‘It’s a must-see, Eric – the symbol of Seattle….’
‘You can’t come to Seattle and not go up in the Space Needle….’
‘The views are awesome, breathtaking….’
So what the hell should he do? Overcome his fears – new fears now, of lifts, of heights – or have to face those people at the church and admit he’d been too scared to take their advice? The Space Needle’s observation-deck was nearly 600 feet high, and the elevators travelled at a dizzying rate of 800 feet per minute – facts that had made him nervous even sitting safe at home. He could, in fact, avoid the lifts if he toiled his way up the 848 steps, but there would still be a sickening sense of vertigo once he reached the top. How had he developed acrophobia, for God’s sake, when he’d always prided himself on being able to cope with heights? No wonder his daughter dismissed him as a freak. Indeed, he felt the deepest self-contempt, knowing she – and everyone – would laugh him to scorn for quaking in the face of a simple tourist attraction.
‘So go up, then,’ he instructed himself, gazing once again at the beetling, daunting structure – a sort of flying saucer tethered to a gigantic pylon, towering high above him. He had been prowling round the vicinity for at least the last half-hour, determined to ratchet up his courage, yet depressingly aware that he and courage had never been natural bedfellows.
‘They say it’s as high as thirteen hundred and twenty candy-bars, balanced one on top of the other,’ Peggy had told him on Sunday; going on to enthuse about the 360-degree views of the Olympic Mountains, the Cascade Mountains, Elliot Bay, the surrounding islands, etcetera, etcetera. He should never have mentioned sightseeing, since it had sparked off a storm of other suggestions from his enthusiastic Christian friends, urging him on no account to miss the Art Museum, Pioneer Square, Capitol Hill, the Pike Place Market and so many other places he would have to resign his job and spend a year in Seattle, just to tick them off the list.
Although, actually, he had done quite well already; devoting the whole of yesterday to viewing the city’s landmarks; starting with the Central Library, whose exhilarating structure and 1.5 million books had put his modest Balham workplace in the shade. And, even this morning, he had taken in the ‘Experience Music’ Project and the Science Fiction Museum, just a stone’s-throw from the Needle. Yet both tours had seemed achingly hollow without Erica beside him to marvel at Captain Kirk’s command-chair, or join him in a jam session, complete with ready-made fans. His daughter seemed to have deliberately planned to be out all day, every day, and must even have persuaded her friends’ mothers not to include him on the excursions. There was always a reason, of course. It was a ‘girly’ thing they were doing, or some pursuit that would bore him to tears.
Nothing would bore him, if only he could be with her, but how could he impose himself when she had no wish for his company? All he could do was hope that things would change. Today was only Tuesday, after all, which meant he’d been with her – or not with her – a mere three and a half days. Strange, though, how that stretch of time felt as long as three and a half months.
So what now? Did he brave the elevator and go whizzing up to the observation deck? Yes, was the obvious answer – except he was uncomfortably aware that, in 1965, an earthquake had jolted the structure sufficiently to send the water sloshing out of the toilets, despite the fact it had been specifically built to withstand the fiercest pressures. Were earthquakes common here, he wondered, glancing at the long line of people waiting to buy their tickets, all putting him to shame? If only he could reincarnate himself as some intrepid person: Douglas Bader, Scott of the Antarctic, Edmund Hillary.
Cloaking himself in Hillary’s skin, he took his place in the queue. Now he had no fears. What was a mere 600 feet compared with Everest? But a brief glance at the placard, ‘Take a test-drive in the sky!’ sent him skulking out again. He would have to tell Peggy that the queue had been so slow to move, he’d decided not to waste his precious time standing about in line.
Disconsolately, he mooched into the gift shop. Erica’s presents were still lost, along with all his gear, and the airline now suspected that the case might never turn up. They had offered compensation, of course, and, on the strength of that, he had bought himself some decent clothes, reflecting, while he shopped, on the idea of compensation. Shouldn’t people be compensated for never having had a mother, or for growing up in care? Or perhaps the whole justice system should be completely overhauled; the judges made to bear in mind that while less than one per cent of children were taken into care, some twenty-five per cent of the adult prison population had, in fact, been through the care system.
