to my wife’s stomach, listening for signs of life. Dimly, I imagined a child breathing and wondered what to expect. You never know till you’re there. I’d never seen so much blood or felt so much pain. No matter how you dress babies up, they’re a messy business; and birth the messiest of all. My wife looked as though she’d been gangbanged ten times over. Not that there was anything sexual about it; quite the opposite. It was just a sense of her being ravaged and abandoned. Her body was being subjected to an ordeal far worse than having me on top of her.

While she was inside the womb, my daughter and I had quite a thing going. I would talk to her every evening and sometimes, to my ex-wife’s embarrassment, during the day, in waiting rooms or on station platforms, whenever we had a moment. I would put my head on her belly and tell her what was going on in the world. I wanted to keep her up to date.

‘Are you asleep or awake?’

‘She’s asleep.’

‘You can tell?’

‘She’s hasn’t kicked me for a bit.’

I lowered my head.

‘I wish you wouldn’t.’

‘I need to have a word.’

‘You’ll have plenty of time to do that when you’re cleaning nappies.’

I looked up at the clouds, at the high bank of altocumulus, and tried to imagine the distance between us.

‘It’s a beautiful day today, darling. The sky is a deep blue. When you come out, you’ll be able to see if for yourself. There are loads of good things to see out here. There are swings and roundabouts to play on, ice creams to eat, friends to play with. I’m going to take you everywhere. The world’s a bit weird but you’ll get used to it. I’ve just about managed. I’m going to get you prepared early so you don’t waste time. I can’t wait for you to come out.’

My wife went on reading her paper. There was a Chinese girl on the bench opposite who smiled at me. I pointed to my wife’s stomach and she nodded. She understood. I pointed to my stomach and then hers. She smiled back and shook her head. I think I fell for her right about then. Our muted conversation went on for about five minutes before I noticed anything was wrong.

‘You enjoying yourself?’

My wife had her paper down and her helmet on.

‘How do you mean?’

‘Miss Saigon over there.’

‘I was explaining to her what I was doing.’

‘You care to explain it to your wife?’

She rolled her eyes and shook her head. I think she’d given up on me even then. We left without saying anything. I must confess, I was rather desperate to turn round and see if the Chinese girl was looking at me. I wanted to know if I’d made an impact. I thought of casual ways I could do it - drop something or pretend to recognise someone as they passed - but it all seemed rather obvious. I am obvious, I know, but I have learned to be cleverer.

‘If you want to look round, why don’t you?’

You understand why I hate her so much? I swear there was nothing in my manner which would have given me away. She just sensed it.

‘Go on.’

Well, she did say. So I turned. The Chinese girl was engrossed in a book. She hadn’t given me a second thought. I’d love to tell you differently. I’d love to tell you she held a wild orchid in one hand and blew a kiss from the other. But that would have been fiction. I should have left things the way they were and imagined the rest. You should do that from the day you’re born. That way you won’t be disappointed. The only things that haven’t disappointed me are the clouds. That and my little girl.

Our attachment had been growing since the day I found out. I still have the pregnancy stick with the blue cross on it. It has faded now but the impact hasn’t. Some women would have been happy I talked so much to her. They would have seen it as a sign of commitment and care. There are so many guys out there who don’t. My wife saw it as an embarrassment. She didn’t enjoy her pregnancy. She didn’t get all mumsy and stuff like that; she just worried. Given the pain she had to go through, I couldn’t really blame her. I could afford to look at my bloody clouds and get all romantic about it. When my daughter came along, the distance between us only grew. It became a fault line; and, as she was so fond of saying, it was all mine.

I’d been there for about five minutes, listening for her. It was no use. I stopped stroking the door and walked towards the lift. There was something I had to do. I pressed the button and waited. I could hear voices inside: a woman’s and a man’s. You can tell a lot from voices; how people see themselves. These were drunk. When the lift doors opened, you could smell the alcohol off them. The woman was beautiful. She had a red dress on and a red choker round her neck. Her partner wore a suit and had his arm wrapped round her. They looked at me through glazed eyes. I don’t know if they recognised me. I recognised her. It was the six inch stilettos that gave her away. I would have been more forgiving if I’d known who owned them. I kept my eyes on them as the lift descended. I imagined my hands running from her straps up her calves. As if reading my mind, the man put an arm out. It fell on my shoulder.

