Mr & Mister Danvers: Initiation - 9. EPISODE 8: H.E.L.P.

EPISODE 8: H.E.L.P.

He had just switched off the car's engine when we arrived back at my place.

I said, "Well, I suppose this is it. I've had a terrific time mate. Thanks again for everything."

He grabbed my arm and pulled me into an embrace as soon as I tried opening the door.

I wasn't bothered by it.

It was wonderful cuddling him in that position, where I could smell him for the first time.

Despite my best efforts to forget his scent, the aroma of black coffee percolating in one of those enamel coffee pots and several olfactory flourishes mixed in with grapes, citrus, and cinnamon from the bacchanal lush of drinking red wine had already become ingrained in my brain as something I'd always connect to him.

Our bodies were separated for a split second.

He cupped my face as his eyes were riveted on the contour of my crimson puckers.

For a time, I closed my eyes and relished the sensations his hand had conferred on me.

He softly pushed my bottom lip with his forefinger, pressing it like a small child intrigued by its flavour.

Leaning closer to feel the warmth of his breath on my lips, he stared into my green orbs that perked up to see him and said, "You better leave before I kiss you. You’re making it hard for me to act like a gentleman."

He then opened my side of the door, finally releasing me from the spell he had cast on me.

I was trapped within the confines of his gravity, hoping there was more to this, when suddenly I heard Brady’s muffled shouting from across the street.

‘I told you! My daddy’s not here! Please leave!’

Without a word said or any feelings of trepidation, I raced to get inside the apartment, busting through the door like a fire had erupted.

I had a feeling that the same men who had displaced us and threw our things outside our apartment months ago were back inside our house, hounding my son like the hooligans that they are.

My eyes beyond the lenses saw the circumstances: these weren’t the same men; they looked more dangerous and well versed in the art of intimidation.

Roger Talbot’s thugs were paid actors compared to these three; these were professionals.

By the looks of it, he had upgraded his goons by hiring these henchmen.

The first person I saw was the squat, dark-bearded man on the kitchen bench.

He started flexing his wrist as soon as I shut the door.

Signalling that he was about to swing his hunting knife in my direction, I gave him a close look, and he was grinning menacingly, teasing me about what could happen if I crossed them.

Behind the door on my side, resting against a wall, I noticed a man sporting a smile that warranted caution.

Bald, burly, and clean-shaven, and in some unperturbed sense, he looked to be the most dangerous of the three.

His face had a massive horizontal knife mark that ran across it.

The last person was sitting on the couch, knees folded and arms outstretched, his cheeks covered with bedraggled tufts of beard placed on a florid face.

Brady was sitting beside him, my son looking all nervous and afraid of these hoodlums, and I could only contain my anger as the man on the couch held his shirt by the collar.

And then I saw my dad on the floor—as though someone had dumped him there so this prick could take a seat.

My dad was barely conscious.

The rise and fall of his chest allayed my fear that something worse had happened.

Blood was strewn on my father’s lips, marked by the fist that had landed on his face.

Who would hit an elderly, crippled man?

Who the fuck does that?

I leapt across to try and pick him up when the sharp-faced ruffian said, "Nu-uh. Your dad’s sleeping. You wouldn’t want to wake him up, would you?" The phone was ringing. He slipped his hand through his pockets, taking in the call with a series of nods, his eyes staring at me. Then he said with finality, "Yes sir," and ended the call.

The door suddenly opened as I propelled myself towards the man sitting on the couch.

I was about to deck him, drag him to his death, and possibly kill him.

I know that I may not look like the type.

I may not seem like the murdering kind.

But I assure you, killing these three would be an easy feat I could hardly calculate, if not estimate, with the sheer amount of rage building up inside of me.

As the man on the couch held my son captive by his seat, Nathan opened the door and shouted, commanding everyone with his supplication, "Please—let’s settle this as gentlemen. Greg, take Brady outside. I shall speak with them."

"What are you doing? You can’t talk to these men. Talbot sent them to deal with me," I said, with one arm raised in a guttural protest while another held Brady’s arm.

The sharp ruffian stared at me while the decisive glares of the other two hung on my back.

Nathan pulled Brady to his side and begged, "Please listen. They’re here for money. So I’ll give them what they want. Let me handle this for now."

Since I lacked the resources to provide them with what they were seeking, it made no sense for me to attempt to resolve this conflict on my own.

Dad and Brady, along with our belongings, should have been tossed outside like the previous time if they intended to cast us out of here.

Money was their motivator for taking on this job to intimidate us.

Money was the root cause of their threats against my child and my dad.

Money, which I don’t have and will never have enough of, was something Nathan could provide to help me out of this situation.

I glanced at him, swallowed all my pride, and took Brady outside.

My neighbour, a woman who had once babysat my son, peeked outside through her blinds.

