Deity (2 page)

James Henry Watson was forty years old and this was his life. He turned away, repulsed. His aging wife had let herself go so completely, so wilfully, that just to look at her sickened him. And yet his disgust at her couldn’t hold a candle to the loathing he inflicted on himself for hitching his life to hers. His harridan of a wife was an old woman at thirty-eight, and to make matters worse, he was still hard and handsome. When he scrubbed up for a night on the town, he could feel female eyes on him, assessing him, suppressing their desire as well as their bewilderment at the shrivelled hag on his arm.

In his building clothes he looked even better. In his check shirt, arse-clenching, slashed-knee jeans and scuffed Timberland boots, slightly weathered like his rugged features, he was a sight for sore housewives. Well toned and tanned from outdoor work with just a slash of grey in his curly blond hair, he was the recipient of open flirting and innuendo over endless cups of tea, while his five-pound-an-hour labourers nodded and winked at him behind the women’s backs.

Bored thirty-somethings with a bit of money were the most persistent. Often they were lonely and frustrated and aware of time slipping through their fingers, their allure dimming with
every passing month, and only so much shopping and daytime TV could defray the monotony of their lives.

Many a time, while demonstrating his mastery of the finer points of conservatory bases to their baffled but adoring faces, he could feel their eyes wandering over his hard body, wanting him, daring him to undo his shirt so they could pull their expensively manicured nails across his bare chest.

But did he stoop to such betrayal despite the temptation, despite the many offers, despite the provocations from his acidic wife? Never. Jim Watson swelled with righteous indignation. He had taken an oath before God that he would never stray from the path of unswerving loyalty to his wedding vows. And he never had. But that only made it all the more galling to endure the daily servings of spite and suspicion from his wife’s poisonous lips.

I know what these rich bitches are like, sitting around the house all day, dolling themselves up and looking for a cheap thrill. Think I don’t see the way they look at you. I better not catch you . . .

Watson drew in another deep breath. God knew how he suffered. God knew Jim Watson was owed.

Finally he heard the noise he’d been expecting outside the house but, instead of his daughter’s footfall, Watson heard a car glide to a halt. The engine sounded powerful as it idled, as though it were trying not to be noticed. Watson waited, ears pricked. He eased himself from his armchair and tiptoed to the curtain to pull it aside, and caught a raised voice followed by muffled wailing. Then he saw his daughter slam the door of a sleek sports car before turning to run to the house, while the sports car – a Porsche – roared away with a squeal of burning tyres.

Watson crept to the door as quietly as he could manage, all the while eying the snoring harpy on the sofa. He snuck out of
the living room and gently pulled the door closed behind him, waiting in the blackness at the foot of the stairs.

A key turned in the latch and Adele stepped through the door and, after closing it, leaned her slim languid body against it as though holding back intruders. She looked to the heavens and released an intense sigh. Watson fancied he saw a tear wiped as he watched from the shadows. Her breathing was harsh and snatched as she fought for control but, after a few moments of puffing and panting, equilibrium returned and finally she was able to pull her frame upright from the door.

Still Watson watched from the gloom of the hall as his daughter ran a hand to her forehead, pushing it through her soft dark hair and down past the perfect curve of her neck. She took a final deep breath and straightened herself as though a decision had been taken, a course of action defined.

‘Goodbye,’ she breathed.

‘Was that him?’ said Watson, emerging from the dark.

Adele Watson started when she heard him and fumbled for a switch. A striplight flickered into life, unforgiving in its illumination.

‘Dad. What are you doing up this late?’ Adele attempted a smile to imply normality, though she couldn’t hold his eyes.

‘I should say the same to you, love.’ Watson stepped into the harsh kitchen glare and closed a second door on his wife. ‘Was that him – your guilty secret?’

‘Guilty? What do you mean?’

‘Well, he’s got a car, hasn’t he? A Porsche, if I’m not mistaken. You didn’t mention that before. He hasn’t driven up to the house either or I’d have known it.’ Adele looked away. ‘What have you got to say for yourself, young lady?’

‘I’m
eighteen, Dad. It’s none of your business.’

‘You’re in sixth form, girl – for a while yet. You live in my house and you have no income. That makes it my business.’

‘I don’t think so,’ she retorted, with an attempt at haughtiness.