Trying to switch his attention from penal reform to finding some replacement gifts for Erica, he wandered round the large, confusing store. It seemed full of expensive tat, however: musical snow-globes, light-up pens, bottle-stoppers, nail-clippers – every product either made in the shape of the Space Needle, or branded with its logo, which meant every product was a reminder of his cowardice. He stopped to look at a cat-shaped cushion, which brought unhappy thoughts of Charlie, as well as new anxiety, because he hadn’t told his daughter yet that their beloved pet was lost. She had actually mentioned Charlie – twice – but still he hadn’t found the guts to give her such unwelcome news when she was already feeling low. Maybe after next weekend, when Brooke and co returned to school, but she had extra leave, they would have the chance of an in-depth conversation and could discuss not only Charlie but Christine’s pregnancy.
In the end, he left the shop with nothing except some postcards of the stunning view from the top: the closest he would ever get to seeing it. In any case, it was now getting on for seven, so time to return to the house – not that Erica was expected back till half-past ten. She was with Brooke again today, but at another friend’s house – a girl called Barbie, of all things – for some sort of get-together, to be followed by a pop concert, out at the Tacoma Dome. The Dome was famous, apparently – one of the largest wood-domed structures in the world – although it seemed unlikely he would lay eyes on it himself.
‘You’d hate the concert, Dad,’ she’d told him. ‘The music’s so loud it’d make you deaf.’
He would gladly take the risk of deafness – indeed of blindness or paralysis – just for the chance of being with her, but it appeared he had no choice.
Once he had boarded the monorail, he sat wondering why the people here were so contemptuous of public transport. The high-speed train took only a couple of minutes to whisk him from the Space Needle to the Westlake Center Mall. And he had even found a fast, convenient bus, departing from Second Avenue and going all the way to Mercer Island Park-and-Ride, from where he could catch another bus to the square at the South End, just a short walk from the house. The entire journey from Downtown Seattle took only three-quarters of an hour. Of course, you could do it in a car in twenty minutes, and here everybody drove – as Erica herself would do, the minute she turned sixteen – and would probably despise him even more, then.
He walked from the Westlake Center down Stewart Street towards the bus-stop, now surrounded by skyscrapers; their majestic glass and steel blazing gold and scarlet in the sunset. If only Mandy were with him, he would feel less rootless in this self-confident but dwarfing city. Yet, the more he reflected on Mandy – which he did constantly and painfully – the more he was forced to admit that they weren’t actually well suited. Right from the start, the idea that she was his fantasy mother – reincarnated in a younger form and miraculously available – had blinded him to other aspects of the relationship. She shared none of his passion for books, tended to laugh at his ideals, and her continual, chronic lateness would have become a source of irritation. He, too, was at fault, of course. For one thing, he should have been more open about his crippling fears, but was that really as heinous as her own decision to deceive him for the remainder of his life?
Somehow, he must leave Mandy in the past and make a real effort to move on, and also stop imagining that he would ever meet his mother, either in the flesh or in some modified version. Not that it was easy, with so many reminders of mothers: children in the street calling out ‘Mom’ on every hand; women pushing prams; racks of cards already in the shops for the American Mothers’ Day. There was also the urgent question of his Precious Box. It would be tricky to retrieve it without re-entangling himself with Mandy, yet he knew that any contact might weaken his resolve.
Soon, the bus came lumbering into view and, having clambered on, he found an empty seat next to a comfy-looking female.
‘Wonderful sunset,’ he remarked, but the sole response was a stony stare. Well, what had he imagined – a loquacious heart-to-heart? OK, he was lonely, but there would be plenty of time in the future for engaging total strangers in conversations they didn’t want. He wasn’t in his dotage yet – forty-five, not ninety.
