A Good Father

flash fiction

They made their agreement over cards and balls of mozzarella in a plastic cup. ‘Like New York gangsters’ said Louis, putting down a royal flush and another wad of cheese in his mouth. Michael laughed. ‘How’s Becky?’ asked Louis. That stopped Michael’s laughter. He glanced at the ceiling. ‘Slightly better’ he said. ‘But she’s got a way to go. You try to be a good father, strong. But it’s hard, you know? Seeing her like that.’ Louis nodded.

The next day the house played host to another visitor. His name was Pete and he was young, out of uni, and starting work at a law firm. Sizing him up, Pete grudgingly admitted that he seemed the sort of boy who’d be good for Rebecca.

‘It’s really nice of you to do this’ said Pete.

‘Huh? Oh, yes, of course. Well, I know what accommodation costs are like in London. I’m a UCL man myself, so I like to keep my hand in, help out where I can. Would you like to see the flat now?’

The basement flat was large and airy for what it was, its living room window not far from street level. Pete noticed a picture of a Girl Guide with her mother on the coffee table. ‘My daughter’ Michael explained. ‘She stayed here while she was at school. She’s gone back to her old room now, just temporary while she waits for a house to come through.’ He looked unblinkingly at Pete. ‘She’s pregnant, you see.’

Pete congratulated him on his forthcoming grandchild, then walked to an incongruous gunmetal door in the kitchenette. ‘What’s this?’ he said.

Michael smiled. ‘Our panic room’ he said. Pete grinned from ear to ear. ‘You’re kidding’ he said, ‘can I see?’

As Michael unlocked the door he explained that it was disused but completely soundproof. An aperture of darkness appeared as he swung the door open on its creaky hinges. ‘There’s a light just inside’ he said, pointing. ‘I’ll let you turn it on, my eyes fail me.’

Pete groped for the switch. The little room was washed in bright fluorescent light, revealing to a stunned Pete the largest man he’d ever seen, masked and clothed from head to toe, surrounded by plastic sheeting from floor to ceiling, and to which had been stuck various portraits of a freckled young woman. In some, she was lovely and gay, a knitted jumper pulled up about her mouth in shy coquettishness, or sat on a bench by a lake in a straw hat and shades. In one she’d been beaten to a pulp, both eyes swollen shut and her facial structure sagging where it shouldn’t. This one faced an office chair, beside which was a voluminous tool box. Before Pete turned he was stunned again, this time by Michael, who’d stepped back a little and trained a taser on him.

Several hours later Louis emerged from the basement. He wore a blue jumpsuit and carried a sack into which he’d stripped off a pair of soiled gloves and a butcher’s smock. He threw the sack into the wood-burning stove, before which Michael sat, smoking a pipe like a rural hermit. Louis sat beside him. ‘I’ll have the boys clear out what’s left tomorrow’ he said. He turned his head to look at Michael, who was staring fixedly at the flames. ‘Just never tell me what you did in there’ he said.