Her eyes of contempt blazed through the slits, and she quickly closed them off and settled into safety inside her apartment.

I knew that she had thought of me as a nuisance.

It was more than that.

She thought of me as a pest that needed to be squished down by the heel of Talbot’s greed.

Several rows of houses were owned by Roger Talbot, and my neighbours only saw me as distasteful to the peaceful charm of Glebe Street.

These motherfuckers would tie me up if need be to have me shipped someplace else.

I glanced down, pulling Brady towards the bench in front of the hyrangeas.

Before we could take a seat, my son wrapped his arms around my legs, trying hard not to cry, shed tears, or show any fear—for he knew that he was the only one who could protect his grandpa when the situation called for it.

Kneeling down to hug him, I said, "You’ve been a brave boy. But daddy’s here now. Tell me what happened, sweety."

Moistness filled his eyes as he began to sob.

As brave as he was, there was only so much that a 10-year-old could worry about.

After all, he was only a child, and as my son, he had certainly gone through enough.

He then said frantically, "They came into the house, daddy, and grandpa wasn’t having it. He shouted at them and said to leave us alone, but they wouldn’t listen. And then the big man punched grandpa, and then they left him on the floor. I-er-I, I tried to pull the big man away from grandpa, but he was too strong. He was very strong daddy. And...and then—and then they left him there." His sobs grew heavy as he took off his glasses, my hands on his shoulders as I grinded my teeth from his retelling. "I really tried to help grandpa, daddy. But the tall man was asking where you were, but I didn’t know where you were, so I didn’t help at all. And then...and then they tried to ask me questions, but I told them you weren’t here. Whe-where were you, daddy? Why didn’t you come? Grandpa needed you."

There was a searing ache in my chest from seeing my son go through this ordeal.

How could Talbot come at us like this?

We didn’t deserve this treatment—no one does; not even the feral cats or the rabid dogs from the streets deserved this kind of trauma.

"Brady, I-erm, I, er, I am very sorry, sweetheart," I said, pulling his head closer to my chest. "Calm down pumpkin.” I swiped his back, patting it rigorously in case his asthma strikes in this untimely manner. “I’m here now, okay. Daddy’s here now."

Then the door opened, and the three armed men peacefully went outside.

The bald thug looked down on me as I noticed a tattoo of a cross around his neck.

As soon as they were gone, I quickly hurried inside and saw Nathan carrying dad, his body and legs on his arm, gently placing him on a cot from the bunkbed found in the mezzanine.

"You can carry him back to the couch later. He hit his spine; he’ll need to rest his back."

I moved the coffee table to the side of the couch and sat beside my father, smoothing the rumpled strands of hair from the sweat on his forehead.

"How’d you know he hit his back?"

"When they dropped him on the floor, he must have slammed his back. Look, he’s arching his shoulders."

My dad was lifting his chest, barely able to straighten his spine from resting.

I turned him onto his side so he’d sleep comfortably, and I quickly grabbed a wet cloth from the bathroom and began swiping his mouth from the blood.

My indignation was at a full stop; something came into me.

I pushed Nathan as he tripped on the wide seat, held in balance by the arm on the couch as he was forced to sit.

I said reproachfully that only an idiot like me could say, "Why did you have to butt-in mate? I could’ve handled them myself."

"I’m sorry. I thought—"

"—well you fu..." I said, glancing at Brady standing by the couch, "thought wrong. What did you say to them?"

"I offered money so that they’d leave."

"How much?"

"You don’t have to..."

"HOW MUCH!"

"Five-thousand pounds."

"Geezus, bloody Christ. What have you done?"

The truth was, there was nothing I could’ve done.

There was nothing in my power to stop them or prevent my son from seeing the carnage I could’ve caused if I allowed that side of me to awaken.

I was honestly thankful that Nathan was there to offer his help.

But instead of thanking him, I condoned his actions and pointed a finger, projecting my own sins.

Maybe it was the guilt of satisfaction—of an uncomparable happiness—that while I had been enjoying our dinner together, my son and my dad were here receiving the brunt of every damn thing I should’ve gotten in my stead.

His voice was dulled by the rage in my eyes, and he said, "Please don’t be mad. Money’s not a problem."

"Well it is to me! How the hell am I going to pay you back?"

"You don’t have to!" he exclaimed softly.

"But I do. This is too much."

I paced up and down the length of the narrow room, and when he said, "I’m really sorry," his face stamped with regret as he stammered with an apology I didn’t deserve. "I-er, I-I, I wished I had done it differently, if you’re feeling guilty of this. I’m truly sorry."

I knelt on the cot to wipe dad’s face, his breathing a little unsteadily, and said, "Please leave. Go. Just go."

The words that came out of my mouth were soon followed with regret, then shame, coterminously bound with the extent of my guilt.