Better to sit and read, then he could lose himself – as he’d done so often in his life – in another, happier world, where daughters loved their fathers, mothers were real people and girlfriends never lied.
He hovered outside Erica’s bedroom door, tempted to go in. In fact, nothing would induce him to invade her privacy, yet her determination to bar him access couldn’t help but rouse his suspicions. Was she frightened he would find fags – or drugs – or supplies of the contraceptive Pill, or a secret diary revealing wild transgressions? She had become a stranger – no way the child he knew. When she wasn’t out with her friends, she spent worrying amounts of time up here, either texting them or phoning them, or on social-networking sites. But suppose she had somehow found a way to circumvent ‘parental control’ and was accessing more unwholesome sites? For all he knew, some evil stranger might be grooming her for sex.
His stomach rumbled suddenly, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast, so he went downstairs to raid the Aladdin’s cave of the pantry. His fantasies about cosy little suppers with his daughter, or outings to the pizza parlour, had been rapidly dispelled. And, since there was no point cooking for one, his usual fare was a handful of crisps or biscuits, and a bowl of cornflakes or peanut-butter sandwich, eaten standing up. Even tomorrow’s sit-down dinner with Kimberley and her husband, Ted, had been cancelled just this morning, because Kimberley had sprained her wrist and could neither cook nor drive. In fact, she had laid on a taxi to bring Erica back tonight, since the other mother, Virginia, had to collect her husband from the airport soon after the end of the concert, and thus would only have time to drop both girls off at Kimberley’s. Apparently, Kimberley’s house, being at May Creek, within minutes of the freeway, was much handier for the airport than trekking out to Mercer Island and back again.
He checked his watch – 10.10 – which meant the taxi should arrive in twenty minutes. No doubt Erica would go straight up to her room, rather than stick around and chat about the concert. However, despite the lateness of the hour, he was determined to waylay her and insist they start communicating. Just last night he’d read an article about changes in the teenage brain, which were said to account for most negative teen behaviour: lack of empathy, consideration or even risk-awareness. OK, he was willing to make allowances for her synapses being slightly off-kilter, but there were limits to his patience. However much she had shaken his confidence as a father, he refused to tolerate this stand-off the whole three weeks he was here.
Just as he was stuffing in a handful of pretzels, the phone rang and, assuming it was Erica or Kimberley, he rushed to answer it.
‘Oh … Christine,’ he faltered. ‘How are you?’ Idyllic, by the sounds of it – a Christine on cloud nine, unable to disguise the honeymoon glow.
‘Sorry to ring so late, Eric, but I wondered how things are going.’
‘Fine.’
‘Much better, thanks.’
‘And is Erica OK?’
‘Mm.’ It sounded lame even to his ears, so he added some supporting detail – about the party and the pop concert and Kimberley’s sprained wrist.
‘Lord! How did she do that?’
‘In the gym, apparently. She was lifting weights and—’
‘Typical!’ Christine said dismissively. ‘It’s all “me-time” for that bloody woman. The only thing she cares about is making herself slimmer and more glamorous. She employs a whole gang of beauticians, hairdressers, personal fitness trainers and even …’
And who are you to talk, he bit back.
‘She’s made Brooke the way she is, of course, and that, in turn, has influenced poor Erica, and I have to say it worries me. On the other hand, the two girls seem devoted to each other, so it would be wrong to try to separate them, even if one could. But now you’re there, maybe you could exert some sort of influence.’
Not a chance in hell, he thought, wishing desperately she’d end the call. No way must she discover that he had seen so little of Erica, or he would truly be in trouble. Besides, just the sound of his ex’s voice was enough to conjure up loathsome pictures of her in bed with Dwight. He and Mandy should be on honeymoon, not Christine and her supercilious bloke.
‘What time is it in Hong Kong?’ he asked, having done his hesitant best to answer her shoal of questions about Erica.
‘Quarter past two in the afternoon. We’ve just had this delicious lunch at—’
He blocked his ears; had no desire to hear any romantic, gastronomic, or – God forbid – erotic details. ‘And it’s Wednesday there, not Tuesday.’
