Daddy Dearest Read Free

and also contain bananas and tea bags. I don’t know why the cleaners or caretakers don’t change the bins more regularly. They fill up every two days. Two other steel wheelie bins are parked on the far wall, empty. I peer in. My daughter is kicking through the rubbish on the floor.
    ‘Do you want a ride?’
    She smiles and says yay at the top of her voice. I pick her up and drop her into one of them.
    ‘Close the lid.’
    ‘You won’t be scared?’
    She shakes her head.
    I wheel her round for a bit, making stupid giant noises. She giggles and bangs on the side saying I can’t find her and I, like an idiot, tell her the same. I, who can’t find it in me to tell her a lie about dying, go along with it. But that’s because it’s a game, isn’t it? You can tell lies in a game. That’s why we play them. Now you see her, now you don’t.
    I lift the lid.
    ‘Are you coming out?’
    She shakes her head.
    ‘I’m going to put the rubbish in.’
    ‘Give me another ride.’
    I close the lid and push the bin through another set of double doors at the back of the room. They lead on to a small corridor. It’s darker in there.
    The strip lights flicker unevenly. At the end there is an emergency exit. Push bar to open , it says. I’ve never been this far and push the bin to the end. My daughter is making another racket. I put my ear to the doors and listen. I can hear the sounds of the streets above. I put my hands on the bar and feel it move, then stop. I haven’t the nerve. I never do. I push her back into the room with the chutes and wheel the full one out the way.
    I don’t know why I seem to be the only person that does this. I mean, there must be others who’ve seen all this junk and realised the bin needs changing. Maybe they think they’re stepping on somebody else’s toes; maybe they just don’t notice. It’s the same on my floor. People leave butt ends, Chinese takeout cartons, pens, newspapers lying around in the corridor. My daughter thinks it’s disgusting, and so do I. It doesn’t stop her picking everything up: beer cans, old sweets, chewing gum wrappers, all the flotsam and jetsam of a good night out; but she knows it upsets me and that registers with her. I wish it would register with everyone else.
    After we’ve swept the floor and cleaned the place up a bit, she still wants to play. But I have things to do. I have to mention the lift. On cue, her eyes light up.
    ‘Can I press the button?’
    ‘If you’re good.’
    If you’re good? What am I talking about? She has to be good to press a button? Why can’t I just say yes? Why do I have to twist everything? I’m a crap parent. I’m glad she can’t see that. I’m glad she can just see Daddy. One day, she’ll see more and it’ll all be over. There’ll be no hiding. But not now. Now, I still have her.
    When we get to the seventh floor, I look behind and she’s still there, and I’m relieved. I can stop thinking about Orpheus, if only for a little while.

3
     
    I have a confession to make. It’s not that I didn’t want to tell you; it’s more how I went about saying it. You see, most people, when they’re confessing something, want to cleanse themselves; they want some kind of absolution for what they’ve done. They want to be forgiven and made to feel better, to be able to start again. That’s why so many of them turn to God; God doesn’t remind them of what they’ve done. He forgets about it. If other people can’t get over the hump, that’s their problem: Jesus saves everyone.
    Of course, I don’t believe in Jesus; at least, not in the Biblical sense. And what other sense is there? Nor am I given to casuistry; I’m not intelligent enough. I believe there was a man, a man just like me, who had things to say, and nobody would believe him. That’s the bit I buy. All the other bits about being the son and heir, forget it. My inability to see God doesn’t bother me most of the time, though it’s quite frustrating to be told he