Bear Necessity Page 3

  He thought about their last morning together when he’d woken up to find that Liz, as per usual, had commandeered the duvet at some point during the night. She always denied doing it, but every morning, without fail, he’d wake to find her fast asleep in the scene of her very own crime, bundled up in the covers while he lay there shivering in his underpants. That morning, however, after shuffling up to the ball of duvet and snuggling close to his wife—a gesture partly born from affection but mainly from a desire to keep warm—Danny was startled when the covers deflated beneath the weight of his arm. It wasn’t until he heard Liz humming along to the kitchen radio that he realized she wasn’t in bed beside him. He’d laughed back then, but it felt like a hideous joke whenever he thought about it now, as if some cruel higher power were preparing him for a life without Liz by dropping a clue so spitefully subtle that he had no way of solving it before his wife climbed behind the wheel and gave him what neither of them knew was a final kiss good-bye.

  She wasn’t even supposed to be driving that day, and the fact that she had had caused a rift between Danny and Roger, his father-in-law, which had never been resolved. It wasn’t so much a new rift as a widening of an old one that had been expanding ever since Liz had first brought Danny home and introduced him as the man she was going to marry one day, a pronouncement that took her parents by surprise, not least because she was only sixteen and they didn’t even know she had a boyfriend until then. Danny hadn’t wanted to go, certain her parents would hate him, particularly her father, who happened to be a policeman and was therefore suspicious of everybody, especially teenage boys, and especially a teenage boy from Newham with a father who’d been so absent that nobody even noticed when he walked out on his son’s fourteenth birthday, and a mother who kicked him out when her new boyfriend decided that the flat wasn’t big enough for the three of them.

  Still, Liz insisted it would all be fine, so Danny had reluctantly complied. After meeting her mother, Carol, who gave him a warmer hug than his own mother ever had, he started to believe her. Only when he met Roger did he realize Liz had either flat-out lied or grossly underestimated her father’s temperament, because although the man shook Danny’s hand in a feigned display of cordiality, the bone-crunching pressure he applied to that handshake told Danny everything he needed to know about the man’s feelings towards him. It wasn’t a handshake to assert authority. Nor was it a test of masculinity. It was a handshake that told him, in no uncertain terms, that Roger would rather be squeezing his neck than his hand and would do just that if he ever got the chance.

  Danny knew that the man believed he was leading his daughter astray, something he always found slightly unjust considering that Liz, perhaps in defiance of her law-abiding upbringing, was often the more rebellious of the two. But Roger never saw that side of her, being hardwired, like most fathers, to see nothing but the good in his daughter, even when faced with overwhelming evidence to the contrary. His instinct was to blame Danny for anything that chipped away at the innocent and infallible image of the daughter that he carried in his wallet. He blamed him when Liz gave up the ballet lessons she’d been attending since she was six, even though Danny had actively encouraged her to continue with them. He blamed him when Liz became pregnant, which Danny couldn’t exactly dispute but nevertheless found a little unfair given that Liz had been the primary instigator that fateful night on the Downs (he kindly spared Roger this information). And most crushingly of all, he blamed Danny for the death of his only child, something Danny knew not because of some wild inkling or nagging suspicion but because the man had said precisely that at Liz’s funeral. To the eternal embarrassment of Carol, who had always been good to Danny, and to the shock of everybody else at the reception, Roger had told him that his daughter would still be alive if only he’d been the one in the driver’s seat that day. It wasn’t a backhanded compliment about Danny’s driving abilities (the man never gave him compliments, backhanded or otherwise) but a reference to how Liz didn’t really like driving, even though Roger was the one who had bought her a car in the first place. If Danny had been behind the wheel, he might have taken that icy corner at a slightly different speed, or at a slightly different time, or at a slightly different angle. Even if all of those alternative scenarios had still resulted in the same twisted wreckage by the roadside, at least they might have buried Danny and not Roger’s beloved Elizabeth.