‘We’re sorry what happened to your little girl. If there’s anything we can do.’

It was so unexpected, and sounded so sincere, the tears welled up.

‘Thank you.’

The lift hit the ground floor. It’s not really where I wanted. I wanted Minus One. I pretended I was going out for a breath of air, to clear my head. They let me off first and followed me to the main entrance. When we got outside, they turned and asked if I was okay; they were going to a late night bar and I was welcome to join them if I wanted. I thanked them for the offer but said I needed to be on my own. In truth, I would like to have gone. I could smell her perfume clearly and I was on the scent. Her stilettos clacked on the concrete and her hips swayed drunkenly as she went. I have seen couples like that before and it has always made me weep. He was tall and good looking - I wish I could say otherwise - and she was beautiful; they were also urbane and sophisticated. I looked up to them, though I was older and had probably seen more of the world, and I wanted to be them. I envied their beauty and their happiness. More than that, I wanted her, though I couldn’t find a way to say it. If it hadn’t been for the fact I’d been in her flat, I’m not sure I could have resisted.

I hadn’t intended to do it, I really hadn’t. It’s just the clacking had become too much. You’d think a man would make more noise - they are heavier and more oafish - but a woman’s weight is concentrated to a point, and sounds like nails being banged into a cross. My suffering was extreme. I felt like going up there and telling her what I thought. I didn’t know what she looked like, then, or if she had a boyfriend, and whether I’d come back all bloodied and bruised as has happened before in my life. The fear of it was enough to keep me in my place.

But the next day I snuck inside her room. Ever since that guy told me about cams and cylinders and dead-bolts, I’d become fascinated with locks. I practised on my own front door with two pieces of wire. After all, what would happen if I lost my key? How would I get in? It was thrilling knowing I could get in to any apartment. Hers was the first I tried though there have been others. I felt guilty about it afterwards. I would never pinch anything - I’m not that way inclined - but I was curious.

The view up there was much better; that was the first thing that hit me. Where I got to look at the adjoining building, she got to look over it; the wide open sky was her vantage, and the clouds sweeping across it. It felt like flying. I envied her that, too. I checked out her bedroom. There were paintings by Monet or Manet or Degas on the wall. I hate all that impressionistic stuff and the no-pointillism which came after. There’s something anaemic about it, something altogether too calming. I like my art mad. I don’t even really like the picture of the fox hunter on my wall; if it wasn’t for the crease in his trousers, he wouldn’t be there. I’d rather have a Bosch, or an Ernst, or a Dali, or a Picasso, but even that seems trendy; it feels like boredom to put it up. I don’t want people to know me like that.

I found some shoes on the bedroom floor. I don’t know whether they were
the
shoes, but that didn’t really matter. I felt like I had discovered something. I picked them up and sniffed them. There was a lingering smell of coconut, or palm oil. I measured them against the span of my hand: six inches, at least. I heard a door bang in the corridor outside and looked round. There weren’t many places to hide. I dived under the bed, ready for the worst. What would she say if she found me? What would I say? I imagined she’d call the police and I’d be sent to jail for breaking and entering. They wouldn’t consider the noise she made on my ceiling. For five minutes I was glued to her floor. But there were no further bangs. I realised I had been reprieved. Before I left, I opened a bedside drawer. I don’t know what made me do it - it was more than curiosity. Inside was a pile of folded camisole knickers - not thongs or hotpants or G-strings or other tasteless confections of material women usually collect. I felt myself warming to her. Every girl these days wears a thong; I don’t know how it became to be seen as sexy; maybe supermodels wear them, or footballers’ wives. To me it looks like they’re wearing a bra strap down there. I know I’m traditional in that sense. I tell myself it’s all about class and having standards. If I saw a piece of string coming out my daughter’s crack, I’d die. It’s not about sex-– I’m not a prude, by any means (I don’t think) - it’s how you go about it. Thong = tart. Camisole = sophisticated woman. Me = ? I knew I had no standards rummaging through her drawers, especially when I sniffed a pair, but I knew she did. She may have been wishy-washy about art, but she had class when it came to her derriere. I didn’t feel so bad about her after that, though the stilettos on the ceiling made me think twice. I kept thinking about her camisoles and my mad art.

