Man Of Few Words

But I didn't get out of there. At least, not immediately. I wobbled to my feet, and padded slowly over to Dad as he crumpled and sobbed, his head down and arms up in a kind of poorly implemented brace position.

I just put my hand on his shoulder. I didn't know what else to do. He didn't say anything, and neither did I.

We were like that for quite a while. At least ten minutes. I basically kept it up for as long as I could before I started aching and feeling dizzy. Then I spoke,

"Just, er... going to the toilet, Dad."

I left him crying behind me and shuffled to the downstairs cloakroom. I pulled down my tracksuit bottoms and pants, sat down on the toilet, and stared wide-eyed at the door.

Nothing happened for a long while. I could still hear Dad give out a wailing sob here and there, but he seemed to be quieting down. Eventually, I squeezed out a dribble of stingy, syrupy piss, but I was still in no hurry to return to the living room. Before very much longer though, a dry throat and the accompanying threat of a coughing fit persuaded me to return to my glass of water. And my grieving father.

When I sat back down opposite him, he was almost silent. His breath was heavy and uneven, but he made no other noise besides.

"Dad," I began, feeling myself spinning out-of-control towards a terrible cliché, "It wasn..."

"Don't say it wasn't my fault!" he spat, quite literally. I got up and fetched him a box of tissues from the kitchen. I took one out and feebly waved it in his face, but he didn't look up. So I sort of dabbed at his top lip and nose with it. To my relief he got the hint and took the tissue from my hand. I left the box on the arm of his chair and sat back down again.

"Did the police... I mean, were you charged with anything?"

He dabbed his eyes and forehead, then shook his head slowly as he reached for another tissue without looking at me, or at where he was putting his hand. He knocked the tissue box onto the floor, then just sighed and slumped down again. Not lying back, not leaning forward. Just slumped in the middle of his chair, as if his shoulders were being held down by heavy weights hidden under his cardigan.

We just sat in silence together for a while longer. Eventually, I got slowly to my feet and said,

"Dad..."

His head turned to me and his eyebrows raised, both much more sharply than I was expecting. He had the peculiar air of a giant puppet on which only the neck and eyebrows are operable. Every other part of his body and face was limp and lifeless.

"I'm not feeling too good. I'm going to bed."

This was entirely true, but not the entire truth.

He nodded and went back to staring into the gloomy corner opposite his chair. As I shuffled past him, I placed my hand on his shoulder once again. This time, he reached his own hand across his chest and rested it on top of mine with a gentle, barely discernable squeeze. He left it there for two seconds then resumed slumping. He didn't look up through all of this.

I went to bed, where I didn't sleep at all well.