He closed the trunk and felt his body begin to shake. He collapsed onto the tarmac drive and began to weep uncontrollably. Like a drowning man, surfacing to claim one last clean swallow of air.
* * *
Lionel Rymer sat in his office, alone, thinking about his son. The boy had been missing for just over three hours and, while Lionel felt a rising tide of terror crashing over him, as any father would, he was more heated by a sense of moral outrage. Not just that his son had more than likely been kidnapped, but that he, Lionel Rymer, a man accustomed to privilege and indulgence, inclined to get his own way regardless of the cost to others, could do nothing to correct the matter. This is what burned away at him. That, for all the wealth and power he’d accumulated over the years, it had taken the loss of his own son to remind him of its true value.
His thoughts turned to Philip and he silently prayed that the boy was simply stuck somewhere and unable to contact home. But in his heart he knew this was not the case. The boy was an easy target; always had been, despite the level of supervision Lionel had insisted upon. Perhaps even because of it, he now thought. As he grew older, Philip seemed to take perverse pleasure in ditching the very men Lionel hired to protect him. He considered how easy it would be for one of his corporate rivals or some lunatic fringe group to intercept his son, and his skin grew cold. Worse still, what if a random sociopath had the boy? Someone who lived in a shadow world to Lionel’s own, beyond the temptation of money and bribes, for whom the only motivation was the terror itself…
There was a gentle knock on the oak door of the office and Harrison entered.
“Mr. Haft is here to see you, sir.”
“Thank you, Harrison. Send him in. Perhaps a pot of afternoon tea as well. To warm the spirits.”
Harrison nodded. “Chinese or English today, sir?”
Lionel paused, staring out at the miserable gray skyline. “English, I think,” he said.
Harrison retreated and Lionel placed his hands atop the desk and stared at the panelled walls and bookcases that lined the office. The opulence of it all made him feel sick.
Another knock and Harrison reentered the room. “Mr. Haft, sir.”
He stepped to one side and ushered in a large, imposing man, his shaved head tilted forward slightly, as though constantly primed to charge. He moved like a glacier, slow and sure, daring the land before it to stand firm. He reminded Lionel of the chalk giant etched into the earth in one of the southern counties: bold, mysterious and unknowable. His eyes were clear and intelligent, but not to be trusted. They looked as unforgiving as stone.
Lionel waited until Harrison had left the room and then said: “Take a seat, Haft. I have a problem.”
Haft lowered himself into the chair opposite Lionel and locked his hands across his stomach. His head tipped forward a little and his eyebrows rose.
“We all have problems, Lionel,” he said. “Life is the great leveller, don’t you think?”
There was a ghost of a smile playing around the man’s lips and Lionel frowned. Haft was the only man in his employ who still called him by his first name. The others were sycophantic pedants to a man, eager to please and keen to express their deference. Only Haft dared to play the game differently, treating Lionel Rymer as an equal, those cold, piercing eyes almost challenging Lionel to protest.
He stared at the broad-shouldered man seated before him and smiled. He was quick to sense fear in others and was a great respecter of it; it signified who had the greater resolve. He only hoped Haft was disinclined to do the same.
Harrison reappeared carrying a silver tray, which he placed with great ceremony on the surface of the desk.
“Will that be all, sir?”
“For now, Harrison. Thank you.”
Lionel poured out two cups of tea, added a little milk and handed one of them across the desk to Haft.
“Yorkshire,” he said. “Your favorite.”
Haft raised the cup to his lips and sipped at the brew. Lionel looked on, amazed, as always, by the size of the man’s hands. It was like watching one of the stone heads from Easter Island gatecrashing a child’s tea party.
“So what’s the problem?” Haft said, still slurping the tea.
Lionel felt another surge of anger, the emotion sharpening itself on his apprehension of the very man on whom he knew he’d be forced to depend. Certainly in situations such as this.
“It’s my boy,” he said. “Philip. He’s gone missing.”
