Liberty

I clear my throat and practise saying the words out loud: ‘Helloooo. My name is Liberty and I’m your long-lost daughteeeeer.’

This is so weird.

I’m standing outside my real, live biological father’s house at 9 a.m. on a school day. There are huge security gates, like we have at home. Only these gates are wrought-iron railings, whereas ours are solid wood. The railing aspect is a plus because I can see through them into the grounds, the fir-tree woodland and strange mansion/castle house on the horizon. The minus is there’s no intercom here. Who lives so far from the front gate but has no intercom? We have an intercom and our grounds are only an acre.

Skywalker sits by my leg, alert and waiting for instruction.

‘How crazy is this?’ I tell him. ‘My father has built a great big house that looks like a castle. In the middle of the woods. He’s got room for … what? Twenty visitors? Fifty? But no one can buzz to tell him they’ve come to visit.’

Even though the sky is summer blue, this place has an eternal winter feel to it. If I were to sum it up in a sentence, I’d say: dark Disneyland.

The huge house on the horizon was, for sure, built by someone who wants the world to know they are very grand and important.

I shout through the railings: ‘Hellooooo.’ But the green, shadowy woods swallow up sound.

Skywalker chews at my denim cut-offs.

‘What are you thinking?’ I look up at the tall, tall gates. ‘Climb?’ But this idea is daunting. If I thought our gates at home were high, Michael Reyji Ray’s sprawling country mansion has prison-standard security. Ten-foot tall with spikes at the top.

Mum and Michael have something in common: they both want to keep people out.

Skywalker barks and I grab his collar. ‘What? What is it?’

Then I see.

Something’s moving in those woods. Or rather, someone – a person dressed in black, moving between the shadowy trees. It looks like they’re wearing a band T-shirt and black jeans.

My hand tightens on Skywalker’s collar.

‘What are they dragging?’ I whisper. ‘Scaffold poles or something?’

Skywalker lifts his brown and black nose to look at me, like, ‘Don’t ask me.’

‘Mum will be going insane right now.’ I feel a horrible pang in my heart. ‘But there’s no turning back. We have to do this, Sky. Or there’ll be no freedom for any of us.’

I rattle the gates again. ‘HELLOOO!’

The person dressed in black doesn’t notice us. He or she is engrossed in some activity with silver poles, movements organized and focused.

Suddenly I have a vision: my mother, tearing my bedroom apart, sobbing hysterically, her worst nightmare coming true.

Don’t think about her. Don’t think about her or you’ll chicken out. You have to do this. You have to meet him.

I really have no choice. Things can’t go on the way they are. Mum is ruining all our lives.

‘Okay, dogface.’ I stroke Skywalker’s head. ‘It looks like climbing is the only option here.’

I put an experimental foot on the railing, seeing if I can get any lift. I like climbing – maybe because a fifty-foot wall is the closest I’ve ever come to real freedom. But on purpose-built climbing walls, there are ropes and harnesses and no sharp spikes at the top.

As I wedge my DM boot between two railings, I see someone coming out of the main house – a short dot of a man, wearing what looks like a flowing black silk dressing gown. His legs are bare and his hair white-blond above an orangey-brown face.

Could it be?

I hop down, watching as the figure trots into the trees, becomes invisible, then visible again, then appears in the clearing with the band T-shirt person.

I suck in my breath, feeling both sick and excited. ‘I think it’s him, Skywalker. I think that’s my father.’

I’ve studied Michael Reyji Ray obsessively over the last few months. He is your typical old rock dude, puffy and partied with a weathered face and weight clinging to his waist. But he still dresses young, rocking tweedy Fedora hats over his bald patch, bleaching his hair and always wearing black Ray-Bans. This dressing-gown guy is wearing sunglasses, even in this leafy, shaded forest glade. That’s a rock-star move, and no mistake.

Now the man walks to a pile of tarpaulin, pointing, and I get a really clear view. His legs are darkly tanned and his black silk dressing gown billows open to reveal tight red Speedo shorts. Adidas sliders slip around his feet. He wears this casual ensemble like royal robes, strutting as he walks.

It is him. Michael Reyji Ray.

