Angels Of The North

by Ray Banks

  So there was no real blame here. It was a natural, if unfortunate, reaction to an even more unfortunate series of events. But it was one thing to be shunned on her birthday, quite another to hear nothing from her for weeks afterwards.

  In the end, Brian called Lynne to find out what was going on. After all, he might not have been owed much, but a simple, heartfelt thank you for the present wouldn't have gone amiss. "Is she there?"

  Lynne sighed down the phone. It was becoming a catchphrase of hers, an involuntary prefix to every uttered thought. At one time it would have irritated Brian, but now he took it as a sign that she'd heard what he'd said, at least. It was when she didn't sigh; that was when he needed to repeat himself. Anyway, she sighed and he could picture her shaking her head. "No, Brian, she's not here."

  "Where is she?"

  "Out."

  "With her friends?" Brian couldn't keep the spite from his voice.

  "Look, I'm sorry about what happened."

  "Don't be."

  "She should have been in."

  "I think we're beyond that now, aren't we?"

  "Sorry?"

  "She was in, Lynne. I saw her upstairs."

  "I think you're confused—"

  "No, I'm not confused. I saw her. And I know you're trying to spare her embarrassment, so ..." His turn to sigh now. "You know something? I was okay with you and Michael, wasn't I? After a while, I mean. After the betrayal sunk in—"

  "Oh come on. It was a long time ago."

  Brian continued over the top of her. "I realised that, you know, you were better off without me. I wasn't much of a husband to you—"

  "You don't need to do this—"

  "I know I don't, but listen to me. Hear me out. I know I wasn't much of a husband, and I know that whatever we had, that's broken, that's never going to be fixed. It's over, all that. And that's fine. I mean, it hurt at the time – I'm sure it hurt both of us – but I think we're both big enough adults to see that sometimes these things just don't work out. People have different personalities dependent on their circumstances, their health, their histories. We're ever-changing, as far as I'm concerned. We fucking glitter, that's what we do. We might keep our core, but throughout our lives, second to second, minute to minute, hour to hour, we adapt or die. And we adapted, you and I. We just happened to do it ... away from each other. And I understand that now. So it's over. It's done."

  "I'm glad to hear you've come round, Brian."

  "I have. But there's one thing. I might not have been much of a husband, Lynne, but I think we can both agree that I was a decent father."

  "Oh." Another sigh, changing it up this time. "I don't know, Brian. Listen—"

  "You know. All that time we've been separated, Danielle didn't complain once."

  "You can't keep on like this—"

  "We were happy, Lynne." He shook his head. "All right, maybe not happy, but we got on, didn't we? We made it work. I wasn't abusive to her, I took care of her. Up until I went into hospital, there wasn't so much as a sniff of a problem, was there?"

  "I've got to think about Danielle, Brian."

  "So do I."

  "I don't follow."

  "What happened, Lynne?" He shook his head again. Felt his legs grow heavy. He rubbed the back of his neck. "I don't know what happened."

  "Are you ... Have you been drinking, Brian?"

  "Oh, fuck off, will you?"

  "I'm only asking."

  "I'm asking. You're inferring. What happened? Has she spoken to you?"

  "I told you what she said."

  "That she's scared."

  "That's right."

  "Scared to come back."

  "Yes."

  "Because of what?"

  "What do you think?"

  "But that's all sorted out now. There isn't any danger to her anymore." He frowned. "And that doesn't explain anything, Lynne. That doesn't explain why she doesn't want to see me, does it? Why she hid from me?"

  "I told you—"

  "I fucking saw her, all right?" Spittle flecked his bottom lip. He pushed it away with the heel of his free hand. "I saw her in her bedroom, which is right at the front of the house, isn't it?"

  "Brian—"

  "Isn't it?"

  "Yes, but—"

  "So then, I fucking saw her. So leave it out. Stop protecting her. She's thirteen, she can explain herself, can't she?"

  "I suppose so."