  As painful as it was to hear, and as poorly timed as Roger’s outburst was, Danny knew that the man had a point. Not a day had passed since the accident that he hadn’t thought about how different things might have been if he’d called in sick that day, or if he’d only held on to her for a few more seconds before letting her get into the car, or if he’d left his work boots in the hallway again, forcing Liz to delay her trip while she wearily reminded him of the house rules in that voice he used to find so annoying but would now gladly trade his right arm to hear again.

  Danny might even have forgiven Roger had he chosen to end things there, accepting his monologue as nothing more than the desperate words of a grieving father who was simply trying to make sense of something that could never be understood, but Danny couldn’t forgive the hate with which the man had spat his concluding words.

  “And now he’s stuck without a mother,” Roger had said, pointing at Will, who had only recently been discharged from the hospital and still wore a bandage around his head that shone like a beacon amidst the black shirts and dresses. “Now he’s stuck with you.”

  Danny had stayed quiet until then, determined not to make even more of a scene, but unable to bite his tongue any harder without the risk of losing it, he reminded Roger, as calmly as he could, which wasn’t very calm at all by that point, that the only reason Liz had been driving in the first place was that Roger, who was supposed to be visiting them that day, had changed his mind at the very last minute and asked Liz to make the journey herself. Before Roger could protest, Danny went on to remind him of how he had consistently refused to come and see them over the years, with a repertoire of half-arsed excuses ranging from car trouble and common colds to random bouts of unspecified fatigue, when the real reason he never wanted to visit, at least as far as Danny was concerned, was that he was ashamed: ashamed to see his daughter married to a man like Danny, ashamed to see her living in a cramped apartment in Tower Hamlets instead of some leafy suburb in Hampstead, and ashamed by just how far she’d strayed from the perfect future he’d imagined for her.

  The two of them didn’t speak to each other for the next six months, although Carol called every now and again for an awkward chat about the weather and to talk to Will (always a one-way conversation). Each time she called she gave a different excuse as to why Roger couldn’t come to the phone, as if she still felt the need to pretend that everything was fine despite being present when the two men were publicly expressing their dislike for each other while blocking everybody’s access to the canapés.

  Then a few months ago, Danny had received a text message from Carol asking if he and Will would meet her and Roger for a chat. He’d told her they were more than welcome to come to the flat, but she politely deflected the invitation and suggested they meet at a Pret A Manger near Old Street Tube station instead, presumably because it was neutral territory.

  Danny had no idea what they wanted to talk about. He wasn’t about to apologize to Roger and he knew that Roger felt the same way. A part of him feared they’d try to convince him that Will would be better off with them, which did little to put him at ease as he hugged Carol, nodded at Roger, and watched Will embrace them both, but his suspicions couldn’t have been further from the truth.

  Roger had family in Melbourne, something he was quick to remind people of whenever the sky was anything but blue, and he and Carol had been talking about moving to Australia for as long as Danny had known them. He never thought they’d actually go—neither did Liz, for that matter—but Carol had called the meeting to let them know that they were doing just that. Danny wasn’t particula
rly saddened by the news—their presence in his and Will’s life had always been minimal—but the announcement reminded him of just how alone he was. His wife was gone, his father was gone, his mother was as good as gone, and now his wife’s parents were going. All he had left was Will, and it often felt like he was gone too. He hadn’t spoken a single word since emerging from a coma after three of the most agonizing days of Danny’s life, and nobody knew why. Pediatricians, psychologists, psychiatrists, and speech-language pathologists all had different opinions about his condition. Some thought the head injury he’d sustained in the crash had permanently impaired his ability to form coherent sentences. Others suggested that while his capacity for speech remained intact, Will actively chose not to talk due to the trauma he’d experienced as a result of the accident and the subsequent loss of his mother. Nobody could agree on the cause, but everybody seemed to have an opinion on the matter, much of which came from outside the medical sphere. Reg, his landlord, believed a hefty backhand would get him talking; one of the plasterers at work swore by the powers of hypnotherapy; and once, while Danny was rummaging through the reduced bin at the supermarket, a woman with a long gray ponytail whom he’d never met before suddenly appeared beside him and casually asked whether Will was taking enough ginkgo biloba. Whatever the solution, if there even was a solution, Danny had long since given up any hope of finding it. He’d given up hoping for anything except the day when he would wake up and feel something other than a desire to close his eyes again and never reopen them.

