Daddy Dearest (12 page)

That night my visitor came back. I was lying on my bed, trying to sleep. At first I tried with the lights off, but whenever I closed my eyes, I saw Jesus on the cross, and whenever I opened them, I saw my little girl. I tried with the bedside light on, the one I use for reading whenever I can be bothered. I normally fall asleep after a page or two. I used to be able to read all night, but I can’t do it any more; maybe because I don’t read page-turners any more. Someone should make serious literature less of a yawn.

The book didn’t do any good. I got up to get a glass of water and wondered if I needed another piss. My bladder doesn’t know what it’s up to these days. A few drips usually come out. I wonder if I’ve got cancer of the bladder or if it’s old age creeping up on me. I sat on the bed and rearranged my clothes, then lay back in the half-light. I must have been down five seconds before the voices came. I sprang up and rearranged the clothes again. When I had them pretty much lined up, I tried again.

‘You haven’t turned the light off properly.’

‘Shut up.’

‘You won’t sleep till you do.’

‘Watch me.’

I tossed and turned for a bit and looked up at the ceiling.

‘See?’

‘If I do it once more, will you let me sleep?’

‘Of course.’

I got on my side, switched the light on, then turned it off. It didn’t feel right. I can’t begin to tell you what I mean when I say that. You won’t understand. I have to turn the light off in a certain way. My fingers have to flick the switch and not stay on the plastic too long or too short a time. I don’t know why that is. My doctor told me people with OCD like to control things.

‘That was rubbish.’

‘I know. I’ll try again.’

Again and again and again. All rubbish. The light came on.

‘For fuck’s sake.’

‘Calm down. Just once more.’

‘I can’t.’

‘You have to.’

‘I’m not going to listen.’

I did. I was up and down for hours, drinking, pissing, turning things on and off, and the longer it went, the more remote sleep seemed to get, till I closed my eyes and saw Jesus again.

‘Lord, why have you forsaken me?’

I knew just how he felt.

‘Okay, here’s your chance. Help me.’

Now, I don’t believe in miracles - I think everything has a scientific and rational explanation - but after I saw him, things got a little better. I started to drift and the drifting became a kind of liquefied sleep like I was etherised. The next thing I knew it was morning.

There was a banging in my head.

‘Shut up.’

It got more incessant.

‘Shut up.’

Then I realised it wasn’t in my head. It was coming from behind me: from Rashelle’s bedroom. I leapt out of bed and changed.

‘Darling, you can’t bang on the wall.’

‘Why not?’

‘You have to be quiet.’

‘I can be noisy at Mummy’s.’

‘Mummy doesn’t have neighbours who’ll shout.’

She pulled a sullen face. Rashelle had gone out to get some shopping. The advantage of living in the city is that everything is on your doorstep. Three minutes from the Sears building, you’re in Tesco or a big department store. My daughter used to love going round them. She would pick up tops and hats and model them in front of the stand-up mirrors and delight the middle-aged ladies who were in town for the day. I used to hope she made a similar impact on the sales girls in their tight, black trousers and white shirts, but they never seemed quite as impressed. Occasionally, there was one. They were nearer my daughter’s age than mine. I used to get a kick out of making them laugh as I did my daughter, but I knew there were sexual overtones in everything I said. They knew it, too. It’s why I never got anywhere.

I’d made my daughter a prisoner. At that point, I’d no idea what I was going to do, other than take her away somewhere. I knew I couldn’t keep her here indefinitely. I played with her in the playroom and watched some TV and read books with her, but I knew there was something missing, too. It was the freedom.

Rashelle came back about fifteen minutes later with her hands full of bags. She had bought two tubs of chocolate ice cream which did nothing to dampen my daughter’s excitement. Or the noise levels.

‘Can I have some, Dad?’

‘Just a little.’

She took a small bowl away with her.

Rashelle looked at me.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘I think they’re making another arrest.’

My blood pressure always rises when I hear the word.

‘Who?’

‘Laurence and Peter downstairs.’

‘How do you know?’

‘They were in the lobby. Police were carrying out a computer.’

It didn’t surprise me. Middle-aged queens always look suspect. I’ve got nothing against gays. When I was in the theatre, most of the company was. It’s the only time in my life I didn’t need to worry about the competition. I was the leading man.