  "She's slamming doors, Lynne. I don't want her doing that. I don't care if she's settled there, I don't care if she's comfortable. You've got to understand, I have rights. Not many, but the ones I have I intend to keep. And one of those rights is that I get to see my kid once in a while. I was promised she'd be there on her birthday, I was promised that one, tiny fucking thing – that I could give my only daughter her thirteenth birthday present in person. I didn't care if you were there too. I didn't say anything about that. I didn't care if the whole fucking police force were out to monitor me. The one thing I wanted was to give my daughter her birthday present and maybe – oh, just fucking maybe, Lynne – get to see her open it. That’s not unreasonable, is it?"

  Lynne was silent at the other end of the phone. Then she breathed. It wasn't a sigh for once. At least it didn't sound like all the rest. It sounded like a soft rush of air, like a draught, as if he'd cracked a gap into that wall of hers.

  Which meant there was hope.

  Brian rubbed his neck again, then his face. "You don't hate me, Lynne. I know we've had our troubles and fights and everything, but I told you, I don't hate you, I'm happy for your new life, I really am. I understand everything that happened. And I know you don't hate me, either. You can't. I've done nothing to warrant it, and there's just no sense in us being at each other's throats. There's no reason for it. I'm not asking—" His voice cracked. He cleared his throat. "I'm not asking her to stay over. I'm not asking her to move in. All I'm asking is a visit. That's all. There's nothing to worry about on the estate – we both know that – and I'll make sure everything's just right." Another cough, clear and he rubbed one eye. "Please, Lynne. If she doesn't want to see me after we've talked it all out – if she genuinely doesn't want anything to do with me – then I'll have to accept that, won't I? I'll have to just ... I don't know, I'll roll with it." He laughed, though there was no humour in it. "Take it on the chin, right?"

  Lynne remained quiet. He could hear the spit clicking in her mouth.

  "Lynne?"

  "Okay." Her voice was low, tired, but there was something there that sounded like sympathy. "I'll talk to her. We'll arrange a time, all right?"

  "Sounds good."

  "But we should talk about meeting with the solicitor."

  "We will."

  "You promise?"

  "I promise."

  "Because we need to sort this out once and for all."

  "I agree."

  "I'm just tired, Brian."

  "I know you are. So am I. We'll sort it out. Everything'll be fine."

  And the conversation was over. It was a deal. She would arrange for Danielle to come over, if he arranged to see their solicitor and hash out the terms. Obviously, he couldn't do the latter without her doing the former. He needed to see how Danielle was, he needed to talk to her without an audience, spend a little time with her to find out what exactly he'd done wrong and why she was so frightened. There was a part of him that clung to that possibility of adult conversation, even as he was washing her pink bedspread for the first time in months, hoovering and tidying the front room, giving the bathroom and kitchen a good scrub – hands and knees, fingers burning with bleach – and making sure the liquor was either drained or out of sight. He even got some food in, packed the freezer with it so it looked as if he was living a normal life.

  He needed her to see that he was competent. He needed her to understand that he was a human being, a productive member of society. That there was nothing abnormal about him, nothing to be ashamed of. Yes, he was living in the council's house – Christ
, and wasn't that slight a blast from the past, even though it still had the power to make him cringe – but he had a job, a new job, a decent job, the kind of job where he could make his own hours – Gavin had been good about that – and the kind of job that wasn't going to go away any time soon. A man worked as a taxi driver, he could work anywhere. It was a trade, basically, and so nothing to be ashamed of. As soon as Danielle saw all that, understood it – as soon as he could sit her down and keep her quiet long enough to listen, just listen, as he explained it – and he could explain, couldn't he? Christ, he used to hold the floor at the Student's Union for hours, proclaiming this and declaiming that – then he was positive she'd understand.