This man looks like me. I’ve seen the pictures. I have his face. Half of me came from him. If he’s as bad as my mum says, what does that make me? Half monster?

This is like staring at the cream-covered sponge cakes in our village bakery window. Knowing they’re full of cream and eggs, but wanting a slice all the same. Everyone at school eats animal products. Why do I have to be so moral? Everyone else has a father. Why can’t I have one?

‘Hey,’ I call out, rattling the gates. ‘Mr Ray. MICHAEL!’

A car horn blares behind me and Skywalker starts barking. I grab him. ‘Calm boy. Stay calm.’

I turn to see a black Porsche creeping towards the gate on growling tyres.

Skywalker watches the car with his brown ears pricked. There is a woman inside. She leans out of the driver’s window, face tight, lips softly pink and face snow-white. She’s attractive in a had-a-lot-of-work-done sort of way, with dark brown hair making a prominent widow’s peak on her pale forehead.

‘Get away from our gate with that big dog,’ she shouts.

Skywalker starts barking.

I pull his collar. ‘Shush, doggy.’

‘This is private property,’ the woman continues. ‘If you want to see my husband, buy a concert ticket.’

‘I’m not a fan,’ I say.

‘Then why are you here?’

‘Um … there’s a good reason.’

‘Yes, I have a good reason too,’ says the woman. ‘I live here. I’m Michael Reyji Ray’s wife. And I’m sick of girls thinking my husband is public property.’

‘You’re his wife?’

I’ve read about Diane McBrady – the woman Michael married before he met my mother. Her Wikipedia picture shows a dimple-cheeked, cute teenager in wellies and a knitted jumper, holding hands with Michael on an Irish moor. This woman … if she’s Diane, the baby face has long gone, replaced by angular lines and plucked-to-death eyebrows. Attractive but definitely not sweet.

‘Look, can you just get away from the gate,’ the woman demands. ‘We have a right to privacy, just like you. How would you like it if I went peering over your front gate?’

‘Are you Diane?’ I ask.

‘Yes, I’m Diane. I told you. Michael’s wife.’

‘I’m Liberty. Michael’s daughter.’

Diane’s pink mouth drops open, brown eyes glittering. ‘What?’

‘I’m Michael’s daughter,’ I say again.

Diane watches me, unblinking. ‘You’re … you’re Michael’s daughter? Is that what you said?’

‘Yes.’ And then I add an idiotic: ‘Surprise!’ and do jazz hands.

Diane climbs out of the car. She wears tight black jeans, leopard-print boots and a billowing polka-dot blouse. Sort of a punk look. It’s a bit dated now, especially on a woman Diane’s age. And she’s all skin and bones. Like she starves herself. She walks towards me, heels wobbling on gravel.

‘You look like him,’ says Diane. ‘I’ll give you that. And you’d be the right age.’ She watches me intensely, scanning my face with dark, black-brown eyes. ‘Actually, you more than just look like him. You’re the spit of him. Jesus. You’d better come inside. What’s your name?’

‘Liberty.’

Diane swallows. ‘Liberty? And … your mother would be Lorna. Is that right?’

‘Yes.’

Diane shakes her head. ‘Hop in. I’ll drive you up to the house.’

I hesitate. Once I’m through those gates there’s no turning back. Seriously no turning back.

I feel Skywalker’s fur beneath my fingertips. We could just go home. Pretend all this never happened. Say sorry and remain beautiful prisoners.

But no. No, no, no.

Things have to change.

Diane opens the passenger door.

‘Is it okay for my dog to come in the car?’ I ask.

‘Yes, sure,’ says Diane, still watching my face. ‘I grew up on a farm with pigs and goats and all sorts. I don’t mind animals.’

‘He’s a bit farty sometimes, and he dribbles—’

‘He’s fine,’ says Diane. ‘It’s okay, love. Come on. Let’s take you to the house and get all this sorted out. Jesus in heaven, you … you really do look like him. How old are you?’

‘Sixteen.’

‘Yes. Yes, you would be.’ She stares. ‘Well, this is some day. It really is. I think we’re all in for quite the event. Hop in.’

I climb into the car, pulling a sprawling Skywalker onto my lap.