‘You’ve got to do something.’

‘What?’

‘Tell them.’

‘Tell them what?’

‘That they’re innocent.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Well, she’s here, isn’t she?’

‘It might be something else.’

‘Are you going to take the chance?’

I’d already offered up the fat Greek; now Laurence and Peter were on the table.

‘What can I say?’

Now hindsight can be a real swine, as I’ve said, but occasionally it vindicates you, so you can tell me if I was right or wrong to keep quiet. Of course, I’m not saying that my motives were altruistic - I’ve said that, too - but God works in mysterious ways. Within a few days, things started appearing in the local papers. Now, you shouldn’t believe everything you read, but they made you think.

Laurence and Peter had been together years. They worked in retail and design. They had mannequins in their apartment window from time to time, which you could see in the reflection of the building opposite. They weren’t too bothered about drawing blinds or closing curtains. Maybe they didn’t realise they could be seen from the other flats, or maybe that was part of the thrill. Once, my little girl saw them manhandling one of the mannequins into the lift. It was male and boasted a large, plastic bulge. I don’t know why it drew my attention; I thought it was because I was with them, but maybe I have a thing for penises.

Laurence was bleached blonde and sun-bed brown and smelt of aftershave. He fussed round the mannequin, making little piggy grunts. Peter was sallower, with dark brown hair and a moustache. I don’t know anyone who can get away with a moustache; they’re something from another age; having one would be like walking down the road with a top hat. I know they are de rigueur in some cultures but, to me, they look ridiculous.

‘No, turn it this way.’

Peter was having his way and Laurence had to give another piggy snort.

‘Is it real, Daddy?’

‘No, sweetheart. It’s a mannequin.’

‘Can I touch it?’

‘No, darling. You might break it.’

I thought they might have let her; I thought they might have said it was okay, and let her put her hand out. But there was a certain fastidiousness about them - maybe it was an unfamiliarity round children, maybe it was something to do with what the police found - that made them keep their distance.

They didn’t come high on my radar of prejudice. They weren’t scallies or thieves or uncouth in any way, even the stuff they did in bed. The only thing I couldn’t abide was the music they played. The occasional thump through the walls in the early hours drove me demented. I thought they’d be past the clubbing stage of their lives, but I think, on reflection, that was just me. Everyone wants to stay young; surrounding yourself with a bronzed Adonis and wanting to hang around pools was not so far removed from me wanting to bathe in the reflection of my daughter’s youth.

There’s a widely held belief among the rabble of the lower classes that homosexuals are paedophiles, just as there is an assumption that middle-aged men who live on their own are sinister and likely to meddle with your daughter. I have some sympathy with the latter view as I am now a middle-aged man. There are, indeed, girls of eighteen and nineteen who I fancy; there might even be sixteen or seventeen-year-olds who fit the bill. To be honest, I don’t know their ages. My penis doesn’t, either. He acts on sight. I presume it’s the same if you’re gay. If you like boys of sixteen or seventeen, that’s no surprise. If it’s thirteen or fourteen, well the age of consent is thirteen in Spain; sexual distinctions are arbitrary.

Now, I don’t know exactly what pictures they found on Laurence’s and Peter’s computer, but they were deemed serious enough to take away. Papers said the police found over six thousand pornographic images which seemed shocking till you considered the average porn website has a thousand thumbnails which your computer logs as soon as you visit. I don’t know if the pictures were ones they’d taken themselves, or ones they’d downloaded, or even if it was boys and girls: I just know I probably have at least that number stored on mine. I’m a middle-aged man, after all. You think I’m not going to look because I have a daughter?

I had some sympathy for Laurence and Peter. I know they weren’t responsible for my daughter’s disappearance. I know I could have probably saved them some agony over the computer. Shit like paedophilia (if you’re going to call it that) sticks with you for the rest of your life; but the police found enough evidence to charge them with separate offences which would otherwise never have come to light: possession of pictures of minors and attempting to solicit a minor over the internet. Take that for what you will. I just thought about the mannequins in the windows and whether things would have been different if they’d let my daughter touch it.

