Mr & Mister Danvers: Initiation - 3. EPISODE 2: SOMEDAY

EPISODE 2: SOMEDAY

Rain poured in, and a blanket of grey enveloped the entirety of London, where the skies continuously wept.

While waiting under the shade of the gable ends and the ridge where two sloping sides of the roof met, I noticed the mansion across this house, as I was leaning on the wall, waiting for the heavy downpour to subside.

With the property having occupied at least four apartments, there were two middling-sized London Plane trees in front of the main entrance.

The wood slats and the mullioned windows in the front step drew attention to the white and umber paint, along with its geometrically shaped design, as an homage to its contemporary modern roots.

It was deceptively small and a sore eye amongst the rows of Victorian houses on this street.

To have a large mansion right in the heart of the city of London, you’d have to be a billionaire to afford a property like this.

Then a tall man wearing a bucket hat stepped out of the house.

The man shrugged into his overcoat and pulled up an umbrella over his head, sauntering off into the streets.

He must be part of the household’s domestic staff.

A black Range Rover pulled out of the parking garage, followed by a Mercedes.

Dashing off into the heavy outpouring as I headed off to the nearest bus, I turned my head back at the mansion one last time and murmured to myself, "It must be nice to have all this luxury sitting at your doorstep," thinking that it must be pleasant to have a decent home.

Bikers sped up on their lane, and lorries began unloading their weekday supplies as rows of Victorian homes and townhouses filled my route.

Passing by a wine shop, an Italian restaurant, a pub, a furniture store, a pharmacy, a salon, a bookshop, a barbershop, a rug store, a coffee shop, dry cleaners, the post office, Tesco Express—your miniature supermarket—and a wellness clinic and spa, almost everything you need was tied into that skip of a road near Pitt Street.

As the bus reached the end of the high street, the bustling chimes of cars and other vehicles permeated the stillness as we negotiated the busy A315 road ahead.

Five minutes into observing the surrounding commute of the A315 bus travelling in the opposite direction, I stood up, rang the bell, and descended onto Old Market Pike.

The neighbourhood was slightly upscale, with shops and the usual stores surrounding London.

In fact, the entire area catered to the middle class—something my family and I weren’t a part of.

Walking straight through Devonshire Road and then taking a turn to the right at Glebe Street, there was a white apartment with a small gate, a shrub of wilted hydrangeas on its front, and several weights made of dried cement on its front porch.

Roger Talbot, our rapacious landlord, was slamming his fist on our door.

His driver held the umbrella over his head while the rain hammered the skies.

The street was covered with a grey mist, and his fists kept on a barrage with a single mission: to awaken the entire neighbourhood with his pounding.

"I know you’re there Greg! Today’s not Friday, so I know you’re not bringing your father to the hospital." I hid behind a white land cruiser while the rain had completely soaked me. "You owe me this month’s rent, and I need the money!"

He didn’t need the £800 rent.

It’s chump change if you’re considering the fact that he wants us out in the streets to have this shitty squalor converted into a two-bedroom apartment he could transform and charge £1,200 per room.

After the pandemic, housing prices have soared throughout London, and this piece of garbage had the decent thought to raise the rent to £1,000 for a single bed with a DIY bath starting next month in order to force us out.

"Come out Greg!" he shouted. "You better pay up, or you and your family are out!"

My vantage point was skewed, seeing only the rows of apartments in the street, so I didn’t see this fat bastard with a soft right hook.

But I did hear his ingratiating voice from a distance. "Fuck off you piece of shit. Go away," I mumbled.

We had a run-in last month when he tried to kick us out by force.

He shoved me, and I shoved him back, as he tried punching me right in the face while I dodged it easily, telling him to piss off and not set his goons on my family.

Dodgy men started putting our things outside the apartment, and seeing them boot us out into the streets without any warning riled up my senses to fight back.

The three bastards he’d sent to have our place packed who threw our belongings outside the house were on the floor with their heads smashed, bruised lips, a twisted arm, and a broken hip.

Never mess with an ex-copper; that’s what Dad used to say when it came to protecting our family.

We made temporary peace when I reminded him that I was still paid for the entire month, that I still have my connections at the precinct, and that, I’d gladly have him locked up for disturbing the peace and for trespassing on the property I had paid for.

While the rain softened its deluge, he got inside his car while his driver hopped into the driver’s seat.

I wanted to see if the coast was clear.

I waited a couple of minutes before peering around to see if someone had seen me enter our flat.

Taking off my coat soaked in rain, I quickly closed the door and hung the wet thing on the hat stand as I glanced at my father sleeping on the couch.

I knew he’d heard the commotion—it was difficult not to with the loud banging—but he’s used to Mr. Rogers being dramatic and an overall piece of shit.