‘That’s right.’
‘I get a bit confused, what with Seattle being eight hours behind the UK, and Hong Kong eight hours ahead.’ All the time-differences made him feel unsettled, and his body-clock hadn’t yet adjusted, so he was still finding it hard to sleep. When finally he did drop off, he’d wake after only an hour or two and wonder where he was. Crazy to sleep so badly in what must be the most luxurious bed in the whole of the North-West Pacific.
Once he’d rung off, he went upstairs to Christine’s office, deciding to email Stella again, just as a form of comfort. The messages they’d already exchanged had made him feel less isolated; kept him in touch with life back home. She had also given him the cheering news that Meryl Jones, no less – the high-powered Assistant Head of the whole Wandsworth Library Service – had decided to champion their Remembrance Project and that, with such a formidable ally, they were now certain to get funding. He’d longed to pick up the phone and say how pleased he was, but knew Stella was bound to ask about his daughter, and felt too ashamed to admit that he was spending his time as a tourist, rather than as Dad.
And now, again, he was tempted to ring, just to hear her voice, but, again, thought better of it. In any case, he could hardly drag her out of bed at 5.55 in the morning, so, instead, he switched on the computer.
Four messages were waiting – all from her, in fact, although instead of the usual moans about some memo from management, or further details of Meryl’s support, these concerned a new post – just created – for an Outreach and Community librarian at the new Wandsworth Town Library, and how the job was perfect for him and he simply had to apply.
No way. His daughter’s barbs had made him extremely wary about risking further rejection. Why should anyone recruit a ‘totally weak’ and ‘freakish’ candidate?
Trevor thinks you’d be ideal and even Meryl’s rooting for you. She wanted to be sure you had the details, which must be a hopeful sign.
Typical of Stella to be so optimistic. It was definitely straining credulity that someone as prominent as Meryl would be rooting for him personally. She probably wanted all eligible staff to have details of the post, to encourage competition. Yet Stella seemed to be assuming that he’d already got the job, since she went on to suggest that they make their Remembrance Project a joint activity with Wandsworth Town, so the two of them could still work together.
Despite his dismissal of the whole idea, he was touched by her belief in him; the way she always had his interests at heart. And the emails did remind him how valuable his work was in giving structure to his life, along with a sense of purpose and achievement.
However, he should be thinking of his daughter, not himself. She would be back in a matter of minutes now, so he decided to unfreeze one of the stash of pizzas and put it in the microwave, to be ready when she appeared. Once done, he rehearsed his lines: ‘I know it’s late, Carmella, but I thought we’d have a little supper together.’ The Carmella stuck in his throat, but no point alienating her further by refusing to use the new name.
By the time the pizza was bubbling-hot, there was still no sign of her. Having turned on the main oven to keep it warm, he made a salad and laid the table; even twisting paper napkins into swan-shapes, Mandy-style.
By 10.50, still no daughter, and no reply from her mobile – distinctly worrying, when he had given her strict instructions never to switch if off when she was out. Having left a stern message and also sent a text, he felt concerned enough to phone Barbie’s mother, Virginia, although the call was answered by what sounded like another teen.
‘It’s Eric Parkhill here.’
‘Hi.’
‘Is that Barbie’s brother?’
‘Yeah.’
‘D’you mind if I ask your name?’
‘Joe.’
‘Hello, Joe. Is your mother there?’
‘Nope.’
Of course – she’d be at the airport, picking up her husband. How could he have forgotten? ‘Any idea when she’ll be back?’
‘Nope.’
‘Well, do you know what time she left?’
‘Nope.’
‘When she does come in, could you tell her I rang?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Do you know who I am?’
‘Nope.’
‘Just say Erica’s Dad. OK?’
Neither ‘Nope’ nor ‘Yeah’ this time, just a grunt as he rang off.