The case of the fat Greek was different and more complex. On the surface, he seemed a far more likely suspect. He had that oily look. He lived on his own and his English wasn’t perfect - all the things you’d expect from a kiddy napper. When they took him away in the car, it seemed only a matter of time before he was released. But it seemed Sherlock’s enquiries had unearthed a possible other connection to Greece. A boy had gone missing on a fishing expedition some years ago. His body was found on a remote beach in Ithaca. He’d been sexually abused. The fat Greek had left the island about the same time. I didn’t need Sherlock to make the connection for me. I remembered what he told me and felt sick.

I’ve often wondered why he confided in me; if he was trying to confess, or if he was, in some strange way, trying to warn me. Did he know what I was up to? If he did, he’d surely have told someone? Maybe he wanted me to learn from his mistakes, to get away with it? Things always turn up, he said. Well, they had for him. In the story he told me Kostas had come back. It must have been his way of coping with things: to have written a different ending. I guess I knew why he gave me that look in the lobby now. It wasn’t about my daughter at all. It was about the boy who disappeared. He didn’t want me to say anything. Luckily, I never needed to. There was enough evidence to convict him without my testimony. I don’t know if I would have done, anyway. I had enough on my plate; and it wasn’t olives.

My daughter’s disappearance had brought a child killer and two dangerous paedophiles to book. If that wasn’t justification for what I did, I don’t know what was; but I would be lying if I told you I ever thought that way. I was far too consumed with the other things that were going on. Afterwards, I often thought about Kostas and the fat, amiable looking Greek, and wondered how such a terrible thing had happened. How did it reach such a moment of crisis? Was it a just moment of madness? One thing I do know: things like that happen, and once they start, there’s no stopping them.

Rashelle and I stayed inside for two days. We didn’t even take the rubbish to the chute. My daughter wanted to take them to Minus One.

‘You can’t, sweetheart.’

‘Why not?’

‘The chutes are blocked.’

‘Why?’

‘I think there’s something stuck in there.’

‘Like a monster?’

‘Yeah, a monster.’

‘Can I go and see it?’

‘No, you saw the police. They’re dealing with it. It’s far too dangerous.’

‘I want to.’

I knew she did. The look of defiance was in her face.

‘You can’t.’

She tried to get round me, but every time I caught her. I thought it was a game.

‘Let me past!’ she shouted.

I clamped my hand over her mouth. ‘No,’ I said.

Her expression changed. The defiance was still there, but there was confusion, too. I’d never done that before.

‘Let me go.’

‘Only if you behave and keep quiet.’

She made a noise like a bear, like a gruff
I hate you
, and stomped off. Rashelle came in and acted as peacemaker.

‘Right,’ she said. ‘None of us can go out, not even to the chute. We all just have to sit here until the police say it’s okay.’

For my daughter, this was impossible. Even with the windows open and the view from the playroom, she missed the outside world. She wanted to stretch her legs. Chocolate ice cream could only compensate her so much.

We were all getting tetchy.

The next morning, the flat reeked.

‘There’s a press conference.’

‘When?’

‘Today. Sherlock just rang. I have to go.’

‘Have to?’

‘Yes.’

She sat beside me on the L-shaped sofa. ‘I can’t keep this up.’

‘It’ll be over soon. This will be a distraction. They checked the flats and found nothing. The worst is over.’

‘You hope.’

‘I hope.’

I knew something was up with her - I mean, more than the usual fretting and worrying. She was thinking of handing me in.

‘How long will you be?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘I need to know.’

I stood there, unable to answer.

‘Hopefully we’ll be here when you get back.’

I’ve acted on many stages in my time - big ones, little ones, old ones, new ones - and in front of many different kinds of audience. I’ve had the spotlight shine in my eyes and the trapdoor open beneath me. I’ve waited in the wings for years hoping my time would come, and knowing it never would. I’ve been the understudy of fools who knew their lines no better than I, but who were recognised from soap operas or talent shows, and while their careers rose and fell, mine stayed where it was. I’ve always played Rosencrantz. That has always been my role. I made my living and paid my dues and never caught a break. I’ve been in classics and farces and Greek tragedies, and once played a buggered Celtic druid, though that wasn’t one of my better performances. I’ve sung in musicals and played the West End. I’ve walked by the Thames at night and felt the thrill of being part of a show. I’ve felt the magic of Theatreland sweep me up, high over the river, till I saw London shrinking beneath me and my name, tucked away at the bottom of the programme, growing larger than Hollywood. I’ve felt on top of the world. But, most of all, I’ve felt dreadful emptiness, boredom and failure.