Haft nodded, seemingly unsurprised.
“How long?”
“Just over three hours.”
Haft shook his head, that ghostly smile nudging the corner of his mouth. “He’ll be with friends. Or a girl. Three hours is no time, Lionel. Call me again after fifteen.”
He placed the tea cup on the desk and made to stand.
“No. You don’t understand,” Lionel said. “We’ve called everyone. They haven’t seen him. He’s gone, Haft. Someone’s taken him.”
Haft watched as Lionel held a hand to his forehead, his eyes distant, his face pale and drawn.
“Police?”
“They’re involved,” Lionel said, “but it’s the usual bullshit. They want me to wait.”
Haft wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and silently moved towards the door.
“Life,” he said as he walked from the room. “The great leveller.”
CHAPTER 12: CRAZY EIGHTS
It was 6:30 in the morning. Mack had awoken at dawn and been unable to rediscover his pattern of sleep. Once this was disturbed, he knew that it was simpler to adjust his body clock and brace himself for another unsettled day of ceaseless attrition. He rose, dressed himself, attached his mask to his face, and left his room to begin the first walk of an endless loop.
The place was quiet at this time of the morning and Mack liked the stillness of it, the calm rhythm of the empty recreation rooms, the way the sunlit air seemed to hover, untouched. He expected his daddies who worked the night shift enjoyed it, too. So different to the rush of noise that accompanied the day, the hot press of bodies aching for attention, the comfortless sounds of uninterrupted crying drifting from room to room.
Mack walked down the corridor and listened to the silence. He looked at each door he passed and wondered if his daddy was inside. Wondered how many of them were weeping in their sleep.
* * *
Mack made his way to the common room and decided he’d park himself by the large bay windows and watch the birds. He smiled at his daddy who was busy working behind the glass partition of the reception booth, but, after glancing up, he quickly returned to his work.
Mack walked on into the room. It was blissfully quiet. The TV was dark and unattended, though within the hour the usual crowd will have assembled and assumed its customary bovine stare. In the farthest corner of the room three old men had already established an early-morning card game; on closer inspection, Mack was unsurprised to see the face of his father in triplicate, each one poring over a splayed hand of dog-eared cards. Each player had banked a small pile of loose change on the card table in front of them and was hunched over, concentrating hard.
Mack eased himself into one of the wingback chairs by the window and listened to the gentle measure of daybreak: the hum of activity on the wards, the distant rattle of copper pipes as radiators and appliances kicked in. It reminded Mack of something, but he couldn’t quite place it. Something before he ended up here; something better.
He glanced up, expecting the birds to be wheeling in the air, weightless and fragile, but the sky was as wide as a prairie and undisturbed. He looked out across the manicured lawn, the grass stiff with frost, the rolled turf a gentle invitation to run free.
Mack couldn’t remember the last time he had been able to run. He couldn’t remember a lot of things. He ran his fingers across the cool latex of his mask. He touched the ridge just below his cheekbone where the seam of the silicone stopped and the smooth plane of his skin began. He couldn’t even remember what
had happened to his face. It occurred to him that he might have been born disfigured; but he didn’t think so. Something bad had happened. He could hear the faint echo of it howling in his head.
Mack shivered and stared through the window at the unspoiled garden. Whatever it had been he was glad he couldn’t remember. The soft voices of the past might pursue him until the day he drew his last breath, but he didn’t want to know what had happened. If it was too appalling to recall, then in God’s name let it stay that way. He had no desire to discover what he’d done.
* * *
“You in?”
Mack looked up from his briefly lucid retrospection and saw that one of his daddies was cranked over the arm of his chair calling to him from the other side of the room. He was effortlessly shuffling a pack of cards, something he wasn’t aware that Daddy could do. His eyes were watching him, hard and expectant.
“What are you playing?” Mack said.
Daddy shook his head. “Don’t matter none. You either in or you ain’t. You can figure the rest out later.”
Mack rose from the chair. “Then I guess I’m in.”
