Steven Dunne - Deity

He returned his key to his pocket, but instead of opening the door, he paused to listen. Something felt wrong. He knelt to lift the empty flower pot in the corner of the porch. The spare key was gone.

Again Brook racked his brains, trying to remember if he’d moved it to another hiding-place but his brain was too tired to cooperate. He came to a decision and pulled gently down on the handle and eased the front door open. It moved without a sound and he peered into the blackness of the kitchen beyond and listened. Without flicking on the light he couldn’t be sure, but he sensed things were not how he’d left them earlier in the day. There were dark shapes on the kitchen table which he didn’t recognise. He knew they couldn’t be his. Brook didn’t have clutter, knick-knacks, objets d’art nor any of the mementoes of a life lived. His development as a human being had been in suspended animation for years.

Brook took a tentative step into the shadows, then another. When he reached the foot of the tiny crooked staircase he gazed up to the trapdoor in the roofspace on the first floor. He had an unlicensed gun in the attic, a legacy of his entanglements with The Reaper. It didn’t work but maybe that wouldn’t matter, and he wished he’d hidden it in a more accessible place.

Brook remembered his training — Defensive not Offensive. He slid off his shoes and then his jacket, wrapping it around his leading arm. Burglars often carried large knives, not principally for protection but to sever the wiring of desirable electrical goods for ease of carriage. That didn’t mean a surprised intruder wouldn’t use it when cornered.

Suitably protected, Brook tiptoed into the small lounge, where a figure lay on the sofa, legs splayed across one of the arms, its breathing shallow. Brook leaned over to switch on a lamp.

He squinted at the face of the intruder then stood upright in bewilderment. ‘Terri?’

The figure stirred and opened her eyes. ‘Dad.’

‘Terri.’ Brook flung his jacket to the floor, sat on the sofa and hugged his daughter. ‘It’s really you. What are you doing here? Never mind. How long have you been here? Never mind.’ He hugged her again, then held her by the shoulders in panic and searched in her eyes. ‘What’s wrong? Is your mother all right?’

Terri yawned and sat up. ‘Dad, she’s fine. Where’ve you been?’

‘Work.’

She squinted at her watch. ‘Nothing changes.’

‘Why didn’t you give me some notice?’

‘I did. I emailed you, Dad. Two weeks ago. To tell you I wanted to come and visit. How often do you check your emails?’ she said, swinging her feet to the floor.

Brook shrugged. ‘Every couple of weeks. At least.’

She shook her head then smiled. ‘You look well, Dad.’

Brook raised an eyebrow. He knew he was wasting away. ‘For a workaholic who doesn’t look after himself, you mean.’ He held her tight again. ‘ You look beautiful. You really do — just like your mum. Your hair suits you, short. I like it.’ Brook stopped, looking sheepish. He wasn’t usually the type to gush.

Terri smiled back. ‘No flaws?’

He peered at her neck and examined her red-nailed hands. Her arms were covered. ‘Still no tattoos?’

‘Da-ad. I’m twenty years old.’

‘So you’ve got one,’ he probed.

‘No, I haven’t. But not because all criminals have tattoos . .’

‘I never said that.’

‘Something very like it.’ She laughed. ‘Besides, I can’t stand needles — remember?’

‘Great. That rules out heroin as well.’

‘You can smoke heroin, Dad.’

Brook did a double-take but laughed when she laughed. ‘I can’t believe you’re here. I wish I’d known. I could’ve-’

‘What, Dad? Emptied the fridge of sour milk and filled it with food? That’ll be the day. After all these years, you’re still all over the place. You and that bloody job. I don’t know why you don’t retire. Mum says you’ve got enough money.’

‘I don’t do it for the money, darling,’ he said quietly. ‘I do it because. .’ He hesitated, unsure how to explain.

‘It’s okay,’ she said, putting a hand on his chest. ‘Mum told me.’

Brook sighed. The elephant of his mental breakdown was still in the room but taking up a little less space. Unfortunately, that would leave more space for the second elephant — her stepfather.

‘You must be starving,’ he said to change the subject.

Terri bounced to her feet and led him to the kitchen. ‘No, Dad. Far from it — I knew to come prepared. I brought wine and made spag bol. Would you like some?’

‘Terri, I’d love some.’

So Brook sat down at the kitchen table while Terri busied herself at the tiny old-fashioned stove that had rarely warmed a pan. She poured him a glass of red wine and he nibbled on some French bread while he waited for his meal. He couldn’t take his eyes from his daughter’s back as she reheated the sauce and boiled more pasta. She was taller and seemed even more self-assured than he remembered. Her hair was shorter and her make-up a little subtler than that traumatic day on Brighton Pier, the last time he’d seen her. And, of course she was no longer wearing a school uniform. Now she wore figure-hugging jeans and a dark velvet v-neck top with long sleeves that nearly covered her hands.

Five years. His daughter was a stranger. Brook bit down on the melancholy. She may be a stranger but she’s here now .

‘So is that your car outside?’

‘Yep. Mum bought it for getting round Manchester.’

‘Does she know you’re here?’ Brook saw Terri’s back stiffen as she paused to consider her reply.

‘No.’

Brook nodded behind her back. Amy would never forgive him. Not content with destroying her first marriage through his obsessive hunt for The Reaper, Brook had done the same to her second, denouncing her new husband, the late Tony Harvey-Ellis, as a sexual abuser of their only daughter. ‘Give her my. . best wishes when you see her.’ Terri turned round as though about to break some terrible news. He added gently, ‘But only if you want to tell her you’ve seen me.’ She smiled with relief and turned back to the stove. ‘You’re enjoying university?’

‘Loving it, Dad.’

‘And how do you like. .?’

‘American Literature.’

‘I know, I know,’ protested Brook. ‘All that Norman Mailer and Truman Capote.’

‘Those old dinosaurs. It’s all Jonathan Franzen and Amy Tan these days.’

‘No place for the flawed old men, eh?’ said Brook.

‘I wouldn’t say that, Dad.’ Terri began to serve Brook’s meal. ‘I mean, Mailer’s a pig, no question. But if you get past the misogyny and the drinking, there’s a lot of elegiac, ravaged poetry in the man. Do you know what I mean?’

Brook smiled at her. He realised he hadn’t stopped smiling since he’d seen her face. ‘Yes, I do. This looks good.’

‘I’m expecting you to eat it all.’

‘Don’t worry. This is likely to be the last home-cooked meal I’ll get for a while.’

‘Oh, no it’s not. I’m staying for a couple of weeks. I mean if that’s okay,’ she added hastily.

‘A couple of weeks? Does the university allow you time off?’ said Brook, tucking in with gusto.

‘I’ve got a dissertation to do so I need some peace and some space, Dad. Can I stay?’

‘I’d love you to stay,’ said Brook, before a frown invaded his features. ‘I. . er don’t know how much time. .’

‘Dad. Don’t worry. I’ll be busy, and I’m sure you’ve got a hot case to crack.’

‘Two,’ replied Brook as he chewed.

‘That’s settled then. How’s the Bolognese?’

Brook ladled another large spoonful into his mouth. ‘It’s the finest I’ve ever had, Terri.’