Tristan Bancks - The Fall

‘And a man died,’ I said.

‘What?’

‘Out there,’ I said. ‘He was pushed.’

Harry’s face fell straight and serious. ‘What do you mean?’

‘A man was pushed from up there.’ I pointed towards the sixth-floor balcony.

‘When? Tell me what happened,’ he said.

I relayed everything I had seen and heard. I acted out parts of it. I pointed to where the man had landed. I showed him the receipt and the arm of the glasses. He drank a steaming, three-bag, four-sugar tea, black, as there was still no milk, and listened carefully. I showed him my photos – the blurry one taken when I bumped the window, and the close-ups of the indent in the earth and other evidence at the crime scene. I watched his reactions carefully. I wanted him to say I’d done well, but he didn’t. He did not take notes. My comic-book Harry wasn’t a note-taker either.

He went to the small, round dining table. ‘Where’s my laptop?’

I grabbed my backpack and gave it to him. ‘I was trying to look after it.’

Harry opened the laptop, turned the screen away from me and sat down. ‘And the other man?’

‘I didn’t really see him that well. He had a sort of high-pitched voice and he sounded small. I think he was small, but I couldn’t really tell from up here.’

He tapped some keys and stared at the screen.

‘What are you looking up?’ I asked.

He ignored me, tapped some more, stared at the screen again for another minute or two.

I was desperate to know.

‘Oh, god,’ he said, still watching.

‘What?’ I asked, trying to see.

He closed the lid and looked at me, wide-eyed, as though he was staring right through me.

‘I’m sorry I went out.’

‘It’s okay,’ I said, even though I didn’t really think it was okay.

‘Do you think anyone else saw what happened?’ he asked.

‘I don’t think so. It was just me. Is it something to do with your story? Should we go to the police?’

He gazed out the window, his eyes bleary and hair a mess, unshaven, unwell.

‘Are you okay?’ I asked.

‘Not really.’

‘Did you have something to drink?’ I asked. ‘I thought you didn’t–’

‘I slipped up,’ he said. ‘I’ve had a lot to think about this week. And before you ask your next question, can you just give me a moment?’ He hobbled over to the armchair that had been wedged against the door and flopped into it. Magic rested her head in his lap. Harry took off his shoes and socks. His feet were road-mapped with thick blue veins. The skin on top of his feet was thin, the soles hard and yellow and crusty. I would never draw the Harry Garner in my comics like this. He looked way too real.

My Harry, superhero crime reporter, was an expert in jujitsu and boxing. He was a polyglot, which meant that he knew lots of languages – nineteen, in fact, including Swahili, just in case I decided to set a story in Kenya or Mozambique. He was rich and he travelled the world without even taking a suitcase. He could ride a motorbike, scuba-dive, fly a helicopter and captain a submarine in a pinch. He was a computer hacker and arms expert. He skied in Switzerland and climbed live volcanoes in Hawaii for exercise. Women loved him and men wanted to be him.

But sitting here, drunk and old, in this tiny apartment with peeling blue paint on the walls, was the real HG. My dad. Maybe the next issue of Harry Garner: Crime Reporter would be called ‘The Real Harry Garner’ and he’d have sore knees and a fat brown dog. At least I didn’t have to worry about people cancelling their subscriptions. That was the one advantage of me being my only reader.

‘Do you think we need to go to the police?’ I asked again.

‘No,’ he snapped. I think he realised how sharp his voice sounded and he softened. ‘Not right now. Listen, how would you feel about going home a day early?’

‘Home? Why?’

‘I have to go to work today.’

The thought of him leaving me again sent adrenaline racing through my veins.

‘It’s not safe for you here,’ he said. ‘I appreciate your telling me all these details but I think you’d be better off at home. I’ll give your mum a call. Maybe I can put you on a train this morning rather than tomorrow.’

He hoisted himself out of the armchair and limped towards the bedroom. He had a short leg and crooked spine like mine, but worse. He was what Dr Cheung had said I would become if I didn’t have the operation. And he seemed even more crooked after being out all night.

‘Please,’ I said to him. ‘I don’t want to go home yet. Can I stay?’ Even as I said the words, part of me regretted them. What if the man came back?

Harry took a fresh shirt from the wardrobe, turned and looked at me from under his thick, grey brows.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Please.’ I crutched towards him. ‘I can come to work with you. I won’t bother you.’

‘I don’t do the kind of work where I can–’

‘I’ll stay out of your way.’

‘You can’t come with me, all right?’ he said firmly, shrugging on the shirt.

‘Well, can I stay here?’

He motioned towards the mess at the front door, the lock lying on the floor. He pulled a fresh pair of pants from the wardrobe and pushed the bedroom door closed.

‘He won’t come back,’ I said, raising my voice so Harry could hear me. ‘We can put another lock on the door. I want Mum to think this went well. She won’t want me to come back here if you send me home early. Please, it’s only one night. I won’t be any trouble. I’ll go home tomorrow like we planned.’

I waited. He said nothing for a minute or two and I knew that he was going to say no. Eventually the bedroom door swung open and he stared at me.

‘Why would you want to be here with me?’ he asked.

I wondered if it was a trick question. ‘Because you’re my dad,’ I said.

He stared at me for a moment. ‘Please don’t hold me up as any kind of hero. Your mum deserves all the credit for the way you’ve turned out. You make sure you’re good to her.’

I nodded. ‘I will.’

‘You promise me?’

I nodded again.

‘If you see or hear anything even slightly suspicious you’ll call me or send me a message right away?’

‘Yeah.’

He rubbed his face with his hands.

‘Okay,’ he said. ‘You can stay till tomorrow morning.’

Harry drove the final screw into the deadlock and mopped sweat from his forehead with a dirty tea towel. He had been to the mini Mitre 10 on the corner the minute it opened, bought two locks and a screwdriver and spent forty minutes fixing the locks to the door. They looked a little bit crooked to me, maybe because he had been drinking, but judging by the number of times he swore, it seemed like Harry didn’t do a lot of DIY. But it was done. I would stay till tomorrow morning.

‘I’ll be back by six,’ he said. ‘Hopefully before. Don’t open the door for anyone. Do you understand?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘And are you sure you can be back by six because–’

‘I’ll be back by six. You have my word. And are you sure you can send me a message if you need to? You’ve got enough credit or whatever?’

‘Enough for messages.’

‘Well, I’m only a few blocks away. If you hear or see anything …’

I nodded. I wanted to suggest again that we go to the police. He must have read my mind.

‘Give me today,’ he said. ‘I’ll be back as soon as I finish work and I’ll tell you more then. I just need some time to check some things. You’ve played hard, done good, telling me this information and now you have to trust me, Sam. Can you do that? Can you trust me?’