The second daddy, still in his pajamas and robe, scowled at him. “You got change?” he asked. “Without a stake, you ain’t got a pot to piss in, mister.”
Mack felt in the pocket of his trousers and jangled a handful of coins. Dr. Faber allowed all of his patients a limited allowance for newspapers, stationery and sweets, most of which was usually swept up by the more unscrupulous custodians when they completed their late-night rounds.
“I have money,” Mack said.
“Good enough,” said the third daddy, who was wearing a serge suit that, even to Mack’s indifferent eye, looked way past its use-by date. “Pull up a seat and help us out a little. Stanley here’s on a streak.”
Mack had no idea who Stanley was, but he decided it didn’t matter. Whenever he got confused, he could just fold. It wouldn’t amount to much if he lost a few pennies along the way. There was greater value to be had. He would be playing with his daddy again. Just like when he was a boy.
He seated himself on a vacant stool and watched the first daddy deal from the pack. He noticed that one of his eyes was bloodshot and wondered whether his father was sleep deprived or hitting the bottle too hard. After eight cards had been dealt to each player, Bloodshot Daddy placed the remaining pack in the center of the table. Mack watched as the men picked up their cards and instinctively drew in their shoulders. A tense hush descended as they prepared to play. Clearly there was an edge to the game; he sensed that none of his daddies would be particularly gracious if they lost.
“Okay,” Bloodshot Daddy said. “Crazy Eights. Draw cards are the two and the ace. Jokers are wild.”
Mack dug into his pocket and piled his coins on the card table as his daddies rearranged their hand.
He glanced up to see Bloodshot Daddy staring at him. “What the fuck are you doing?”
Mack looked puzzled. “What do you mean?”
Bloodshot Daddy pointed. “You dropped a fucking card on the floor,” he said. “I saw you do it.”
Mack noticed that Bloodshot Daddy only had two coins left on the table before his eyes moved to the beige carpeted floor. A faded six of hearts lay faceup no more than an inch away from his left foot.
He glanced up and all the color seemed to bleed from the room. He looked across at his daddy trapped behind the glass in the reception booth and realized that time seemed to have slowed down, everything reduced to a steady drip, as though he were locked into a dream-moment and unable to move. His hands were cold and his fingers felt stiff around the cards. He wondered whether he could have dropped one by mistake. He counted them out in his head as his daddies turned to look at him. Eight cards. Not a single one of them had been displaced. Bloodshot Daddy had been mistaken. Mack looked at him across the table and saw that half a dozen coins had been discreetly added to Bloodshot Daddy’s stake.
The other two daddies were now peering under the table at the six of hearts and Mack felt the sharp ambit of reality shift. He was staring into Bloodshot Daddy’s face, watching the constitution of his own father seep and stretch into the furrowed cunning of someone else; someone Mack knew all too well.
“Are you a cheat, boy?” Dark Daddy screamed at him across the card table, his face still warping into the veined, black-eyed horror that Mack remembered from his childhood. “Is that what you are? Nothing but a snivelling little cheat?” Dark Daddy leaned across the table, spit flying from his lips, his face red and swollen with rage. “I ought to bash your goddamn head in,” he said. “Is that what you want? Someone to teach you a few manners, a little goddamned etty-ket?”
The word sounded funny coming from Dark Daddy’s mouth, as though he were trying to squeeze out its meaning syllable by syllable. It didn’t matter; Mack knew what it meant. He had been taught about etty-ket before, when he was a young boy. Dark Daddy had explained it to him. He had whispered it to him many times in the night.
“Please, Daddy!” Mack wailed. “I’ll be a good boy. I promise!”
Dark Daddy’s face continued to waver, canting towards something less palatable, like an unstable version of itself, its substance less easy to define. He looked hard at Mack, nostrils flaring, sweat dripping from his brow.
“What the fuck did you just call me?”