If I’d gone with her to the bar, maybe I’d have brought it up. Maybe the conversation would have strayed and he would have wandered off for a drink or to the gentleman’s, and I would have looked at her red choker and said how beautiful she looked, and how I hoped she and her husband / boyfriend were very happy because they seemed like such a nice couple. I know she wouldn’t have said anything to me because she knew I was upset about my daughter and wasn’t feeling too good. I would have told her that you can tell a lot about a person from the things they wear and the things they like. I would have mentioned Monet and Manet and Derriere and made her laugh; maybe she would have looked over her wine glass and seen something in me, something I hadn’t even seen. It’s lucky I didn’t go over with them. I would have got carried away. Instead, I went back inside. I took the lift down to Minus One to face the music.

There was still police ribbon everywhere when I arrived. A giant spider web of it was stuck to the walls with severed threads hanging uselessly from the door frames. But there were no signs of struggle and definitely no music, unless you counted the steady drip of water from the ceiling or the sudden roar down the metal pipes. The electric strip lights flickered in the gloom. It seemed darker than I remembered. I pushed open the double doors and peered inside. The bins were strung together like railway carriages on the far side. I don’t know what made me do it but I called out her name.

‘Are you there, darling?’

There was no reply. I made my way over and knocked on one of the carriage sides. What if she was inside and they’d missed her? What if her decaying body was being devoured by rats, her hands resting against the metal where she’d tried to claw her way out? What if her eyes were still open the way I’ve read they can be when you die? How would I cope with that?

‘Are you in there, darling?’

All I heard were the drips from the ceiling. Then, when I got to the last carriage, I thought I heard an echo. I looked round quickly. It was the sound of metal on metal, somewhere in the deep. I put my ear to the bin and listened again.
Tip, tap
. I hadn’t imagined it. My hands gripped the sides. They
had
missed her. She was calling to me. I banged on the metal. The lid was jumping up and down; she was trying to get out. Then, with a terrifying crash, it clattered to the floor. I looked into the black void it had left and thought it the very mouth of hell. I’ve been an avid reader in my time and, before my bookshelves were weighed down with things that were good for me, they were thick with horror and science fiction novels. I’ve had books on my shelf with covers of naked women being carted off to strange planets by giant reptile men, and gruesome pictures of girls being strangled by sadistic serial killers, and thought every one of them the height of literature. I’ve read every horror writer from H.P. Lovecraft to Stephen King, so I know what comes out of storm drains and bins and dark places. Sometimes, when I look at my shelves, at the classy water colours of the Victorian section or the turbid designs of my modern literature shelf (and how bland does that sound?), I long for the unapologetic sexism and escapism of my old books. I want there to be reptile men with hawk eyes and scaly skin, kidnapping nubile, young women and doing terrible things to them. I want them to do that so I can rescue them. I want to prove my manhood and touch my primitive side. I’m sick of being a goodie-goodie.

When the lid came crashing off, my mind was already on page 73 of that book. The giant reptile men were leaping over the side and I was about to do battle; an exotic princess (tied hand and foot, naturally) was slung over the shoulders of the largest, begging for my help. Some nameless horror (why were they always nameless?) had slipped out of the underworld and I had to send it back. I think I must have screamed louder than the hero in the book.

When the echoes died away and I realised I was still alone, reality returned. It was no less frightening. I peered slowly over the rim of the wheelie bin. The
tip tap
came again, this time behind me. I whirled around. It was like someone digging, trying to get out. Darling?

I ran from the room into the corridor. The sound faded almost immediately. Where was it coming from? I looked around, reaching out like a blind man. I wished my little girl was with me. When she was around I was invincible.

‘Darling?’

It came again and this time, it seemed to come from under me. I put my ear to the concrete and listened.
Tip, tap
. I thought I knew every place in this warren, every nook and cranny. As I looked about, the lift doors closed. I was shut in, just as my little girl had been. I tried the generator room, the comms room (where all the phone and TV wires lead), even the bike room. There was no exit and certainly no hidden cellar. The only room I hadn’t been in was the cleaner’s at the end of the corridor. I’ve seen him in there putting boxes away and eating his sandwiches. I’ve let on to him from time to time but he’s always been very guarded. I tried his door, fully expecting it to be locked. Tonight, it wasn’t. The latch was a fingertip touching my own. Darkness and cold shook my hand. I reached for the wall. There were three light switches. Phosphorescent tubes lit up like light sabres. Beneath the electric hum I could still make it out.
Tip, tap
. It was louder this time, and nearer.