When I got to the police station, I was still thinking of Rashelle’s last words.
Hopefully
. My wife was waiting for me outside Sherlock’s room. She looked tense and frail, as though she hadn’t eaten since I saw her outside the church. The hobbit was with her, holding her hand. Sherlock swept by and took us in. The map behind his desk showed even more flags and pins. He looked at my wife, then at me, and his face set in sombre resignation.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I realise this is going to be difficult for you.’

My wife’s head dropped to the desk. For moment, I thought she’d fainted. Then I heard the sobs. ‘No, no.’ She banged her hands on the table and called out our daughter’s name.

Sherlock didn’t know where to turn. We watched as the hobbit put her hoofs round her. Then he looked at me. ‘Do you want me to postpone it?’

‘No. we’d rather get it over with.’

‘I’ll do all I can to keep it brief. Just field the questions you can.’

I nodded.

He led the way out. We came to a wide corridor. There were police officers there and some photographers loading cameras. Surely they couldn’t be there for us? We walked to a large, white door. Once or twice, my wife fell and I had to hold her. I didn’t think she was going to make it.

Sherlock turned. I don’t think I’ve ever been so scared. Many times I have stared through the curtains or peered from the wings to see what awaited me - one time, I actually sat in the audience as part of the performance - but the stakes were never as high. He opened the door and bright, white light blinded us. The flashes of a hundred cameras ripped through the air. It was so hot in there, I thought
I’d
faint. My wife staggered again and I had to prop her on my shoulder. We were led to some seats in front of a bare, white table. The cameras kept clicking. At one side, there was a television camera and it bore down on us like a giant telescope. I remember reading once about the difference between screen acting and stage acting and people saying it was all about the little gestures and the expressions on your face. They were magnified a million times on celluloid. There was no escaping those little gestures now. Everything I did and said would be picked up.

A single microphone was placed on the table in front of us. All my life I’d wished for a moment like this - to have the spotlight on me, to hold court before the press - now, all I could think of was getting out.

My wife sat next to me; she had her head down, staring into her lap. The hobbit was on the other side. Sherlock sat next to me. He shuffled some papers and addressed the audience in a clear, calm voice. It was a rich delivery with some affecting turns. He ought to have taken a bow. He said all the right things.

‘I think every parent in the country can imagine the pain the family are going through…it’s a unique case, and one of the most traumatic I’ve had to deal with in fifteen years of service…a little girl has gone missing and that affects us all…we are appealing today for help and information…we’ll not rest till we’ve found her.’

There was post sermon silence afterwards. Then the questions came flooding in.

‘Are you treating this as a kidnapping, or a murder?’

‘We have an open mind.’

‘How much progress has been made?

‘We’re still making enquiries.’

‘Are you following any leads?’

‘Yes.’

‘Can you comment on the arrests that have been made?’

‘No.’

I don’t think Sherlock ever really disappointed me. He truly was a man for all seasons. He fielded the questions with a judge’s aplomb and kept cool even under the searing lights all the while I shook like a leaf. And I called myself an actor?

Eventually, the questions came our way. There was a noticeable reluctance on the part of the press to force the issue with us; certainly with my ex-wife, who could barely look up. Even frenzy feeding piranhas have kids.

‘What would you like to say to the person who has her?’

The question was directed at her. She shook uncontrollably and wiped the tears from her face. I could see she wanted to say something, but every time a word appeared at her mouth, it was choked back. I held her hand and she gripped it the way she used to when we made love, with all the passion of her being. The cameras stopped clicking; the chairs stopped moving; the phones stopped ringing. There was just the dreadful expectation of what she would say.

‘I just want my little girl back. Please. Let her go. I can’t live without her. I just can’t live.’

It was another command performance and I think it affected everyone in the room. I did not begrudge her this time for I was crying, too. I was crying for her and for what I’d done. I was crying for that bastard to return our little girl so she could live her life again, go to America, live with Handshaker, do what she wanted; but most of all I was crying for fear. My mind was full of thoughts of jail and what would happen to me and being Public Enemy No. 1.