God, he thought, teens were a pain! Yet their blasé mothers were almost as bad. If Erica had been delayed, why hadn’t either Virginia or Kimberley had the courtesy to let him know? Obviously, people were more permissive over here; didn’t share his view that not-quite-thirteen-year-olds should be back home by eleven.
It was actually 11.02, so he rang his daughter’s mobile once more.
The cell-phone you are calling is switched off.
He left another message anyway, followed by another text, just hoping that when she picked them up, she would realize how concerned he was. He also decided to ring Kimberley, although adopting a deliberately casual tone, so as not to seem over-anxious.
‘It’s OK, Eric, she’s on her way. I’m afraid the taxi turned up rather late. A new driver was on and I guess he didn’t know the route. But she should be with you in less than fifteen minutes.’
‘Great!’ His relief was so overwhelming, he could have kissed the woman – even kissed her soppy dog. ‘How’s your wrist?’ he asked instead.
A grave mistake, since she launched into an endless disquisition on exactly what the doctors had said (doctors in the plural); how serious the sprain was and how excruciating the pain; what she could and couldn’t do with that debilitated arm, and how she intended to sue the gym, because she was bound to put on loads of weight without her daily session, and had to pay her private fitness-trainer, despite the fact she wasn’t using him.
By the time she had concluded, fourteen of the fifteen minutes had passed, and he began to rethink his plan of having supper with his daughter. It really was too late now and, in fact, if she didn’t turn up soon, it would be time to get her breakfast, instead. Maybe the taxi had got lost, if the driver was a greenhorn, or perhaps as clueless as the one who had brought him from the airport. No – Kimberley had told him she used a highly reputable firm, and no way would she entrust either Brooke or Erica to any but the most dependable of drivers. So what the hell was going on? May Creek wasn’t that far, especially at this time of night, when the roads were near-deserted.
He waited till 11.30, then rang Kimberley again, sick with worry now, although still trying to disguise it. Even Kimberley herself, however, sounded much less sanguine.
‘I just can’t understand it, Eric, unless – God forbid – there’s been an accident.’
The blood drained from his face as he pictured his beloved daughter lying mangled in the wreckage of some appalling pile-up.
‘I’m afraid Ted’s not here tonight. He’s away at a conference – back tomorrow morning – otherwise I’d ask him to drive the same route as the cab, so he could look out for signs of a crash. But let me call the taxi-firm, in case they might have heard something.’
‘And we ought to ring the police. I’ll do that, if you give me their number.’
‘No, leave it to me. It’s easier if I make both calls, then I’ll ring you straight back, OK?’
‘OK,’ he agreed, although rigid with fear. Suppose Erica were dead, or so badly injured she might never walk or speak again; spend the rest of her life as a vegetable – his only child; the one person in the world who shared his genes and was flesh of his flesh. In the last few months, he’d begun taking her for granted; confident she would always be part of his life, despite the miles between them and his own panic about flying; assumed he would watch her graduate, walk her down the aisle, rejoice when she bore him a grandchild. It was probably Mandy’s influence that had made him so uncharacteristically upbeat, but now he saw – with terror – all that rosy future could be wiped out at a stroke.
Should he alert Christine? No. Cruel to disrupt her honeymoon until he had the facts. There was no hard proof of any accident – not yet, in any case. Besides, he mustn’t use the phone when Kimberley would be trying to get through.
Hurry, he urged her silently, each second seeming to take an hour to pass. Perhaps the taxi-firm required more time to investigate the matter, or the Mercer Island police failed to answer calls immediately. Or had Kimberley received such devastating news, she couldn’t bring herself to relay it?
He paced up and down, up and down, pouncing on the phone the minute it rang, yet dreading a summons from the hospital or morgue.
‘Eric, you’re not going to like this, but—’
‘What? What is it, Kimberley? Are you telling me Erica’s hurt?’
‘No, she’s safe. Don’t worry.’
‘I am worried. Where is she, for God’s sake?’
‘That’s the problem. We’re not exactly sure.’
