Daddy Dearest (21 page)

‘Dad, I still need a poo.’

It was almost funny. The whole world was collapsing and all she thought about was her bowels. She’d already farted a few times. The smell cut sharply through the night air. I told her off for that like I told her off for most things that created a bad impression, but now was not the time for squeamishness.

‘Auntie’s going to get us. Wait till we get to the flat.’

‘I thought we were going to see Mummy.’

‘We are, but you wanted to have a poo.’

She paused a moment.

‘Maybe I can wait.’

I could have killed her. I know she didn’t realise the impact of what she was saying, and I understand it was more about seeing her mum than the shit, but right then it was the wrong thing to say.

‘Well, you’re stupid, then.’

She looked at me, heartbroken and tired. To be honest, I was more concerned about getting back into the building. Three minutes had passed and Rashelle still hadn’t turned up, and the cold was gnawing into my confidence. When she hung up, it didn’t enter my head she wouldn’t come - I mean, she’d come back before and saved us - but now I wasn’t so sure. She had every right not to. I clung to my daughter desperately, trying not to show her how scared I was, but I knew she felt it too because she’d gone quiet. Hope seemed to have run out for both of us.

It was just then we heard the door.

I hate being surprised. I hate the look on people’s faces when they’ve surprised you, and I hate the admission on mine. At that moment, I wasn’t sure who felt it most. You see, I was really expecting Rashelle to be on her own. I didn’t think she’d bring anyone with her - I didn’t think she could be that stupid - but I suppose, from the very beginning, that’s all I’ve been, too.

We sat in the cleaner’s room in the basement. He was still scratching his head. He kept saying
man
and
shit
, then looking at me over his drink. My little girl had gone. Rashelle had taken her back to the flat. I knew it was the end of the line and that I wouldn’t get to see her again.

He was already down there. She had no choice but to pass him. She said it was her own little girl, and that I was helping her, but it was all so far-fetched; when he saw her, it was pretty clear who she was. The strip lights may have been flickering but his eyes weren’t. Our only hope was the drink on him. He staggered around and lost his footing several times. We were both implicated and she knew that, I think. She was distraught about it, but not nearly as much as I was.

‘You dug yourself a mighty big hole, man.’

‘I’ve been doing that all my life.’

‘Well, I’ll drink to that.’

‘Why are you down here?’

He paused to take a drag on a reefer. ‘Why you askin’, man?’

‘I don’t know. Just curious. It seems odd the cleaner we employ is drinking on the premises in the small hours. These glasses aren’t all yours, are they?’

There were about six or seven lying around and butt-ends and the smell of smack. I think he knew what I was getting at.

‘Just me and a couple of friends, man. We wasn’ doin’ any harm.’

‘No. You weren’t doing anyone any harm.’

He looked at me through the smoke, his eyes bleary and bloodshot like a dog’s. ‘You wondering if I’m gonna say somethin’?’

‘Yes.’

‘What you did was wrong. She’s a little kid.’

‘She’s my little kid.’

‘We was all worried.’

‘I realise that.’

‘We was lookin’ out for her. Everyone was lookin’ out for her.’

‘Well, you can stop now.’

He nodded.

I looked at his glass. ‘So, are you?’

‘I have to, man.’

‘What about hear nothing, see nothing, say nothing?’

‘Dis is a big nothin’, man.’

‘Yes, it is.’

‘It’s nothin’ personal.’

‘I’m sure.’

‘I don’t understand why you did it.’

I paused. ‘Because I had nothing.’

He chuckled. ‘You people make me laugh, man. You wanna know what nothin’ is, go to where I come from. Live like they do.’

It amuses me when they throw that at you. It’s their get out of jail card. The brothers have suffered more than anyone and that gives them a reason to complain. ‘I’m sure it’s very bad.’

He took another drag and blew smoke rings across the table. I watched them float upwards like clouds, till they became stagnant cirrus lines against the ceiling. A deadly calmness came across me. Before, I was on the defensive: I was scared of what he would say and more scared of what he would do. Now, that had dissipated. Maybe it was the smack in the air which made me feel that way.

‘You’d see what life is really like.’

‘You think I don’t know it already?’

‘I tink you see more when you’re at da bottom.’

‘Well, maybe if they worked harder.’

‘And maybe if dey had da work.’

‘They don’t want to work.’

‘We want to work, man. And we want respect.’

I wondered how long it would be before I heard the word. I hear young people say it all the time. It has become the byword of a generation with none. You don’t have to be a sociologist to work out where it went. My parent’s parents had it, my parents had it. ‘You’re not going to get respect by hanging round in gangs and shooting each other. Or by taking it out on white people. How long are you going to keep doing that?’