Diane throws the car into gear and roars towards the gates. They open like magic and she drives through woodland towards the fake castle.

‘Fancy you coming today of all days,’ Diane says, staring absentmindedly ahead. ‘Life is a funny one.’

‘What’s today?’ I ask.

‘Our wedding anniversary,’ says Diane, skidding the car to a halt beside a purple Jaguar F-Type and a Chevrolet Corvette Z06 convertible. ‘Michael and I have been together twenty years.’ She parks at an angle right by the moat bridge, two wheels on grass, as two more people wearing black band T-shirts and jeans scurry past with scaffold poles. The band T-shirts, I realize, I have Michael Reyji Ray’s face on the front.

‘You see that team of people there?’ Diane continues. ‘They’ve come to set up a stage in the woods. Michael will be performing later. You know what he’ll sing? “Fever Few”.’

‘Maybe I should go—’

‘No, stay,’ says Diane. ‘You must have come a long way. Michael will be so happy to see you. Over the moon. He’s been waiting sixteen years.’

‘But … this is your wedding anniversary,’ I say.

Diane raises a neat little eyebrow. ‘Yes. It is.’

‘Well … I mean, you’ve been married twenty years.’

‘And?’

‘And I’m sixteen. So Michael and my mother …’

‘Oh, you’ve figured it out, have you? Yes, your mother threw herself at my husband when we were not long married.’

‘If I’d known it was your anniversary today, I would never have—’

‘It’s okay, love. Look, Lorna’s little scheme failed, didn’t it? I kept my man. Michael and I are still together all these years later. Until death do us part.’

‘But seriously, I shouldn’t have come today. It’s the wrong time.’

Diane looks tired. ‘It’s not your fault. What happens on tour stays on tour. Isn’t that what they say? Michael is the life I signed up for. Your mother wasn’t the only one.’

‘But the only one he had a child with.’

Diane gives a harsh laugh. ‘As far as we know. Look, it was a long time ago and we survived it. Lorna put us through hell. She tried her best to ruin us. But we came out the other side stronger than ever.’

‘My mother is a good person,’ I say. ‘I don’t think she would have intended to have a relationship with a married man or try to … you know … ruin anyone.’

‘Relationship?’ Diane shakes her head. ‘There was no relationship. Lorna was just a groupie and a fantasist and … sorry. I shouldn’t be saying any of this to you. Look, none of this is your fault. You’ve only heard your mother’s side of things.’

‘Not really,’ I say. ‘My mother’s never told me anything. Except what a monster my father is.’

‘Yes, Lorna would say that. But what do you think? You can’t think he’s all that bad if you’ve come to see him all on your own.’

‘I want to hear his side. It blew my mind when I found out who my father was. I’ve been reading up about Michael for weeks now, and … you know, all the good things he’s done for the environment and his charities. And his music … the lyrics are beautiful. I’ve always had this picture of my real dad – sort of a cross between a serial killer and a vampire. To find out he’s this cool, mega-famous, environmentalist and musician … I mean, wow. And do you want to know something really weird? I’m in a band too.’

‘You’re in a band?’ Diane’s brown eyes turn wide and sincere.

‘Yes.’

‘You know, Michael started Crimson when he was sixteen. Maybe the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.’ Diane takes a deep breath. ‘Okay. Let’s go and talk to Michael.’

I shake my arms out, inhaling and exhaling. ‘Right. Yes. I’m ready.’

‘Come on.’ Diane pats my arm. ‘Don’t be nervous. He’s going to be blown away. Just blown away.’

I climb out of the passenger side, heaving Skywalker out onto dried mud and tree roots.

There are peacocks nearby, strutting through the trees. They watch Skywalker with cocked heads, seemingly unafraid. In fact, it’s Skywalker who is afraid, darting back from the birds and barking.

‘Skywalker. Heel.’

‘There’s Michael,’ she Diane, pointing at the short man standing on a now half-built stage. ‘Look at him, bossing people around. The lord of the manor.’

In my head, I rehearse the words over and over again:

Hello. My name is Liberty. I’m your daughter.

Hello. My name is Liberty. I’m your daughter.