  He picked up the frame that sat on the coffee table beside the couch. Inside was a photograph of Liz that Danny had taken on a summer’s day in Hyde Park a couple of years ago. She was lying on the grass with her cheek on her arm and a smile on her face that was sleepy from the warm weather and the bottle of red they’d been sharing. The dress she was wearing, patterned with flowers, had barely left the wardrobe that year due to an even wetter summer than usual, and that was the last time she’d worn it before returning it to the hanger from which it still hung. Any hint of his wife had long since left the garment, but Danny still found himself checking on occasion, burying his face in the dress and breathing in whatever microscopic trace of her scent might still be trapped within the fibers of the fabric.

  He ran his thumb across her cheek and smiled. Then, as he clutched his wife to his chest, Danny’s shoulders began to shake as he sobbed as quietly as he could.

  CHAPTER 6

  Will was in the middle of not eating his breakfast when somebody banged on the door so hard that the neighbor’s letterbox chattered in protest. Will looked nervously at Danny, who looked towards the hallway. Neither of them moved, Danny’s arm suspended with his mug halfway to his lips and Will’s fingers tightening around his slowly wilting piece of toast.

  Danny didn’t need to answer the door to know who was on the other side. Only one person knocked like that. Only one person knocked at all. Normal people just used the doorbell, but Reg wasn’t a normal person. Whether he was even a person at all was a point of ongoing debate among those unfortunate enough to know him. Many saw him as a different species entirely, and one that should have been extinct, not just because of his poor diet, his high blood pressure, and his questionable life choices but because the world would simply be a much nicer place without him. Reg was the sort of person who would run into a burning orphanage and come out with the furniture, the sort of person who didn’t cheer for the good guy or the bad guy because he wanted everyone to die, the sort of person who would puncture a football that strayed into his garden before chucking it back over the fence, and the sort of person who wouldn’t think twice about puncturing tenants who didn’t pay their rent on time—tenants like Danny, who hadn’t paid his rent for the last two months.

  The banging stopped and the radio filled the silence with an idiotic jingle for a local car dealership.

  “I think he’s gone,” whispered Danny, his eyes moving around the room as if he were tracking a fly. The moment he took a sip of tea, however, he almost threw it over himself as the banging resumed with renewed intensity.

  Worried that the door was about to leave its hinges, and worried that Reg would bill him for the damage, Danny got up and cautiously peered through the spyhole.

  Reg was standing in the corridor, his sagging body held upright by a pair of grubby elbow crutches. He leaned into them with his back slightly arched and his arse jutting out, a stance that always reminded Danny of a posturing gorilla, although gorillas were generally friendlier than Reg and only attacked when threatened. His cheeks were more flushed than usual, the broken lift having forced him to take the stairs, and on his head sat an unwashed flat-cap saturated in decades of pomade. Standing behind him was a towering square-headed man with short-cropped hair as black as his suit. The two men looked comically distorted through the fish-eye lens of the spyhole, and Reg didn’t look any less distorted when Danny opened the door.

  “About fucking time,” said Reg as he barged past Danny. “Get the kettle on.”

  “Reg,” said Danny. He craned his neck to meet the eyes of the other man. “Dent,” he said, moving out of the doorway so Mr. Dent could enter.

  Will watched the men trickle into the living room, his limp piece of toast still pinched between his fingers. Mr. Dent took Reg’s crutches and helped him into Danny’s chair before seating himself beside Will. Danny hovered like a nervous shop assistant as his son disappeared in Mr. Dent’s shadow.