I took off my shoes and grabbed my slippers when Jimmy said, "How’s the interview?"

Nodding with a grin and letting my unprofessional forelock drag across my moist forehead, I pushed my damp hair back, and good-humouredly said, "I’m being considered dad. That’s a good sign."

I checked my watch.

It’s a quarter past six.

I headed over to the medicine cabinet to grab his morning pills. "They’ll call me if I get the job."

He turned over to his side to watch the telly, unaware of the job I had applied for, and said, "Very well, I know you’ve got this, son," with a glint of smile on his cheeks, combined with an angry glower he’s been trying to hide due to the unending pain of having a broken spine.

I jumped beside him as I knelt down and gave him his medicine, tilting his head to his side so he could drink the water, and pulling the duvet close to his chest to keep him warm from the cold chill of the rain.

To be paralysed from the hip down; he didn’t deserve that.

My dad was a great cop.

The bastards that left him bleeding on the side of the road after a lorry slammed into his back and sent him flying into a tree were murderers.

They killed his dream, they killed his job, and they thought they’d kill him as a man.

His T5 to T8 thoracic spine was crushed so badly that he was told he’d never be able to walk again.

He was left with a wheelchair and a version of a broken heart that only the company of whiskey could temporarily cure.

But even the warm fillings of liquor weren’t able to stop him from providing for our family.

A year after becoming a paraplegic drunk when I was 14, he sobered up and found himself a job as a mail sorter in the post office.

Everyone loved him, and everyone supported his recovery.

A few years after that, after I had graduated from university, he started feeling pain around his back.

Even while sitting up, his twisted spine gave him another version of ache, as he was settled to lie in bed for the remainder of his days.

There were moments when I’d check in on his breathing to see if he was still alive.

I know in my heart that if he could get a hold of his pills, he’d take everything and end his life right there, thinking he was a burden and a pain on my arse.

But I need him.

As selfish as it sounds, I needed my father.

He’s the only person in my life whose light cannot be extinguished, for he’s the only person who has been giving me hope that everything will be better, that everything has a purpose, and that our suffering is but a part of this overwhelming tapestry called life.

"Are you hungry?" I asked, matting the threads of hair on his forehead. I kissed his cheek and stood up. "You need to eat Dad."

"I’m a’rayt. Don’t mind me. I’ll eat later pet."

"Ok."

He arched his head to gaze at me. "You’ll get that job, I can feel it. I swear on the duck’s clackity clack and the fat ninny of my chinny-chin chin. You’ll snag that job pet"

Not wanting to burst his spirits, I nodded and cheerfully said, "Thanks dad. I hope so."

My father, who’s always had an extremely positive outlook, had always supported me to get through any job I had.

Working at the daycare was just one of several jobs I had taken on to put something on the table.

I taught English at night school and was a grease monkey on the weekends.

My love for cars has always had a place in my busy schedule.

What better way to appreciate the soothing hum of a car’s engine than to fix it and get paid while doing it?

And if there were available spots as a stand-in waiter for large-scale events, I’d drape an apron and serve tables on the nights I wasn’t teaching.

When I was a police sergeant, I was earning around £48,000 a year.

It was a decent increase from the £38k a year I’d had from being a constable.

£3,000 per month after taxes was a respectable, albeit sensible, living income here in London for three.

We were renting a two-bedroom flat for £1,800 per month.

Travelling at least cost me £150 a month without a car, which left us around £1,150 for food, entertainment, and savings.

Add to that the £300 my father receives monthly for his disability living allowance, and we had more than enough to live a standard life well within our means.

Now that my main income is gone, that I have lost my teaching job, and that work at Teddy’s auto-repair shop is no longer viable after the pandemic, I only have my waitering to help us through.

And it’s not enough—it’s never enough.

We’ll be out in the streets next month without a roof over our heads if I don’t do something.

The kettle started boiling when it snapped me out of my worry.

I poured it into my cup to make some tea when the door opened and Brady, my ten-year-old boy, announced in the room, "The bus left me daddy. So I’ll stay home with grandpa."

He had worn a blue Mackintosh that was pouring wet with his rucksack on and his lunchbox he’d carried to the bus stop.

And with the exhausting smile that’s seen in children when they’re hiding things, I knew I had to get to the bottom of this.

"What do ye’ mean you’re staying with me? You’re not out doing some mischief, are you?"

"No grandpa. The bus did leave me. I swear."

I gazed down at the child’s face, tipping his chin forward as I began staring at his baby blues. "Tell me the truth now. I won’t be mad sweety."

He brushed my hand away while I ruffled his blonde hair, smiling at how cute and adorably small he is at the age of ten.