I’ve never been brave. Some people are born that way; they can face things, keep their cool, fight. They’re not afraid of things in cupboards, or bullies, or horror films, or flying, or spiders - how can they not be afraid of spiders? Even the serious things they’re not afraid of, like owning up to things. That has always been my problem. I remember playing in my cot when I was little and biting my teddy bear’s eye off. I swallowed it whole. I was obviously pretty devastated, and teddy wasn’t best pleased, so I started crying. My mum came in, as mums do, and asked me what was wrong. I pointed to the vacant socket where Teddy’s eye had been and she asked me where it had gone. Now, my grasp of English was somewhat remedial at that age - more gestures than language, as it is with football fans - but my grasp of psychology was profound. I pointed to the toy jumbo at the end of my cot and mumbled, ‘Jumbo eat.’ My mother looked at him, picked him up, and asked him where the eye was. The silence was damning. My mother looked at me and asked me if I was telling the truth and I nodded quickly. She pursed her lips and gave me a kiss goodnight. I felt really pleased with myself. The next day she said she was going to sew another eye on teddy so he could see properly. It was the kind of thing she did. I told teddy and he was pretty ecstatic, too. Being able to see is a great thing.

All was going well until the evening when I went to the toilet. My mother came to check on me and wipe my bottom when she noticed something strange in the water. She motioned to me to look. I had no knowledge of the human digestive system at that age - even now I’m pretty sketchy - so I had no idea what awaited me. I looked in the bowl and there were two small shits swimming around. Nothing strange in that, you might say, but one of them had an eye at the end. It looked like a fish.

‘Is that teddy’s eye, do you think?’ my mum asked.

I shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

‘How do you think it got there?’

I had no idea. I mean I really had no idea; but I suspected I was in trouble.

‘I think Jumbo threw it in.’

Poor Jumbo. He was one of nature’s victims. My mum looked at me sadly and it made me want to cry all over again.

‘Are you telling me the truth?’

How many times have I heard those words?

No, I’m not telling you the truth. I’m lying. I’m lying because I’m scared. I’m scared of the consequences. I don’t even know what the consequences are. Everyone tells you telling the truth is the best thing, but no one does. Lying is easy and it’s second nature. It’s my second nature. I was born that way.

‘Yes, Mummy.’

The shit always comes back at you. That’s what that episode taught me. It didn’t make me any braver, it didn’t stop me doing the things I did, but it made me conscious of that.

A day later, I went to bed and my teddy was waiting for me. My mum said he’d been to hospital but was okay now. He looked like he always had done. The new eye they’d given him was indistinguishable from the old. I gave him a big hug and thought I’d got away with it. It wasn’t till I was older I realised what lengths my mum had gone to. She’d sorted the shit out for me, had got her hands dirty. I’m not sure I’d have done the same thing, even if my little girl had begged. Talking shit was one thing, talking shits quite another. Actually, I’m lying again. I would have done anything for her. I was here, wasn’t I? Wasn’t that proof enough?

The cleaner’s room was bigger than I expected. There were boxes of stuff piled up: cleaning materials, light bulbs, general junk, even a small TV. He watched that eating his sandwiches. It must have been nice down there, left to his own devices, with nothing to disturb him. I wondered what he got up to when no one was around. I remember once when I was about sixteen or seventeen working in a builder’s merchants. They had a huge basement there with rows and rows of shelves full of plumbing and electrical materials: copper pipe, taps, female couplings, male couplings, more nuts and bolts than you could count. It scared the hell out of me; I was just getting a handle on my own male and female couplings. There was a calendar on the wall in the back office of girls in construction hats and bikinis, and some without bikinis, but holding spanners and wrenches over themselves. It drove me nuts. I was always flipping to Miss October. She was Hawaiian or Mauritian, or something. She had long, black hair and dark skin and was, frankly, beautiful. She’d never have known the pleasure she gave me, or that I ever thought about her. She was probably married to some stud and was out at parties all the time, mixing with the other beautiful, successful people I was never going to be or meet.

