DEAD RIGHT

DEAD RIGH Part 1

DEAD RIGHT

Full fathom five thy father lies;
Of his bones are coral made;
Those are pearls that were his eyes:
Nothing of him that doth fade,
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell:
Ding-dong.
Hark! now I hear them—Ding-dong, bell.

Prologue

Charley's dad has two faces. Charley will know, when he walks through that door, any moment now, from his face which dad she's dealing with today.

She's sitting at the kitchen table eating her breakfast. She really wanted Weetabix, but the milk was running low so she decided not to risk it. She thought she really should go around the corner and get some, but she didn't dare in case he came while she was gone. So, she settled for a banana sandwich.

Charley is facing the door. From here she's got a clear look out. She'll see him coming. She'll see him open the gate, close it behind him and walk up the path. Apart from his face, there are other signals that will tell her what to expect. If he's swinging his keys around on his index finger, she can relax. If he ignores it when the gate sticks, they'll be OK. If he gives her a little knock on the window before he unlocks the door, there's no need to worry.

But if the gate sticks and he looks to the upstairs window, or if he has to brush aside that overgrown tentacle of hibiscus and looks to the window, or if he stops at the door and waits a moment before unlocking it: then her heart will start to beat a little faster. The fight or flight switch in her brain will flick and instruct her legs to get moving. But she must resist it. Because there is another instinct, even stronger, growing stronger by the day: the need to protect.

She watches the second hand sweep around the kitchen clock. Watches the objects of the kitchen become more and more solid as the sun asserts itself. Watches the hibiscus trembling in the late summer breeze.

And right on time, twelve minutes past six, he arrives. What the neighbours see, the ones who are up, is Teddy Hardwick returning from another night shift at the hosiery factory. Hard working, right neighbourly Teddy Hardwick. Barely a living resident of Shooter Street hasn't got Teddy to thank for getting them out of a hole at one time or another. Digging their car out of snow, or changing a flat tyre, or unblocking some guttering, or tuning in a TV, or helping to assemble a shed, or locating a fusebox, or moving furniture, or carrying shopping...

The Hardwick house is an end terrace. The house it is adjoined to belongs to Mrs Travers. Mrs Travers, a widow of nineteen years, who does not believe in remarriage, is as deaf as the proverbial post. She has hearing aids, but she finds the background noise so confusing that she refuses to wear them. She has a budgerigar named Tyson whose killer impressions of Rob Rinder, Jeremy Kyle and Dave Lamb have gone hitherto unnoticed. On occasion he can also manage a mean Teddy Hardwick.

"Where's your mother?" Charley's dad asks her. No greeting. That's a sure sign.

"I didn't wake her. She had a bad night."

"A bad night?"

"There was a little blood. I said we should go to St John's, but she didn't want to waste their time. It was only a bit. Not like last time. I think she just needs rest."

"You think she needs rest?"

"Well that's what the doctors said, isn't it? Bed rest for the rest of –"

"I know what they said. They also said to go back immediately if it happened again."

"Yeah, but, it wasn't as bad. It stopped on its own this time, so –"