There was another tightening of that strange loop in which time seemed to have slowed down, Dark Daddy’s face seeming to float above Mack’s own as he leaned across the table, reaching for him.
“Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!” Mack screamed. “Where’s my daddy? I want my real daddy…”
He crashed to the carpet as the table overturned, spilling cards and money across the floor. Dark Daddy, whose real name was Walter Haynes, was still trying to get his hands around Mack’s throat when the custodian who worked the early shift on the common room reception rushed in and pinned him to the ground. Within seconds three other custodians had arrived in support.
Mack lay on the floor in a ball, his arms protecting his face, rocking himself back and forth. He could still hear Dark Daddy’s voice through the pain: calling him a cheat, threatening to bash in his head. Promising a little etty-ket in the wee small hours of the night…
SESSION #F001/627
Wednesday 14th September, 10:30AM
Attending Physicians: Dr. Kincaid, Dr. Faber.
Faber: Good morning, Mack. Thank you for coming. We apologize for the short notice. Given what happened earlier today, we thought it might be prudent to meet sooner rather than later. I hope you agree.
Mack: We usually meet in the afternoon or early evening. I don’t like meeting in the morning.
Faber: After this morning’s…situation we didn’t think it wise to wait. Do you know why we’re here today, Mack?
[Pause]
Mack: Because Dark Daddy came back.
Kincaid: Do you remember what happened?
[Pause]
Mack: I remember playing cards.
Kincaid: Then what?
Mack: Then Dark Daddy came and called me a cheat. He wanted to bash my head in.
[Pause]
Kincaid: Did he say anything else?
Mack: He wanted to teach me etty-ket.
[Dr. Faber frowns and consults his notes.]
Faber: I’m not sure I follow. Do you know what etty-ket is, Mack?
Mack: Course I do. It means being a good boy.
Faber: But you’re always good.
Mack: [Shaking his head] I try to be, but sometimes I’m bad by mistake.
Faber: Is that when Dark Daddy gets cross?
Mack: Sometimes.
Faber: What does he do?
[Pause]
Mack: I can’t remember.
Kincaid: Try harder, Mack. What does Dark Daddy do when he gets angry with you?
Mack: [Looking uncomfortable] He shows me how to be a good boy. He teaches me etty-ket.
Kincaid: Does he hurt you?
[Pause]
Mack: Sometimes.
Kincaid: What does he do?
[Pause]
Mack: I think he does things to my head.
Faber: Can you tell us what kind of things?
[Mack, looking agitated, shakes his head once.]
Faber: I wonder if you could tell us a little about your family, Mack. What’s your fondest memory of your parents?
Mack: [Smiling] I remember they used to take me to the swings. Daddy would push until I was really high and I remember looking down and seeing Mommy laughing, reaching out her arms to try and catch me…
Faber: That sounds wonderful. You must have been very happy.
Mack: [Frowning] Daddy pushed too hard and I started screaming. Mommy tried to make him stop but he just carried on, pushing harder and harder. He thought I was having fun. The swing was nearly at the top and I could see out over the fields and the trees. I saw Mommy down below hitting Daddy in the chest. He shoved her to the ground and walked away. When the swing finally stopped, Mommy was crying. She hugged me and kept telling me she was sorry. She promised me that one day things would be better, but they weren’t. Everything just got worse.
[Pause. Faber and Kincaid exchange a look.]
Faber: Sometimes it’s hard to raise a family, Mack. Not everyone’s cut out to be a parent.
Kincaid: Can you remember what it was that made things worse?
Mack: Daddy stopped being happy.
[Pause]
Kincaid: Is your daddy here with us today, Mack? Can you see him?
[Mack looks at both Dr. Faber and Dr. Kincaid.]
Mack: Sometimes I think I can…but then he goes away.
Kincaid: What do you see then?
Mack: Nothing.
Faber: I’m not sure I understand.
Mack: His face becomes blurred. Like in a funny cartoon. All shaken up and bits missing.
Faber: How does that make you feel?
Dark Father Page 13