‘Not sure? You said you’d put her in a taxi and—’
‘I did. At least, I thought it was a taxi, but when Brooke heard me calling the police, she all but wrenched the phone from my hand and begged me not to speak to them. She said she knew where Carmella was and that she was perfectly OK. I asked her how she knew, of course, but she said she couldn’t tell me. Well, that made me really furious, so I bawled her out, and eventually she confessed.’
‘Confessed? I’m sorry, I don’t follow.’
Long pause.
‘Apparently,’ Kimberley went on, now sounding both defensive and embarrassed, ‘she and Carmella – your Erica – cancelled the taxi, just on their own initiative, without telling me a word about it. And, instead, they arranged for Larry to pretend to be the cab-driver and come and pick her up.’
‘Larry?’ He had become a witless parrot, repeating Kimberley’s words. But he could make no sense of her account.
‘He’s a college friend of Spencer, my son. They’re both at the University of Washington. Actually, I’ve never met the boy, which is why I didn’t recognize him when he turned up at the house. I must admit, I did think he looked a little young, but he was so well-dressed and so polite and charming, it never crossed my mind that he could be anything but a bone-fide cab-driver.’
‘You mean to say,’ Eric exploded, incandescent with rage, ‘my daughter’s out with some guy you don’t know from Adam? So what the hell are they doing?’
‘Calm down, Eric. She won’t come to any harm – I’m pretty sure of that. My Spencer’s a really lovely boy, so any friend of his is bound to be OK.’
‘That’s nonsense!’ he snapped. ‘Larry’s a completely unknown quantity, so how can you be sure of—?’ He broke off in mid-sentence, thinking out the implications: a college student at the wheel of a car – some feckless young stud, throbbing with testosterone. ‘Does my daughter know this – this’ – he all but spat the name out – ‘Larry?’
‘Brooke said they met him just one time, in Starbucks, and apparently he took a shine to Erica.’
Eric clenched his fists. Took a shine? Wanted to shag her, more like.
‘So the three of them hatched this crazy scheme. In fact, I suspect it was Larry’s idea – you know, to give him a chance to get to know your daughter. I was really mad with Brooke, of course, and when Ted hears about it, he’ll blow his top.’
‘Look,’ he cut in, unconcerned with Brooke or Ted or anyone but his daughter and her safety. ‘Can’t we phone the guy on his mobile? Ask him what the hell he thinks he’s playing at?’
‘Unfortunately not. Brooke doesn’t have his cell-phone number. And, as I said, I’ve never met him. I know most of Spencer’s friends, but this guy—’
‘Well, ring Spencer, then. He’s bound to have the number. And he may even know where he and Erica have gone.’
‘Good thinking, Eric! I’ll call him right away. I just hope he hasn’t gone to bed.’
‘Well, if he has, drag him out of bed! This is an emergency.’
‘Try not to worry. They may just have gone for a little ride round town.’
Was this woman barking mad? A twelve-year-old in a car with a stranger, at 11.30 at night, and she was talking blithely about a little ride round town. ‘Listen to me, Kimberley, if they don’t turn up within the next five minutes, I intend to ring the police.’
‘Please don’t do that, I beg you. Brooke would never forgive me.’
Bugger Brooke, he was tempted to say. Instead, he told the bloody woman to get on to Spencer instantly and also find out the make of Larry’s car, so he could watch for it in the street.
He waited in an agony for her to call him back; the clock’s second-hand moving unbearably slowly. ‘Ring, damn you, ring!’ he kept muttering to the phone, snatching it up the instant that it did.
‘Yeah, Spencer had his cell-phone number, but when I tried it, I only got the voicemail, so I had to leave a message.’
All the more suspicious. His daughter’s phone and Larry’s both switched off. Why, for heaven’s sake? He hardly dared answer his own question.
