Suzy K Quinn - Not My Daughter

My body goes rigid. ‘What?’

Liberty takes her phone from the bedside table. ‘This is you. Isn’t it?’ She passes me the phone.

My mouth turns dry.

I see a skinny, kohl-eyed teenager with chin-length, punky hair and bony body under a Michael Reyji Ray T-shirt. My teenage self is dragging suitcases behind a straggly, dark-haired man in a leather jacket.

The worst thing about the picture is my eyes. They’re glazed and lovesick. I’ve seen the same eyes since in fanatical cult members.

This girl was me, once. A long time ago. But I feel no connection to her. She’s like a stranger.

There are more pictures under teenage me: a young Michael Reyji Ray, tanned and handsome. In those days he was in good shape, running around stage all night, slashed-up T-shirts showing off his chest. There’s a picture of Michael on stage, and also driving his purple Jaguar F-Type, looking every bit the rock and roll rebel.

Michael is different these days too. I’ve seen pictures. His face is swollen and craggy under his bleached white hair, chin dusted with black and white stubble. We’re both bigger, but I’ve got fitter, he’s got fatter: a toad of a man in black jeans, bright T-shirts and suit jackets.

Liberty watches me closely. ‘Michael Reyji Ray is my father,’ she says. ‘Isn’t he? All the dates add up. And … we have the same face.’

I swallow. ‘How did you find this?’

‘Someone at school showed me.’

‘The girl who gave you the jacket?’

‘No. Someone else.’

My mouth is dry. ‘Did you read the article?’

Liberty nods.

‘What else have you seen?’

‘Not much, just … some old magazine articles. Saying you were sort of obsessed with him. My father.’

‘I’m taking this phone.’

‘What?’

‘Your phone,’ I say. ‘I don’t want you looking at this stuff. It won’t lead anywhere good.’

Liberty shakes her head like a disappointed parent. ‘That’s your solution to everything. Censorship. Control. And then you bring in Nick to back you up. Fine. Take my phone. Take it. And while you’re at it, lock my door and throw away the key.’

‘Listen, you have no idea how good our life is without your father in it. Haven’t I warned you enough about him? Haven’t I spent your whole life warning you?’

‘You know what I think? I think he treated you badly and you need a reason to hate him.’

‘That’s not true. I mean, yes. He did treat me badly. But I have plenty of genuine reasons for keeping him away.’

‘Parent alienation,’ says Liberty. ‘It’s a thing. You should let me make up my own mind.’

I’ve kept my daughter secure behind high gates. We’ve stayed hidden for sixteen years. But Michael’s still got into our home.

‘You can’t ever see him,’ I say. ‘Ever.’

‘You can go now.’ Liberty picks up her guitar. ‘You’ve made your point. Mother knows best.’

When Michael Reyji Ray took my hand on that cold autumn night and led me across the parking lot, it felt as if all my dreams had come true.

As we walked, I risked a glance at the god beside me.

Looking at Michael, even sideways on, was like looking at the sun. He was bright and blinding. Everything was clear as clear. Michael’s skin shone. His eyes were glittering stars. All around him was light.

When I was fifteen years old, the doctors found a life-threatening tumour. I’d nearly died. Now at sixteen, I’d gone to heaven. Or at least stumbled upon the meaning of life. His name was Michael Reyji Ray and he was my happily ever after. Our carriage awaited us: a giant black tour bus with wasp-eye wing mirrors and tube-light steps.

The world was brighter than it had ever been and time had slowed so I could take it all in.

‘So you like our band, do you?’ Michael asked me.

I nodded and nodded. ‘I’ve listened to Crimson’s Big Dreams album probably a thousand times. You have no idea what that album means to me. It literally saved my life.’

Michael chuckled. ‘Well, I am honoured.’

‘This is a fairy tale,’ I told Michael as he escorted me up the sharp metal tour-bus steps and into rock and roll fantasy land. ‘I can’t believe this is really happening.’

Everything on the bus was bright, like Michael’s presence had lit it up. The leather sofas gleamed, the chrome tables sparkled and spotlights twinkled like shy little stars.

Bottles of Guinness stood on the bar beside magnums of champagne. There were huge meat pies cut into slices, cocktail sausages and loaves of brown bread.

‘Who’s all the food for?’ I asked.

‘You. If you want it.’

The bus was empty when we boarded, except for a driver lounging in the front seat, feet on the dashboard. He wore a black-leather eye mask and snored loudly.

Michael flicked the driver’s nose playfully and shouted, ‘Danny!’

The driver fell about in his seat, sitting upright and ripping the mask from his eyes.

When he saw Michael, he looked momentarily terrified. ‘Shit. Shit.’

Michael’s eyes were stern as he ruffled Danny’s hair. ‘Have you been on the beers, Danny boy?’

Danny coughed a smoker’s cough. ‘Just sleeping. Power nap.’

‘Good lad,’ said Michael. ‘We don’t want you dozing at the wheel later on. We have a lot of good people on this bus.’

Danny pulled his mask back on his face.

Michael offered me a seat on a leather sofa and grabbed two Grolsch beers from a mini-bar fridge. ‘You’re over eighteen, right?’ He winked, popping open a beer and handing it to me.

I nodded quickly.

‘I know they don’t let you drink until you’re twenty-one in this country,’ said Michael. ‘But this bus is my home town of Dublin. International soil. And in Dublin, you can go to the pub when you’re eighteen.’

I nodded and nodded, a big, dumb grin on my face. He thought I was eighteen!

‘That is one totally cool jacket you have on there.’

I smiled, too shy to meet his gaze.

‘And with a jacket like that you can’t drink orange squash, can you?’ said Michael. ‘You’ve got to go the whole way. Sex and drugs and rock and roll.’

I kept nodding, swigging from the beer bottle.

‘Do you know what?’ said Michael. ‘You are a very beautiful girl. You’re like a little fairy. All tiny and delicate. I can’t stand women getting muscly like men. It looks wrong.’

As Michael was laying on the charm, Paul Graves and his wife climbed on the bus. Paul grabbed a magnum of champagne and moved to the back without saying a word.

‘Tell me about yourself,’ said Michael. ‘What brings you out to see a load of old men play music on a cold night?’

‘I love your music. I went crazy when I got tickets for tonight. Totally crazy. Everyone knew the gig would sell out.’

Michael watched me intently, his eyes twinkly and black. It didn’t feel like a forty-something man picking up a sixteen-year-old. It felt like the biggest rush of my life.

‘Hey, will you do something for me?’ said Michael.

‘Anything,’ I gushed, every bit the idiot fan.

‘Paul has got a huff on tonight because we cut one of his songs. Hop on down the bus and tell him you were glad we didn’t play “Come On Home”. Can you do that?’

‘You want me to … what?’

Michael’s eyes glittered. ‘Just tell him. Tell him you don’t like “Come On Home”.’ He patted my bottom. ‘Off you go. Go on, kiddo. I dare you.’

I swallowed and got up. In a daze I wandered down the bus and stood right in front of Paul Graves, who was sitting with his wife. The pair had their heads close together.

I cleared my throat and squeaked: ‘I-don’t-like-come-on-home. I’m-glad-you-didn’t-play-it.’