‘Well, I do think so, and I’ll thank you not to take that tone with me.’

Adele’s expression betrayed the preparation of further defiance but she side-stepped it. ‘This is silly,’ she said and made for the door. Watson moved to block her way.

‘Answer me.’

‘Answer you what?’

‘He’s got an expensive car.’

‘Is that a question?’

Watson sneered at his beautiful daughter. ‘Don’t take that high hand or you’ll know my wrath. Who is he?’

‘He’s a friend,’ she answered coyly, after a few seconds.

‘A friend?’ he snorted back. ‘You have a
friend
who drives an expensive car and you haven’t mentioned him to us.’

Adele sighed, her eyes searching for a way to the stairs. ‘Dad, I’m tired.’

‘With a car like that, he must be a lot older than you, Ade.’

‘Dad
. . .
’

‘And I know what that means. You think I don’t? Men like him – I know what he wants. I know what he expects
. . .
’ He tailed off, unable to say the words.

‘And what’s that?’ Adele flashed back, her dark eyes now smouldering into his.

Watson flinched as the blackest thoughts in his mind sought the right words. Eventually, sanitised, they emerged.
‘Older men with money want certain things from beautiful girls. Am I right?’

Adele hesitated. She knew the information he was seeking but also knew it was better to withhold it. ‘He’s not that much older,’ she lied. She saw him take a crumb of comfort but was sickened by her own weakness.
Tell him you’re in love. Tell him about the sex. Tell him you’re no longer a virgin
. She looked hard at her father, almost enjoying his anguish suddenly. ‘Besides, I’m a woman now. I can make my own choices.’

Watson clenched a fist as his face contorted and Adele took a step back. ‘Tell me who he is,’ he seethed, but still with the presence of mind to keep the volume down.

‘No.’ Adele made to move around him but he grabbed her shoulders and shook her.

‘Tell me,’ he repeated, this time with a half-turn to the door behind him to ensure continued privacy.

Adele looked angrily at her father. ‘You’re hurting me.’

‘Tell me who he is.’

She wriggled from his grasp and backed away but Watson followed her and trapped her against the kitchen sink. ‘Tell me,’ he insisted, grabbing her wrists and looking down at her full figure pushing against the fabric of her low-cut T-shirt.

‘Please, Dad.’

Watson moved his body against her and forced her back against the cold steel of the drainer. ‘Then tell me. Who is he?’

‘He’s not you,’ she hissed, her face contorted into the expression of contempt, well-grooved on teenage faces.

As though physically slapped, Watson’s head flew back and his grip slackened. Adele was able to push him away. ‘What does that mean, Ade? I’m your father. I love you. I only want the best for you.’

‘The
best? I’ve seen the way—’ Adele broke off and trained her gaze to the linoleum to avoid further confrontation, then looked to the door to close the conversation. ‘I’m tired,’ she said again.

‘You’re tired?’ Watson snapped back at her, laughing, ready to fling more vitriol. ‘What right have
you
got to be tired? You’ve never done a day’s work in your life. Sitting around in classrooms, writing poems – that’s not work. I work all God’s hours to provide for you and your mother and not a word of thanks. Money for your A-level books, money for your university courses next year, no doubt. More books, more expense.’ Again he ran his eye over her well-endowed figure adorned by designer T-shirt and jeans, tan leather Chelsea boots on her feet. She blanched under his gaze. ‘Even the clothes you wear belong to me and your mother, and don’t you forget it.’

Adele’s discomfort turned to sudden anger and her eyes started to water. ‘You want them back? Here.’ She began to pull the T-shirt over her head, exposing her bra.

‘Stop that.’ He grabbed her arm to prevent the T-shirt revealing more flesh. ‘Have you no shame before God?’

‘Shame?’ She laughed bitterly in his face. ‘Hell, yes, I’ve got plenty of that, Dad.’

Watson’s face creased in pain and he couldn’t look at her. ‘Don’t be like that, angel. I don’t want the clothes off your back.’

‘Then what
do
you want? Tell me what I owe you. Give me a bill. You’ll get every penny back.’

Watson’s voice softened and he held his arms wide. ‘Baby, I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just, you’re so young, so vulnerable and yet you’re becoming
. . .
soon you’re not gonna need your old dad any more. What’ll I do then?’

‘You’ll
still have Mum.’