‘Still, I do have news – and good news, in a way. Spencer says that Larry mentioned taking Carmella to some pizza place at the South End of the Island. And that’s only a short walk from you, so if you could get yourself down there, Eric …’
He didn’t need a second invitation; only stopped to prompt Kimberley about the make of Larry’s car, in case the pair had already left the pizza place and actually passed him on the road.
‘A red BMW convertible.’
His fear ratcheted up yet another notch. A red sports car gave off the very worst of signals.
Not bothering with a coat, he grabbed his keys and wallet and dashed out of the house, running full-pelt along the street. No cars whatever passed him, although, when he reached the square, a fair scattering were parked there. However, he didn’t stop to look at them; instead made straight for the pizza restaurant, only to find it shut. Indeed, everything seemed closed except the supermarket; nevertheless, he double-checked every restaurant and coffee-shop. No joy, except for a solitary waiter – a gangly youth of indeterminate ethnicity – standing smoking outside El Sombrero’s.
Eric rushed across. ‘Can you help me, please? I’m looking for my daughter. Have you seen a young, dark-haired girl – five-foot tall and wearing jeans and a pink top? She might have come in to your restaurant sometime after ten, with a boy about eighteen.’
The guy clearly hadn’t understood a word and answered in an indecipherable tongue. He probably wasn’t a waiter at all, but some humble kitchen assistant, without even basic English.
‘Don’t worry!’ Eric called, next trying the supermarket; sprinting up and down each aisle, in search of Erica. A pretty futile endeavour, since the place was almost empty and, in any case, no teen on a date was likely to go grocery shopping at ten minutes to midnight.
Dashing out again, he began searching the whole square for a red BMW; scrutinizing every red car, since the makes and styles of automobiles weren’t exactly his strong point.
In vain.
The raw night air was bitterly cold, yet he was aflame with fear, trying desperately to dismiss the gruesome images of crashes, carnage, corpses. But he was wasting time – time that might be crucial. He must go straight home and ring the police. If it upset Kimberley, too bad. It wasn’t her daughter who was seriously at risk.
Veering across the road, he took the short cut through Pioneer Park, stumbling to a halt as he noticed the scarlet gleam of a car. It had been driven off the road and was tucked into the parking-spot used by local dog-walkers. And, yes, it was a convertible.
A couple were sitting in the front – two shadowy silhouettes. He had to force himself not to overreact. Lots of people probably parked here at night, taking advantage of the privacy to indulge in a bit of philandering. And red sports cars were two a penny, so he mustn’t jump to conclusions. He inched one step nearer; careful not to make the slightest sound, in case he was spying on a pair of strangers.
Straining his eyes, he spelled out the name on the car: BMW. Even more alarming, the two figures in the front – still blurred and indistinct – suddenly moved closer to each other in a long, impassioned kiss. Heart pounding, he crept another few paces towards them.
And then he saw her – Erica – his little girl, being kissed by some disgusting lout. He felt such extremes of rage, relief and horror, all curdled and mixed up, he stood all but paralysed. She was safe – thank Christ – not lying injured in the road, or naked in Larry’s bed. Those facts were so precious, one part of him was dizzy with relief, yet his overwhelming instinct was to prise her from the car and really vent his fury; tell her she was never, ever to behave so irresponsibly and give everyone such cause for fear. One thing made him hesitate: the recognition that he himself had kissed girls as young as her, when he was younger still. If he ruined what could well be her first kiss – shamed her and embarrassed her in front of her first boyfriend – she might never, ever forgive him, and their already strained relationship would deteriorate still further.
He felt awkward even watching – a sneaky Peeping Tom – yet another, furious part of him felt she had lost all right to privacy and deserved only punishment. Torn all ways, he finally decided to wait just one more minute and hope desperately the guy would restart the engine and bring her safely home. Then he’d give her a rocket, wipe the bloody floor with her, bawl her out for breaking all the rules. Why involve this scum of a student, who would probably try to weasel out of it; pretend he’d thought Erica was older, or come up with some equally fatuous excuse?