‘As long as you keep tryin’ to put us in our place, man.’

He blew another smoke ring into the air, picked up his glass, and stood up. I had nothing against the guy - he was stoned, wasn’t he? - but the more he spoke, the more I took exception to him. He reminded me of the girls who used to live above me. They all look at the world differently. They’d never see it my way.

‘So I can’t change your mind?’

He swayed in the smoky air before me. ‘I’m gonna tell dem, man.’

‘Right.’

‘I’m gonna tell dem I found your little girl.’

‘And what about her?’

‘I hope someone does da decent thing and looks after her right.’

I’ve never been an aggressive person; I’ve never lit up with anger when someone insults or slights or wounds me. I’ve always walked away. Some have called that noble - my mother included - but I call it cowardice. I’ve let people run roughshod over me and humiliate me all my life. When the cleaner said that, it was as if the forty-two-year carapace of kow-towing and poltroonery finally cracked, and in its place came the rage and frustration and anger of a normal human being. ‘I looked after her right. That’s why she was with me.’

He staggered between the boxes and tried to pick the glasses up. One dropped on the floor and smashed.

‘You want some help?’

‘I’m not changin’ my mind, man.’

‘I know.’

I stood up and contemplated him. I’ve never measured myself physically against anyone. It was a surprise to see we were of a similar height although he was broader and heavier set than me.

He bent down to pick up a shard of glass and I saw the black crown of his head. I heard him wheeze and curse under his breath. A streak of black blood ran down his finger.

‘Shall I get a brush?’

‘You doin’ ma job for me again, man?’

‘I was just trying to help.’

‘You’re gonna get in the way.’

There was a brush standing against the wall by the door. It had a metal handle. I picked it up and brought it over. It was cold to the touch. ‘Here, let me.’

He looked up at me. ‘I said you was gonna get in the way.’

‘I heard.’

I took the metallic end and arrowed it into his head. At first, I thought I’d missed. He stood there, swaying in the smoky air like he was before. Then his hands clutched his temple and he roared with pain. He swore at me, then came lumbering blindly towards me like a great black bear.

I aimed it again and caught him in the same place. This time I knew the blow was hard. I felt the impact of metal on bone and saw the head explode with blood. I thought that would stop me; I thought I’d become me again and my limbs would freeze. But the anger didn’t abate. He fell to the floor amongst the shards of glass and I kept bringing the metal head down. At first, he tried to grapple with it, tried to hold on to the end and wrestle with me, but as each successive blow struck home, the arm movements weakened and so did his body. To my shame, I kept beating and beating him afterwards. When I sat down on one of the boxes and looked at him, it seemed as though I had punctured his skull. I’ve played stage killers in my time, and imagined myself in wild, vengeful dramas in my dreams, but I never thought I’d be one. But then, do you ever think you’ll become something till you are? Does it ever sink in?

It was then I heard the tip tapping sound. At first it didn’t register. I thought it was the sound of the brush on the skull, but then the spell broke and I realised I’d heard it before. It was the sound of the lift coming down. I rushed to the door and turned off the lights. I was alone in the dark with his body. I got out my phone and shone the light at his skull. I’d never seen death so close. I’d never seen the end of things. Panic flared inside me. He should have taken his own advice: hear nothing, see nothing, say nothing. It was the only way to live.

I grabbed his hands. I knew what I had to do. I had to make him disappear. I wasn’t strong enough to carry him, but I knew where I could take him. I dragged him along the floor to the back of the room. When I got to the passage, I stopped. The cold, damp air of the pump room rushed up to greet us. I stared into the darkness, then felt for the steps. I couldn’t shine my light in front so the going was slow. I felt the tendrils of cold on my neck. The slop and drip of water echoed behind me and the chains sounded louder than ever. I glimpsed the shadows of the metallic tanks and imagined darker shapes behind them coming out to get me: vengeful ones punishing me for the evil I’d done.

My feet hit the water. His body seemed more and more like an anchor. I dragged him across the floor till I got to the middle chamber on the far side. The smell of the water made me gag. It wasn’t just brackish this time. It was the smell of effluent. Maybe one of the drainage pipes had burst. I tried to lift him up. He seemed twice my weight. I leant him against the concrete and sat him up. His head rested against his chest. There was a part of me that wondered whether he was actually dead; maybe he was just unconscious. I didn’t think he was. I didn’t feel a heartbeat.

Using the wall as leverage I managed to get him up against the window. I turned him round, then pushed his head through. He flopped over the side like a whale. The rest was easier. I lifted his feet and pushed him the whole way. He slipped into the water, face down. I shone my light and could barely make him out under the dark surface. The chains had stopped rattling overhead. I threw my guts up. It slopped into the brackish water and dissolved.