She sobbed and broke down and the hobbit led her away. Sherlock asked if there were any more questions and tried to draw matters to a close, but I put a hand on his and asked if I could say something. He looked at me carefully. I think he was worried I’d prejudice the case. I don’t know what possessed me to say anything; it would have been better to say nothing; most times in my life I should have done that but this was my time, too. I might never have got it back.

‘I’d like to say something.’

Whenever I’ve seen interviews with parents and relations of murdered children, I’m always convinced of their guilt; either they say too much or they say too little. There’s something not right about them or not right about the case. I’m always speculating on what they’ve done with the body. I don’t know if everyone feels that way, if they have my heightened sense of scepticism - maybe only police officers do - but my feelings are profound. I’d hate others to have the same opinion of me, however justified it was. I don’t want people thinking I’m a child killer or a kidnapper. I want them to understand me.

‘Neither of us thought we’d ever get caught up in anything like this. It’s something you read about in the papers that happens to other people. Like you, I’ve watched them being interviewed and felt their pain, but nothing prepares you for actually sitting up here and facing the world. No matter what our pain is, though, I know our daughter’s is worse. She’ll be looking for us and wondering where we are, and the thought of that is an agony I can’t begin to tell you.’ I paused a moment. ‘But we have to be strong for her like she has to be strong. We have to think of her.’

The audience hung on my every word. I turned to the TV camera.

‘If you’re watching this, darling, I want you to know that we love you very much and we’re thinking of you every second. You’re going to be okay. Daddy’s going to make sure of that. When you come back, he’s going to take you on that holiday he promised you, wherever you like. The person who has you is confused but they’re going to do the right thing and bring you back safely. They’re going to bring you home. I want you to think of that. I want you to think of all your friends and your bears who are going to hold a big party for you when you come back. It won’t be long now, darling. Mummy and Daddy love you very much and we’re doing all we can to find you.’

No clicks, no applause, nothing. Sherlock put a hand on my arm and closed the meeting.

If nothing prepared me for the whirlwind of the press conference, the aftermath which followed was even more shocking. I think Sherlock tried to warn us in his own way - he said things could get ugly - but even he couldn’t have predicted the hurricane force media storm which blew up around us. Our faces, the faces of our little girl, were splashed over the cover of every newspaper in the country. I’ve always wanted to be famous; I’ve wanted to dine with kings and hang out on Sunset Strip with Hollywood stars; I’ve wanted to have beautiful women on my arm and have my peers cover me with praise, false or not; I’ve wanted strange and exotic girls to ask for my autograph, to offer to sleep with me, or suck me off in the back of a limo; I’ve wanted people to know who I am and to love me. I never wanted to be forgotten and face my failure every single day. That was not what I wanted at all.

The worst kind of failure is knowing you’re a failure, knowing you’ll never get anywhere. I’ve known people who had dreams and let them go by before they even woke up; I’ve known people who struggled for years and then mysteriously gave up overnight; I’ve known people who died without tasting any success, but who chased it endlessly, because the dream was all they had. That was my lot. I know people say anyone can be famous now - that’s what they designed the internet for - but who wants to be one in six billion? I don’t want to be told that fame’s not what it’s cracked up to be, or that you get bored of it. If you don’t like it, give it to me. They say that so there’s more of it for them. I want all they have and more.

Someone once asked me - I don’t know why - if notoriety would do. Most times I’ve said no - you wouldn’t want to be remembered for gassing six million Jews or bringing down the Twin Towers, would you? Well, maybe you would - but Bonnie and Clyde, Al Capone, Attila the Hun? Of course, with the exception of the suicide bombers, none of them were doing it for publicity, but then, I’m no expert. What I do know is, watching things from the sidelines for so long, I would seize anything that came along.

My wife was completely different. She was happy in herself. She had all her friends, her house, her job, and didn’t want for anything else. She didn’t want special treatment; she wanted to fit in. I envied her that but, when the press started to hound us and the pictures started appearing in newspapers, I began to see that it was me who was more able to cope with the way the world was, and I started to pity her. It was me who fielded the questions and talked to the press. I was the strong one and no one would have said that about us before that.