  All they needed to do was talk. That was all. Really. Once they talked it all out, once he pulled down those walls that had somehow been erected in the wake of his hospitalisation, all that fear and (yes, probably) guilt would be stripped away and everything would most likely be, if not all right, then somewhere close to it. And that was all he wanted. He hadn't been lying to Lynne when he said he didn't want full custody. He didn't want her to stay over or move in. He wanted to take it slowly. He felt so guilty about everything he'd done in the course of the separation – he realised now that he'd been acting like a child, acting out essentially. He'd been drunk, as always, he'd been angry, he'd felt useless. These were natural things to feel when you were out of work and alone. But he'd managed to pull himself out of that. He was a better person now, a better man. And even if he wasn't good enough for Lynne – and he didn't really want to be good enough for Lynne – he was good enough for Danielle.

  He sat in the front room and smoked his first cigarette of the day. The nicotine, combined with the heady smell of bleach and cleaning products, made him giddy. His hands were stiff and cracked and pink, the cigarette rough between his fingers. But he smoked it down to the filter, enjoyed every last drag, and thought about how it would be okay after all.

  40

  Brian picked up Danielle at ten o'clock the following Saturday morning. The sky was clear and bright; a light breeze kept everything cool. It felt clean. Lynne held open the door. Behind her, Danielle came down the stairs with a bounce rather than a trudge, which boded well for her mood. She wore a pink sweater and stonewashed jeans and her hair was tied up in that weird way that teenage girls managed to do, caught in an elaborate architecture of scrunchies, clips and bobby pins. A glance of make-up on her face, which was odd considering that she used to go out looking like a hooker clown; he guessed that must have been her mother's influence, or else she didn't want to appear to have made too much of an effort on his account. He gestured to the cab parked down the steps and she looked surprised that he had a car. She'd obviously been expecting the bus or something like that. Brian was about to go when Lynne caught his attention.

  "Five o'clock, all right?"

  "That's what we said." He took the steps with a lightness that was entirely manufactured. "Five o'clock sharp."

  He opened the passenger side door for Danielle, like he was her driver, and she got in without noticing. He shut the door behind her and crossed in front of the cab. Looked back up at the doorway, and Lynne stood there watching the pair of them with a pinched mouth. That mouth opened into a smile – though even at this distance Brian could see that the rest of her expression remained perplexed – and she waved at Danielle. Danielle didn't move. Brian got into the car and his daughter sat facing front.

  He started the engine. Smiled at her. "So what d'you want to do?"

  She shrugged. "Whatever."

  "All right, well how about we go to the MetroCentre?"

  "'Kay."

  He pulled away from the kerb, gave Lynne a half-wave. "See what's on at the pictures. They got that multi-screen cinema."

  She nodded. He detected a little excitement and found out why when they walked into the pictures. One film in particular jumped out at him as something she'd want to see. He didn't need much of a push, either – she was stood in front of the poster, gazing up at it. Dirty Dancing, it was called. He couldn't work out whether it was a romance or a porn movie, not with a title like that. The poster didn't answer many questions either – looked like a lot of writhing and wet T-shirts, if he was honest.

  He nodded at the poster. "You want to see that one, do you?"

  She mumbled an affirmative.

  All right. He could manage an hour and a half of pretty much anything. And if she wanted to see it, she could see it. Supposed to be a treat, after all. He escorted her to the ticket booth and smiled as he dug for his wallet. "Two for Dirty Dancing, please."

  The woman behind the glass pushed up her bottom lip and looked at Danielle. "How old is she?"

  Brian already had the money out. "Sorry?"

  "It's a fifteen, this."

  "A fifteen?"

  "The certificate. If she's younger than fifteen she can't see it."

  "Yeah, but I'm here."

  "You're the parent?"

  "The parent? I'm her dad, yes."

  "Doesn't matter."

  Danielle tugged at his sleeve. "Dad—"

  "Doesn't matter?"

  "Sorry."

  "Dad, it doesn't—"

  He held a hand up to silence Danielle. He could hear the embarrassment in her voice already. He decided to keep his own voice down and his tone as civil as possible. "Listen, I'm her father. I think I should be able to decide what she can see and can't see."

  "All right." The woman appeared to be thinking. "So you've seen it, have you?"

  "No. Well ... no, I haven't."

  "So you don't know what's in it."

  "I can ... She's seen a lot worse, believe me."