I don’t know what I thought when I got out of the pump room. I was drained with sickness. Whoever used the lift hadn’t come down. I put the lights back on and placed boxes over where the blood was. I left the glasses and the ashtrays of smack where they were. Maybe the police would think there had been an argument. The image of his body floating in the water kept resurfacing. I ran a cloth of turpentine down the brush and took it with me, then made my way to the bin room and out of the double doors at the back.

The street cleaner had long gone. I left the doors open and smelled the cool, midnight air. They’d have come this way. They’d killed him and left him after an argument over money. I noticed a sheet of paper on the ramp and stopped to pick it up. It was lucky I did. I saw the handprints staring back at me. She must have dropped it when I held her.

I made my way round the building, stared at the litter blowing across the car park and, for the last time, entered the Sears building by the main entrance.

When I got to the flat and knocked, it was gone half past one.

She opened the door. She’d been crying. ‘Well?’

I paused. ‘Well,’ I said. ‘I’ve sorted it out.’

I couldn’t sleep that night. I couldn’t banish the image of him face down in the water. It seemed such an ignoble end, slung in a pit like that. I kept wanting to go back and turn him, let him see the glimpse of the ceiling rather than the depths of the pool. It took a while for me to accept the fact he was dead and it didn’t matter.

When the sun came up and shone through the blinds, part of me was still down there with him. I wondered how long it would be before someone discovered something was wrong. How long before they found him? I heard my daughter in the playroom and the soft patter of her feet. There was so much to explain and no way of doing it.

She had the pink fairy nightie on. I told her she needed a bath. She was dirty. She smiled at me like she didn’t need one and ran out of the room. I went into the bathroom and ran the taps. I watched the water swirl round and thought of him. I hadn’t told Rashelle what I’d done.

‘Tell me the truth.’

‘I am telling you the truth.’

I couldn’t.

I took my daughter’s nightie off and frogmarched her into the bathroom. She tried to run away again - maybe she knew what was happening - but I picked her up and dunked her in. ‘Get yourself clean. We’re going to see Mum.’

She threw some bubbles at me. ‘You said that yesterday.’

‘I know. But yesterday was different.’

My daughter is very forgiving. She doesn’t bear grudges. Have I mentioned that to you before? It really is a fine quality.

I watched her playing in the bath, picking up the plastic bottles and soaps and staring into the miniature mirror. I wondered what she made of herself. Did she know who she was, or would that come later in the fountainhead of adolescence? I can remember covering a mirror with bubbles and doing just what she was doing. I can remember a lot of things if I think about it, but I can’t remember where it all went wrong. I think when my daughter is older, she will look back and blame me for all that went wrong. I say that without a trace of self-pity. What I want to say to her is that I didn’t intend it. I didn’t intend it at all.

I stared at the showerhead and the two taps and thought of other children in other baths. Rashelle came in and looked at me. She hadn’t slept, either. More and more she was starting to look like my ex-wife. I got some shampoo out and washed my daughter’s hair. She closed her eyes and her skull felt delicate in my hands. She had fine hair and I washed the suds out with one of the empty, plastic bottles. She was singing to herself. I hoped she was happy. She was going to see her mum.

I left the bathroom and stared out of Rashelle’s living room window. It was a beautiful day. I can remember it clearly. September is always beautiful. The sun comes out like a contrary maid. She gives us a last golden hurrah and sets behind the harvest fields, a glimmer of what could have been.

My daughter was still in the bath. She liked a little time after her hair was washed. I didn’t begrudge her that. Time was the only thing you had. Rashelle was talking to her. My daughter didn’t sound scared of her; they sounded like they were getting on. I realised then that life is about who you believe as much as what you believe. Even what you believe is shaped by who you’ve heard it from - this wise man or that wise man. It could very well have been that Rashelle was responsible for her daughter’s death, but I had only her husband’s legal counsel to go on, and that wasn’t exactly impartial. True, I also had the mark on my daughter’s arm, but there was no way of verifying that. Children bruise very easily even if Rashelle had just grabbed her. There was a whole lot of other stuff that pointed to her innocence.

I don’t really trust anybody and that’s because I don’t really trust myself. I got married knowing I fancied other women and that, what I signed up to, I was incapable of giving; I had a child knowing I wasn’t going to be the best father in the world and took on roles I knew I was unsuitable for, and lied to my mother about the things I was up to, because I couldn’t face the truth. I have lied all my life, maybe no more or less than any other man or woman, but they’ve brought terrible hurt to everyone around me.