  “I don’t hear the water boiling,” said Reg.

  Danny leaned into the kitchen and flicked on the kettle, his eyes still on his uninvited guests.

  “What’s that, then?” said Reg, pointing at Will’s toast. “Peanut butter?”

  Will looked down at his breakfast and then back up at Reg. He nodded.

  Reg looked at Mr. Dent, who slid the plate away from Will and parked it in front of his boss.

  “Not bad, that,” said Reg, flecks of toast and peanut butter spattering the table as he spoke. “I prefer the smooth stuff, though, being the smooth bastard that I am.”

  Danny laughed, but not too much.

  “Still giving it the silent treatment, is he?” said Reg, nodding at Will, who began to fidget beneath his gaze. Danny shrugged and mumbled something in the affirmative.

  “You got it lucky,” said Reg. “Seen and not heard, as it should be. You want to meet my youngest, right little gobshite that one, can’t never shut him up. Just like his mother, drives me fucking daft.”

  Reg wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and wiped the back of his hand on his trousers. He took out a packet of Superkings and slipped a cigarette between his lips.

  “We don’t—” Danny cut himself short, but not short enough.

  “We don’t what, Daniel?” said Reg, leaning into the flame that Mr. Dent was holding out for him.

  “Nothing.”

  “We. Don’t. What. Daniel?” Reg’s tone implied that Danny would be sorry if he made him ask a third time.

  “We don’t… I mean… it’s just… it’s a nonsmoking house.”

  “Is it?” said Reg. He took a deep drag of his cigarette and sent a cloud of blue-gray smoke towards Danny. “Remind me again, Dan, because I’m obviously fucking stupid, but whose house is this?”

  “It’s yours,” said Danny.

  “See, that’s what I thought too, but the way you were talking made it sound like it was your house. Do you see where my confusion arose?”

  “Yes, Reg. Sorry, Reg.”

  “So, whose house is this?”

  “It’s your house.”

  “And who makes the rules?”

  “You do.”

  “You’re fucking right I do. So don’t you ever tell me what to do in my own fucking house again. You got that?”

  “Yes, Reg.”

  “And anyways,” said Reg, tapping ash into Danny’s tea, “I wouldn’t worry about a little passive smoking. Not if I were you. If I were you, I’d be more concerned about the other th
ings in life that could pose serious risks to your health. Like, oh, I don’t know, not paying your rent on time, for example.”

  “Will, why don’t you go wait for Mo downstairs,” said Danny. Will hesitated. “It’s okay, mate. Me and Reg just want to have a little chat.”

  Will grabbed his schoolbag and shuffled out of the room.

  “Sit down, for fuck’s sake,” said Reg, pointing to Will’s recently vacated seat. “You’re making me nervous.”

  Danny sat down at the head of the table, as far from Reg and Dent as possible.

  “Look, Reg, I know why you’re here and—”

  “I know why I’m here. I’m here because this is my fucking flat. What I don’t know is why you’re still here.”

  “I appreciate you’ve been patient, really, but things have just got a bit on top of me lately and, well, that last rent hike was… it was quite steep and I wasn’t really, I mean I hadn’t factored in… I just wasn’t expecting it. Not so soon after the last one.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s inflation for you. Don’t blame me, blame the economy.”

  “I know, but, well, with all due respect, inflation’s, like, what? Three percent? And my rent went up twenty percent, so—”

  “Admin,” said Reg.

  “What?”

  “Admin.”

  “Admin?”

  “Is there a fucking echo in here, Dent?” said Reg.

  Mr. Dent shook his head.

  “Admin,” said Danny. “Right. Of course. It’s just… we haven’t got the same money coming in like before. Not since… you know…”

  “Terrible thing, what happened to your Liz,” said Reg. He took another drag on his cigarette. “She was a good girl, that one, I liked her a lot. But at the risk of sounding like a heartless old twat, which, come to think of it, is exactly what I am, your loss, while tragic, don’t change the fact that you owe me two months’ rent.”