All at once, he noticed that the pair were no longer kissing. Now, Erica seemed to be struggling, almost fighting off the boy. The sight was a match to a tinderbox. Springing forward, he wrenched open the car-door and saw, with horror, that the brazen sod was unzipped, and trying to force his daughter’s head down over his erection.
Without stopping to think, he attacked the brute, bare-handed, punching him and shoving him off; using every ounce of strength he possessed. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ he yelled.
The guy hit back, landing him a blow in the mouth. ‘What’s it got to do with you, you filthy pervert? I suppose you get your kicks from spying on innocent people.’
‘Innocent? I could get you put away for this!’
‘Fuck off, you arsehole!’
Reeling from another blow, Eric was forced to use his fists again, less in self-defence than in defence of Erica. Violence was totally alien to his ideals and temperament, but he would stop at nothing when it came to his daughter’s safety.
But suddenly he realized she was trying to intervene and that, with all the uproar going on, he had failed to hear her panicked croak of a voice.
‘Stop it, Larry. That’s my … my dad.’
Ignoring the blood streaming from his lip, he turned to look at her – a daughter he barely recognized: her hair dishevelled; her lipstick smudged and an expression of utter terror on her face. Was he too late? She was fully dressed, thank God, but anything might have happened. After all, she had been with this shit for close on a couple of hours.
‘Are you OK?’ he barked, unable to keep the anger from his voice – anger with Larry, with himself, with the whole cruel and dangerous world.
‘Y … yes.’
The word was barely audible, despite the sudden silence. The boy was looking shocked; clearly punctured by the revelation that Carmella’s father had caught him in the act. But, although he’d had the grace to zip up, his loosened tie and half-unbuttoned shirt made Eric want to murder him. The only reason he desisted was for his daughter’s sake. She, too, looked shamed and guilty, and began trying to explain away the incident.
‘We … we just pulled off here to … to have a drink.’
The admission enraged him further, especially when he noticed the beer-cans on the floor of the car – empty cans, at least three or four. ‘A drink? You’re far too young to drink!’ Then, turning on the boy, he shouted, ‘How dare you let my daughter drink, or lay your filthy hands on her! She’s underage – for everything. And you’ve no right to be drinking either – not when you’re in charge of a car. You could have smashed Erica to smithereens. And it didn’t seem to bother you that you might have got her pregnant.’
Larry gave a sullen shrug. ‘We were just having a bit of fun.’
‘Fun? I could see full well what you were up to, so don’t pretend you’re innocent, you scumbag! She’s a minor – a child – so your behaviour’s downright criminal.’
‘Dad, don’t. Please don’t.’
Despite his fury, he could hear the pain in his daughter’s voice, the note of near-hysteria.
‘Right,’ he snapped. ‘We’re going home – now. Get out!’
‘I’m OK to drive her,’ Larry muttered, sulkily.
‘Like hell you are! I never want to lay eyes on you again – or your fancy car. And if you ever dare get in touch with my daughter, I’ll go straight to the police. Is that clear?’
Erica hadn’t moved, so he all but lifted her bodily from the car, then slammed the door, with a last shouted curse at Larry. The boy accelerated off at such a rate, the car passed within an inch of them and, in trying to push Erica to safety, he lost his balance and fell backwards into the bushes. He picked himself up, brushed the bits of twig from his clothes; saw his daughter a few yards away, cowering with her head down, shoulders hunched. Gently, he approached, wrapped his arms around her, held her very close.
‘Don’t worry, sweetheart,’ he whispered. ‘I’m not cross with you – not any more. Just so long as you’re all right.’
She didn’t answer.
Still horrified at the thought of virtual rape, he asked again, ‘You are all right, I hope? I mean, nothing … happened, before I turned up? Larry didn’t…?’
She shook her head. ‘No. You … you came just in time.’ Then, suddenly, she buried her face in his chest and began to sob – great racking, heaving sobs, as if she were crying a whole lifetime’s grief.
‘Oh, Dad,’ she choked, ‘Oh, Dad. I’m just so glad you’re here.’