sees me. What does bother me are moments like this, when it comes to confession. I have no one to turn to.
I don’t want to cleanse myself; I don’t even know what I did was wrong. Living with the memory of it is punishment enough: more than I can bear, actually. When I tell people, they don’t really listen to what I’m saying; they listen to how I’m saying it; and that distracts them. They look at me, shocked obviously, and offer their best kind of sympathy - I’ve had tea and biscuits, arms round the shoulder, arms on my shoulder, more tea and biscuits and some sex, none of which did any harm, but none of which made me feel any better - and all the while the full import of what I was saying was lost. That’s what I want you to know before I tell you, so that you don’t make the same mistake.
You see, what I did was terrible.
I killed my little girl.
4
When I was young, I used to stare a lot at the sky. I had a book with pictures of different types of clouds in it and used to hold it up to see if I could recognise them. There were thick and heavy cumulonimbus ones gathering in their black smoke, ready to break; and high, wispy cirrus, higher even than the trails of vanishing planes. But my favourite were the cirrocumulus and altocumulus, which rippled across the sky like desert sand dunes. Argosies of fleet, white sails gliding into the west were my Trojan war, my secret odyssey. Without knowing it, they guided me through my childhood. At once, beautiful, ineffable, like a dream, they led me on jejune meanderings, framing the corners of my world. I have seen the same look on my daughter’s face at times, when I caught her looking out of the window, singing to herself.
‘I think it’s going to rain, Dad.’
‘Why do you say that, sweetheart?’
‘’Cause the clouds are big.’
That was my doing. I taught her all that. I showed her the pictures and tried to get her to remember them - though obviously not in the same detail (I was much older) - telling her to look up, not down, thinking myself very wise that I’d taught her a great life lesson and that she would, by the slow osmosis of time, realise this meant to look for the good things in life, and not dwell on the bad; and her heart (through no doing of my own - hearts are law unto themselves, just like children) followed my lead, though I think it was the pictures that really appealed to her. I told you I was a crap parent: I approved of the things I approved of, and wanted her to do all the things I wanted, and got angry when she wanted to do her own. I could as likely change her as I could the formations in the sky. The blueprint of the clouds, the tapestry of my youth, was mine alone.
The middle-aged tart was with us when it happened. We were in the lobby, waiting for the lift. My daughter had pressed the button and was dancing in front of us, gyrating her body ten years too early, swaying her hips, and singing along to a song called ‘Crazy’. The middle-aged tart smiled at her and asked her what she was doing as if she didn’t know.
‘Dancing.’
My daughter beamed at her and the tart looked at me with tears in her eyes. I didn’t think it was that bad. Maybe she was just sentimental. She looked at her watch. I guess she must have been late for something.
‘You’re very good,’ she said. ‘Where are you off to today?’
‘To the cinema. Daddy is taking me out.’
‘Oh…’
Before she could say anything else, the bell rang. My daughter ran to the doors. Pavlov’s dogs would have reacted slower. It was the kind of instinctive and unstoppable rush she had when she smelled sweets or chocolate.
‘Hold on, sweetheart. Wait for me.’
The middle-aged tart tried to get out of the way but my daughter ran right into her. Her bag went flying and the contents threw up like Pick’n’Mix. Personally, I think she made a meal of it. You don’t go down like that, not if a little kid hits you, but I wasn’t about to say anything. I
I don’t want to cleanse myself; I don’t even know what I did was wrong. Living with the memory of it is punishment enough: more than I can bear, actually. When I tell people, they don’t really listen to what I’m saying; they listen to how I’m saying it; and that distracts them. They look at me, shocked obviously, and offer their best kind of sympathy - I’ve had tea and biscuits, arms round the shoulder, arms on my shoulder, more tea and biscuits and some sex, none of which did any harm, but none of which made me feel any better - and all the while the full import of what I was saying was lost. That’s what I want you to know before I tell you, so that you don’t make the same mistake.
You see, what I did was terrible.
I killed my little girl.
4
When I was young, I used to stare a lot at the sky. I had a book with pictures of different types of clouds in it and used to hold it up to see if I could recognise them. There were thick and heavy cumulonimbus ones gathering in their black smoke, ready to break; and high, wispy cirrus, higher even than the trails of vanishing planes. But my favourite were the cirrocumulus and altocumulus, which rippled across the sky like desert sand dunes. Argosies of fleet, white sails gliding into the west were my Trojan war, my secret odyssey. Without knowing it, they guided me through my childhood. At once, beautiful, ineffable, like a dream, they led me on jejune meanderings, framing the corners of my world. I have seen the same look on my daughter’s face at times, when I caught her looking out of the window, singing to herself.
‘I think it’s going to rain, Dad.’
‘Why do you say that, sweetheart?’
‘’Cause the clouds are big.’
That was my doing. I taught her all that. I showed her the pictures and tried to get her to remember them - though obviously not in the same detail (I was much older) - telling her to look up, not down, thinking myself very wise that I’d taught her a great life lesson and that she would, by the slow osmosis of time, realise this meant to look for the good things in life, and not dwell on the bad; and her heart (through no doing of my own - hearts are law unto themselves, just like children) followed my lead, though I think it was the pictures that really appealed to her. I told you I was a crap parent: I approved of the things I approved of, and wanted her to do all the things I wanted, and got angry when she wanted to do her own. I could as likely change her as I could the formations in the sky. The blueprint of the clouds, the tapestry of my youth, was mine alone.
The middle-aged tart was with us when it happened. We were in the lobby, waiting for the lift. My daughter had pressed the button and was dancing in front of us, gyrating her body ten years too early, swaying her hips, and singing along to a song called ‘Crazy’. The middle-aged tart smiled at her and asked her what she was doing as if she didn’t know.
‘Dancing.’
My daughter beamed at her and the tart looked at me with tears in her eyes. I didn’t think it was that bad. Maybe she was just sentimental. She looked at her watch. I guess she must have been late for something.
‘You’re very good,’ she said. ‘Where are you off to today?’
‘To the cinema. Daddy is taking me out.’
‘Oh…’
Before she could say anything else, the bell rang. My daughter ran to the doors. Pavlov’s dogs would have reacted slower. It was the kind of instinctive and unstoppable rush she had when she smelled sweets or chocolate.
‘Hold on, sweetheart. Wait for me.’
The middle-aged tart tried to get out of the way but my daughter ran right into her. Her bag went flying and the contents threw up like Pick’n’Mix. Personally, I think she made a meal of it. You don’t go down like that, not if a little kid hits you, but I wasn’t about to say anything. I
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