“What are you doing here, Dad?” I hold up the oxygen tank while he carefully lowers himself into the seat, adjusting the thin plastic hose over his shoulder so he can secure his seat belt. “I thought you went to see Mia.”
“I did.” My father lets me tuck the oxygen tank between his feet on the floor. “Had a nice old chat, too.”
I roll my eyes as I close the door, heading back around to the driver’s side.
“Andrea called her,” my father says as I start the engine. “Christ, that woman is a miserable old cow. I told you not to get her pregnant, didn’t I?”
“Yes, Dad, you did, thank you.” I pull out of the parking lot and onto the side road, which isn’t as busy as usual. Everyone seems to be sick of this day, just like me. I give my father a brief side glance. “Andrea give her hell?”
“Mia told her to go fuck herself and hung up,” my father says with a gruff laugh, sounding deeply proud. “She’s a good girl, that one. Doesn’t take any guff.”
“Mmm.” I stop at a red light, and can feel my father staring at me. “What is it, Dad?”
“What are we going to do about this?”
“Well, there’s not a lot we can do, is there?”
My father snorts. “We can’t just keep quiet about it and let the story get ahead of us, the speculation will run rampant.”
The light turns green and I accelerate into the intersection. “What do you suggest, a press conference? Tell everyone Archie’s disappeared and we have no idea where or with whom or for how long, but everything’s fine?”
My father growls disapprovingly. “You’re being far too emotional about all of this.”
“Of course I’m emotional, this is mysonwe’re talking about.”
“This isbusiness, Dominic.” My father’s voice booms in the car, surprisingly strong despite the disease whittling away at his lungs. “Yes, Archie is your son, and you can have all that out with him when he gets back. But right now, the club is what matters, the team is what matters, and thefansare what matter. Archie has let down more than just his wife here, andthat’swhat I’m worried about.”
“There’s not much we can do about the fans, they’ll either be angry that he’s gone or angry when he gets back.” I take a right turn, down a peaceful tree-lined street dotted with posh wine bars and windows hung with fairy lights as we move closer to Holland Park. “But you’re right, we need to… minimise the damage somehow.”
“And the best way to do that is to be honest. Hiding things in the dark serves no one. Not these days when every Tom, Dick or Harry fancies themselves a journalist because they have a phone in their hand.” My father catches a cough with a white handkerchief, and my head instinctively snaps in his direction to check for blood. Thankfully, there’s none. “And we certainly can’t have the fans show up to the game on Tuesday expecting to see Archie bloody Graves on the field, only to find he’s not there. There’ll be riots.”
I grip the steering wheel harder and growl. “Yeah, you’re right.”
I come up with a hundred speeches in my head during the last ten minutes of the drive, while my father goes on about howin my dayandback when we understood loyalty, and every other term he can think of that just has my guilt twisting tighter and tighter around my stomach.
“I was a bad father,” I suddenly blurt out, and my father stops short.
“You what?”
I stop at another cursed red light, and exhale heavily. “I was. I was a bad father. I was too busy, too focused on my career, too selfish, and I wasn’t around enough. Archie idolised me and I never made sure it was the good parts he saw.”
My father pats my shoulder heavily. “You been reading too many girly books, mate.”
I shrug him off. “Sorry, I guess we should all be more like your generation was and just drink all day, cheat on our wives and forget we even had kids, would have solved the entire issue.”
“Hey, now you listenhere,” my father snaps, which sends him into a violent coughing fit.
Mercifully, we’re right outside his place, so I bring the car to a stop and dash around to his side. He’s going almost purple by the time I open his door, and I increase the flow of his oxygen.
“Alright, Dad, calm down,” I say, putting a hand on his arm. “Deep breaths. Just calm your breathing.”
“I… bloody… know,” he rasps, each word punctuated by more wheezing and coughing. He wipes the spittle from his lips with his handkerchief, and slowly, his breathing calms. He holds up a shaky finger, his eyes wide, and he shakes his head. “I loved your mother.”
“I know, Dad.”
“She was a wonderful wife, and-” Another deep, catching breath that rattles in his throat. “A bloody wonderful mother.”
“Yes, Dad. She was.”