Rubbing his eyes, he took off his glasses and said, "It’s the truth. The bus left me. I promise."

With nowhere else to sit but on the only couch in this windowless box, he kissed his grandpa’s cheeks and sat at the foot of the couch, placing his grandfather’s frozen legs on his lap.

I took his bag and dropped it on the dining chair.

Inside the lunchbox was a sandwich with a thinly spread peanut butter slab in the middle.

Doubting you could taste the peanut butter anywhere, I served it on a plate and handed it over to him. "Tell me the truth now. Why did the bus leave you?"

As he chewed on his sandwich without his eyes leaving the telly, he said, "They were in a rush to leave."

"Brady…"

"It’ll come to me, daddy. Let me finish this sandwich and hope I remember."

I forgot that this child is way smarter than me.

His teacher had told me that Brady was too advanced for his class, yet his marks were barely average.

I had a sneaking suspicion that he was knowingly setting his grades as mediocre so he wouldn't be bumped into the higher classes.

I left it alone because I was worried about the older kids making fun of him and his size, in addition to the fact that they'd be way stupider than him.

I crossed my arms and demanded, "Brady, tell me the truth now, pumpkin. Please."

"Alright then. The bus lady said I haven’t paid."

"Paid what?" I said, with my inflection automatically raising higher as I came into my defense.

"We were supposed to go to the Science Museum and The Natural History Museum today for our school trip. Mrs. Weatherby said it’s a hundred-forty pounds—but you forgot to pay."

I prised off my wallet and said, "Well you’re going now! You can’t be left behind with school outings like that."

I glanced inside my wallet and saw a single twenty-pound bill as my last remaining money.

I quickly changed my tone: "Will you have other school trips this year, sweety?"

He looked at me with an outstretched grin while finishing up his sandwich and said, "It’s alright daddy. There’ll be other trips to go to. It’s not the London Aquarium anyway. I bet it’s not fun. I’ll just be bored."

And then it happened—there was a searing pain in my chest, and I knew that if I didn’t grab it by the leash to curb this feeling, it would eat me alive and everything around me.

I had to get out of there.

I had to get out for a minute to breathe.

I quickly swung the door open amidst the rain, and right there in front of my dying hydrangea tree, in front of the wet that wished to drown me, I silently sobbed, as I held onto my mouth, clamping hard on my knees.

Before the tears could overwhelm me, I gasped deeply and breathed hard.

Pinching the droplets around my eyes, I made sure that there’d be no traces left for it was my job to be a wall that holds everything—even if everything was about to burst and bury me alive.

I prised my phone and called Danny. "Hey. It’s me."

"Hey bruv."

"I’m sorry mate. I’ve been a wanker."

"Yeah. I know. But no worries mate. I understand. So...you’ve made a decision yeah?"

"I have." I paused, thinking several times over that this was the only choice, and said, "I’ll do it." I swiped my face and tried justifying this decision. "We can’t go on like this anymore mate. I have to feed my kid...he’ll understand right?"

"Bruv, no need to explain. I gotchu."

"So, what do I need to do?"

"You’ll get a call and that’s it."

"That’s it?"

"Yep. Always stay fresh and always have your phone beside you. You know the drill."

"Alright. Thanks mate."

After the call, I exhaled and collected myself, then went inside the house with a smile. "Where’d you go daddy?" asked Brady, looking all worried.

"I was just speaking to someone sweety," I said, without a hint of dread on my face.

My father knew what was up.

He knew I was losing it.

He reached out and held my hand, as I squeezed tightly and said, "Thanks." I went over to the couch and held my son’s head, pulling it below my chest. "Someday, we’ll go to the London Zoo and the Science Museum. We’ll even go to the Royal Society of Medicine."

"What’s that?” he asked, wrapping his short arms around my legs.

"You love studying the human body, right? Do you want to be a doctor someday? That’s the place where you could see the history of modern medicine."

"Sounds boring. But I want to see dolphins."

"It’s not boring, sweety. Trust me. Do you trust daddy?"

"I do," he said, glancing up.

I patted his head and rubbed his cheeks. "Then someday, we’ll go to the places you want to go, and it’ll be a day of fun. We’ll even go to Disneyland, I promise."

"Where’s Disneyland? Is that where Mickey Mouse lives?"

"Mickey lives in America. Do you want to go to America? They have the Statue of Liberty, the New York Skyscrapers, and beaches in California."

"I do. But as long as I get to see Mickey." He smiled at me, and I kissed his forehead. "I think he and I will just get along well."

And as with all the things children believe when grown-ups lie, he believed that lie and he believed with his heart as if it were true.

But I wasn’t lying, someday...I’ll give him everything he wants.

Someday.