For a period of about a month, I think I wanked over her every night. Because I was a virgin, thoughts of what I would do to her were really quite vague. I knew what fucking was but not how to go about it. I’m not sure how I ever learned. It’s not like today where you can see people fisting, fucking, giving blow jobs on your computer. We had biology text books and dirty magazines and, if you were really unlucky, some parental input. Anyway, the Mauritian and I were always doing it that month: on a beach, in a hotel room, over a fence. She loved every minute of it and so did I. I hoped her stud boyfriend wouldn’t mind. I was only borrowing her. To be honest, I could have done with her in the basement. It would have taken my mind off things.

One day, I went into the basement office and there was a porn mag on the desk in front of the calendar. It wasn’t one of the upmarket ones like
Mayfair
or
Playboy
; it was something like
Razzle
or
Reader’s Wives
. I skimmed through it, completely ignoring Miss October. I was meant to be finding some two by four for a builder in the front, but I had a wood of my own. None of the girls in the magazine were anywhere near as pretty as Miss October but that didn’t seem to matter.

All morning I was thinking about the magazine and couldn’t wait till lunch when I could look through it some more. But when one o’clock came, it had gone. The only other person who had lunch the same time as me was this middle-aged guy called Chris. He was a devout Christian and wore sandals. I’m not sure he wore them for religious reasons; they looked pretty stupid. But he was nice enough and helped me out plenty of times when I couldn’t find what I was looking for, which was always. Sometimes I saw him at the back of the basement, sitting on a stool, talking to himself, or reading. I made my way there quietly and glimpsed him through the aisles of shelving. He wasn’t talking today. The magazine was open on a stool on front of him and his trousers were down by his knees. I’m not sure if the Holy Spirit was in him but he was getting pretty fired up. I’d never seen another guy come before. It was strange. He kept looking round before he came to make sure no one was coming (if you see what I mean). His forehead was clammy. He came in a couple of spurts all over the floor. Some of it caught the magazine. I saw him wipe it with his sleeve. I was curious which girl he’d chosen but couldn’t really see properly. Did it matter? A girl was a girl. I’ve seen lots of guys come since then (in porn videos - I don’t habitually watch them in the flesh) but none had quite the effect on me as Chris. Maybe I related to it because I knew his guilt and his hurried fumblings like the back of my hand (my wanking one). I wish sex wasn’t like that. I wish it had been good, clean fun. But that was never going to happen. There was too much at stake.

If I was the cleaner, wanking’s exactly the kind of thing I would have done. I would have ejaculated over everything. Who the hell was looking? I picked through the boxes of rubbish and imagined I’d find something incriminating. But there was nothing. Just the electric hum and the… God, it had stopped: the tip tapping. I stood there, unable to move. Where before the sound of it had brought butterflies, now the silence brought the nameless horror back to life. It had stopped for a reason. Someone had heard me and was watching me. The hunter had become the hunted. I had to get away. Suddenly, there was a whirr of machinery. The side of the basement shuddered as if something had fallen. I looked about, tried to work out what had happened. Then I heard the familiar ring. The lift doors were opening. I’d left the lights on. If someone looked in here, they’d find me. What if it was the police? What if they’d forgotten something? What if I had?

I made my way to the door. There was a narrow window in it which looked out over the corridor. I could hear shuffling. I peered out, unable to stop myself. There was a loud kick and more shuffling and a large cardboard box came flying out of the lift, followed by a diminutive figure. She was bigger than the hobbit I had seen, but not much more. She was Japanese, I was pretty sure - I’m quite an expert on Orientals and can recognise indigenous races the way I recognise white and black. She reminded me of an ant tugging at a leaf the way she dragged the box across the floor. I didn’t know what was in it, but it was heavy. When she got it near the door to the bin room, she disappeared back into the lift and the kicking and shuffling started again. Soon enough, another large cardboard box came out. I thought about offering my services: to ladies in distress I have always been a gentleman, though it was always about sex, and whether I could get it. My whole life’s been about that. Seeing her struggle and grunt the way she did brought it all back.