And then he said it, yanking me deftly for an embrace I requisitioned from the annals of my past history that I’m a hard, surly, stubborn man: "I’m not leaving. I know you need me."

The words rang true once they were said aloud, fracturing the goliathan walls I had fortified around me, keeping me in a state of equilibrium where all I needed was for those walls to be shaken so I could breach outside my own borders and graze the world to feel alive.

"Please, Greg," he said, his fingers brushing through the breadth of my hair, my face on his chest, while my hand grabbed his back, crumpling his shirt and my pride.

There was nothing left for me to hold onto, so I knew I had to let go.

He whispered in my ear, "Let me help you."

Help.

H, E, L, P.

A word that mirrored the state of a person requiring assistance.

Or if you see it through the eyes of the giver, it’s an act of doing something to someone by offering kindness as the requisite of the condition and compassion as the modifier of the trade.

It was the one word I'd never asked for, needed, or wanted until someone willingly offered it, and I was relieved that I could finally breathe once I'd accepted the darn thing.

I could feel the liquid coming copiously through the side of my eyes but I held it in.

I quickly swiped the buggers and looked up to see his eyes.

"Alright. I’ll take you on that offer.”

“Thanks. I won’t let you down. I promise.” He smiled a trifle grimly, then looked at his watch and noted, "You’re going to be late. I’ll handle things around here while you’re gone."

"What are you on about?"

"Hurry up! You don’t want to be late." He stood up, lowered his hand, and presented his palm. "Come on. It’s already half past five. You said you have to be at work by six."

I took the offering, and he gently pulled me up.

Standing face to face with this man, I shook my head and smiled at his assistance.

"Give me your phone." Without a question, he handed me his mobile. I put in my digits and said, "You better call me if something’s up, alright. Brady needs to be asleep by seven; you can pop in the microwave those instant mac and cheese, and that’ll be his dinner. It’s on the cupboard right above the fridge. After his supper, you can go."

"You know, that’s not nutritionally sufficient for a child," he said, his eyes barely moving.

"We don’t have a gourmet chef, so that’ll do. My rules, my house, my kid. Do you understand?"

He nodded and answered decidingly, "But I’m not leaving till you get home."

I inspected his eyes and his expression, and like an immovable door, he remained locked to the idea of not leaving before I was home.

"Fine. Wait for me then."

"I will."

Brady was tugging below my shirt, giving me a flinty stare, and said, "Daddy, why is he the one to take care of me? I am too old to be taken cared of. I’ve always managed well on my own, even while you’re at work. I don’t need a babysitter daddy."

I held the back of his head, rubbed his hair, and said thoughtfully, "He’s not a babysitter. He’s a friend. And he’s a doctor. So he’s able to help you if you have a tummy ache while I’m not here."

"Okay," he said, glancing up at Nathan. "I guess he might prove useful after all. I dislike having tummy aches."

I grinned at the serious plight of the child.

Nathan turned to me, his hand across his face and assuming a mock-stern expression, and said, "Your kid is unbelievable. I guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. He’s as stubborn as you are."

"It runs in the family."

I returned Brady to the couch, put him across it with a cushion under his head, and turned on the telly. I shifted to Nathan and said, "Please call me if there’s a problem or anything," while staring down at my father.

To my surprise, he pulled me in and kissed my forehead, after which he literally shoved me out of the door.

"I promise to call you if anything happens."

I tramped out of the house, closing the door behind me, knowing that I had just left my family in the care of a stranger I had met earlier in the day.

However, despite the troubling thought that my mind wants to classify Nathan as an anomalous situation, there was a sense of conversance and assurance that they would be in good hands.

That he won’t let me down like the men in my past who have departed too quickly or had overstayed for too long.

I was outside the door, listening to the chatter:

"What should I make you for dinner, then, little one?"

"The mac and cheese is suitable. But what would you say if I had pizza instead? Would you tell daddy about it or not?"

"Are you talking about the microwavable ones?"

"Yes. I find the mac and cheese to be a bit soggy."

"Are you trying to get me in trouble?"

"Hmm. I’m not. The pizza is slightly better when it comes to texture. Daddy saves the pizza on weekends."

"I have an idea. What if we go to an Italian restaurant so I could feed you real Italian food? What do you say?"

"But that would take me away from watching Fireman Sam. His show’s on in half an hour. I can’t miss it."

"My car has a TV in the backseat. You can watch it there."

"But how about grandpa? We can’t leave grandpa behind. Who’s going to watch him?"

"I guess we’ll just order takeaway then so he’ll be fast asleep and rested here. How about that?"

"Alright. What’s Italian food anyway? Is it yummy?"

"Well, Italian food is..."

I couldn’t help but smile as I closed the small gate to our home.

For the first time in my life, I wasn’t alone.