I believed Rashelle like I believed my wife at the end. When something terrible has happened, there’s no point covering any more. It’s time for honesty. I thought I loved my daughter more than I loved myself, but I realise I didn’t. There was the same self-serving coward beneath it all. I hadn’t changed. You must believe me when I say I wanted what was best for her: I didn’t want her to suffer or fall behind at school, or think her mum and dad didn’t love her despite all our ridiculous differences. On that, we were both agreed. She gave me life where before there was none. When I washed her hair, I didn’t need to think about what it takes to end a life; I already knew. Killing the cleaner made me see that. There are those men who have killed their children to spite their partners, or taken them with them in some heathen sacrifice, because they couldn’t bear to go alone; there are those who have killed them in anger and desperation because they couldn’t cope. Don’t tell me they never cared for them. Just think of the children and hope to God yours learn to forgive, and even be grateful for the happiness you gave.

My daughter came out swaddled in towels. Herod never came for her that day. She seemed happy enough. I told her to get dressed. We were going.

I was in the playroom with her. I watched Rashelle pick out some clothes and fold them on the bed.

‘Can’t I wear my fairy costume?’

‘Not today.’

‘Why not?’

‘People will look at you.’

She looked at the clothes. ‘I don’t want to wear those.’

‘You have to.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I said so.’

She flashed a look at Rashelle to see if she could drive a wedge between us, but Rashelle wasn’t having it. ‘My little girl used to wear them.’

‘Why doesn’t she now?’

‘They don’t fit her any more.’

‘They don’t fit me.’

It was a good response. Nearly six and talking like that? What hope was there?

Rashelle got out a red coat for her. It was the Little Red Riding one. She did up the buttons and pulled the hood up. Instantly, my daughter vanished.

‘Well?’ she said.

‘Well,’ I said.

‘What if someone recognises her?’

‘They won’t.’

‘What if they do?’

‘Just keep walking.’

There is a fine line between being an accessory to a crime and actually committing one. Rashelle was standing on it right then. Incrementally, she’d increased her involvement till the only way out was to cross it. That’s what happens when you begin a lie. You think you’ve everything under control. But then the questions start and you start having to take greater risks and tell bigger lies to cover for them, and quickly the whole thing takes on a life of its own till you’re this tiny thing at the centre of a huge maelstrom and it’s sucking everything into its path. Eventually, it consumes you. It consumed Rashelle. She could barely get my little girl out the door.

She didn’t look like my little girl any more. She looked like a stranger’s little girl. I gave her a kiss and told her I loved her. I didn’t want to dwell on it too much; it would have made it impossible.

‘Where are you going?’

I wish she hadn’t said that. I wish she hadn’t put me on the spot.

‘I’m going to get our things ready. You go with Auntie and do as she says and I’ll be down in a minute.’

‘Are we going on holiday?’

I paused. How many times had she said that? How many times have I let her down? What was I meant to say? The maelstrom was as tall as the sky. ‘Yes, darling.’

I watched them go down the corridor to the lift. You won’t believe how difficult that was.

I heard the ring and the lift doors opening. Now you see me, now you don’t. I counted the twelve long seconds to the bottom.

Maybe there’s something to be said for waiting in the wings. You get to see it all without suffering the consequences. There is life after the play has ended. I would take that now. I would take anything. I took the stairs down to the lobby. I didn’t bother trying to break my record. Who would remember it? I left the Sears building and walked out into bright sunshine. I felt a weight had been taken off me. I looked at the faces of the people who passed me to see if they could see it, too. They smiled at me. I stopped by the window of a department store and saw a middle-aged man staring back at me. He was greying and balding and on the thinnish side, though nothing that a good meal wouldn’t fix. He mimicked every move I made. He frowned, smiled, stuck his tongue out at me. If I had to describe him to you I would say he looked relieved, though I’m sure you wouldn’t believe it.

He went to the city centre gardens and saw her up ahead. She was in a red coat holding a balloon in one hand and an ice cream in the other. The woman she was with was on the phone. He knew who she was ringing. He looked up to see if there were any clouds in the sky and there weren’t. Today it was clear like a blue sea. He sat on a bench and waited. There were shouts from children and the whiz of skateboards and the laughter of pregnant mothers cooing by prams. Life was going on.

After a few minutes, he saw them coming towards her. They were rushing through the crowd. For a second, he wanted to intervene. He wanted to sweep her away and take her with him the way they’d planned. She was looking round her at all the things he’d planned on showing her and all the places he’d planned on taking her. Maybe she was looking for him. The world was a bit weird but she’d get used to it. She’d get used to being without him.