‘And don’t I know it.’ He smiled weakly at her. ‘How about a hug for your old man?’

‘I told you – I’m really tired, Dad. I’ve got college tomorrow.’ A sliver of doubt crossed her features for a second.
Can I face it now?

‘What’s one little hug between Daddy and daughter? We used to have plenty of hugs.’ Adele looked away. ‘Is your boy-friend the only one you can hug these days?’ Watson sneered.

‘He’s not my boyfriend any more, Dad.’ Adele looked at him through her tears. The tears turned to sobs, and as she stood shaking in the cruel light, Watson gathered her into his arms and pressed her head on to his shoulder.

‘There, there,’ he whispered, rubbing her back, unable to keep the smile from his lips. ‘It’s all right. That bastard’s not fit to lick your boots. No one is. I’m here, baby.’ He stroked her hair. ‘Your dad understands. You stick with your old man. I’ll always be here.’ Watson put his hands on her shoulders and held her away from him to lock his eyes on to hers. ‘We don’t need anyone else, do we?’

‘What time do you call this, young lady?’ said a gravelled voice from the door.

Father and daughter were both startled and Adele stepped away from him. She tried to smile at her mother to mollify her, but it was a weak effort. Her father didn’t turn to face his wife but merely straightened, tight-lipped, and lifted his eyes to the ceiling.

Roz Watson seemed even smaller and more withered standing in the doorway, wiping the sleep from her grey face. She glared at the back of her husband’s head through piercing little eyes, despite directing the enquiry at her daughter.

‘Well?’

‘Sorry, Mum. I was just going up.’ Adele made for the door but her mum caught her wrist.

‘Have you been crying?’ Adele nodded without reply. ‘What have you done, Jim?’ she flashed at her husband. Adele made to speak but was halted by her mother’s raised hand.

Watson finally turned. ‘Nothing.’ He looked at her defiantly and for a moment their eyes met.

‘Mum, it’s nothing like that.’

‘Nothing like what?’ said her mum. Adele looked around the room seeking an answer but was cut off before she could summon it. ‘Bed.’

Adele rushed gratefully to the stairs and Roz Watson darted a final look of disgust at her husband before turning to follow.

‘She’s broken up with her boyfriend,’ said Watson, to her shrivelled back. ‘That’s why she was crying.’

‘I’m going up,’ she said, but making no move. Instead, she paused, turned from the door and walked up to him. She smiled up into his face and grabbed his crotch, kneading his manhood in her thin papyrus hand. ‘How’s my favourite soldier? Ready to leave the barracks?’ She pulled her robe aside and pouted up at him. ‘See anything you like, lover?’

Watson smiled weakly back, his lips not parting.

She laughed and scuttled through the door to the stairwell. ‘Don’t be long,’ she breathed invitingly over her shoulder.

When she left, Watson trudged back to sit in front of the TV. No power in heaven or on earth could make him bring forward the horror of their Sunday dry hump to midweek.

Adele sat on her bed in the dark, her face framed against the reflected glow of her laptop. She loaded Facebook and clicked
on her personal details. A tear rolled down her cheek as she amended her relationship status to single. She then clicked to see who of her friends was chatting live at that godless hour.

Becky and Fern were chatting but then they always were. They shared a love of the trivial into which Adele had never been able to tap. They didn’t care about the homeless. They didn’t care about the environment. They weren’t even vegetarians. If she wanted to talk about boys or clothes, she knew where to turn. She’d known them both since primary school but had never felt able to call them close. Even now, at college together, they had little more in common than a couple of classes. And whatever friendship they had, it always took second place to Becky’s countless boyfriends.

Boyfriends – the thought returned her to the end of her relationship. She looked at the time. Half past one. Less than an hour ago, she’d been happy. Less than an hour ago she’d been in love.

‘Correction. I’m still in love,’ she muttered. ‘And it hurts.’ Not two hours ago he’d made love to her on a blanket in a field. He said he didn’t have enough petrol to drive all the way out to the cottage. She should have guessed then – he just wanted a final quickie. Then she’d asked him if he loved her. A pause while he pulled his trousers back up.
Of course I do
. That was her second clue. Then say it.
I love you but I think we’ve taken this as far as it can go, Ade. You’re going off to university. You’re young and beautiful. You’ll meet somebody else
.