  "Not here, she hasn't."

  He gestured to the poster. "It's about dancing."

  "Dirty dancing."

  "All right, listen, so what?"

  "So it's a fifteen."

  "Just ... I'm her father, all right? And I should be able to take her to a film if I want to."

  "You can." She pointed to the board. "An American Tail starts in fifteen minutes."

  "I don't want to see An American Tail. I want to see Dirty Dancing. And I'm entitled to see it."

  "You are, but not your daughter. It's against the law. And I'm sorry. I can't do it. It's my job."

  "No, but if you just listen—"

  "I'm sorry."

  "Fuck's sake, just listen to me." He slammed the heel of his hand against the plastic glass. It shuddered in the frame. His hand hurt. For a second he thought he'd broken a bone. If he could've fitted the entire fist into his mouth to suck it better, he would have. Instead, he took a step back. Saw the mortified look on Danielle's face. The barely disguised snarl on the face of the box office bitch. That was her default reaction to aggression – to become aggressive herself. He'd seen that expression on the face of countless pissed-up fat cunts down the pub, fronting like a pack of wild pigs, squealing and indignant. The expression made him want to damage his other hand. But first he glanced at the side of the box office. There had to be an entrance somewhere.

  "Dad ..."

  Fuck it. Wasn't worth it. The damage was done.

  "Okay, love. We'll go somewhere else." He stuffed his wallet into his back pocket and ushered Danielle away to the nearest McDonald's, where they sat in silence with a couple of burgers. Danielle didn't eat much. Neither did Brian.

  He nodded at her tray. "Not hungry, eh?"

  She shook her head.

  "That's all right. We should save ourselves, anyway." He forced a smile. "Got spaghetti Bolognese at home."

  Danielle shuddered. She couldn't help herself. She looked cold and tired and vaguely frightened.

  "What's the matter, love?"

  She shook her head. "Nowt."

  "I'm sorry about the film." He wanted a cigarette. He rubbed his fingers together. "I'm sorry that I couldn't ..." He breathed a laugh. Trying to joke about it, because otherwise he'd just wind himself up again. "I mean, why can't they just ... You know in th
e United States, Danielle, they would've allowed me to take you in. It's true. I read about it. They let the parent make that decision over there. Over here, it's a police state, let me tell you. That bloody woman, she ..." He trailed off. She wasn't listening. "Look, I'm sorry about the film. I'm sorry about the ..." Another trail-off. She was unresponsive, a wall in front of him, and he didn't have the energy to push. He watched her stare at the picked-at meal in front of her. All around them, the general grate and hubbub of a Saturday afternoon at McDonald's made them seem mute in comparison. Mute and very much alone in each other's company.

  Brian ate a chip. It was cold. He dropped it onto his tray. There had to be something they could talk about. There had to be some way in.

  He caught her eye. "Do you like your locket?"

  No response.

  "Your birthday present. The locket I got you. Do you like it?"

  She attempted a half-smile and nodded at him. "Yes."

  "Did you open it?"

  Shook her head.

  If she'd been wearing it then, he would have opened it. Instead he had to remember. "It was a poem. A little poem that you liked when you were a kid. I won't tell you what it is – when you get home, you make sure and open the locket so you can read it." Trying to smile, but finding it difficult to keep going. "You should do that. You should definitely do that. It'll help. For when you're sad." He cringed at the whine in his voice. "Or whatever. You know."

  And he knew from her face that she wasn't wearing the locket because she didn't like it. Because maybe she didn't like butterflies anymore, or she thought she was too old for lockets and keepsakes and all that girly nonsense, or whether her mother or Crosby had said something or her friends had said something derogatory in passing and she'd taken it to heart – she was a sensitive girl, after all, took after him in so many respects it was painful to see. Because for all he may have doubted it at times, he could see himself in her. He could see the pain in her, the awkwardness, the disconnection. And he knew that another reason why she wasn't wearing the locket was because she didn't want to be connected to him. Maybe she didn't want to be connected to anyone. But at least everyone else got to spend time with her on a daily basis.