The rest of the day had been spent chatting and having drinks at one of Jack's billiard halls, and when Junior returned to his mum's large house in Romford, he was drunk. His hair was sticking up in places and he smelled of stale booze. He knew if his mum saw him like that, he wouldn't hear the end of it, and so he was cautious to close the door as quietly behind him as he could, at least, as quietly as he could be in his drunken stupor.
Everything was wavy and liquid, and he wasn't certain if it was his hands or the room around him that was moving everything out of order. It felt as if the floor was tipped sideways. He supposed he was more acutely aware of his drunkenness because of his need to be cautious, which only aggravated him.
He could hear canned laughter on telly, and saw the blue light that flickered and changed periodically illuminating the walls. Carefully creeping towards the lounge, he stumbled slightly on the rug as he strained to see if his mum was fast asleep on the sofa as she generally was this late. Her evenings usually consisted of delving into her work and challenging herself to never let her glass of wine run dry until she fell asleep in front of the television, surrounded by bookwork and booze.
It was because of this assumption that Junior was surprised to see his father, Donny, comfortable in the recliner, a blanket loosely tossed atop his lap. He'd almost forgotten he was staying there, much to Frankie's chagrin.
Spotting Junior in the doorway, Donny lit up with a smile. 'There you are, my son. Come, have a seat with your old man, eh? I ain't seen head nor tails of ya all day.' His voice had reclaimed its cockney lilt from years past, giving the distinct impression that he had dropped his Mancunian accent in favour of it on purpose, to blend in.
With a lazy smile rising onto his beetroot-flushed face, Junior joined the older man and sat down on the sofa adjacent to his chair. Suddenly, his inebriation made him feel giddy again. He remembered a bit about his father, not much considering he had only been two years old when the man left, but enough. He remembered his face, which hadn't changed all that much over the years—same black hair, only thinner, same twinkling eyes, only slightly crinkled at the sides—and he remembered the way he smelled, of all things, like the tropical-scented pomade he put in his hair. It was distinct and so unlike his uncle, who had taken the role of being his father figure over the years.
Fred was his dad, for all intents and purposes, but seeing his blood father there in the flesh, looking at him so lovingly, made him feel like a boy again, like a lad looking up to his old man who hugged him at night and never missed a footy match. He knew it was a childish want, but he couldn't help the ache in his breast, a tightness of love and affection for the man. Finally, after all these years, he was seeing his daddy.
And then, ice cold water ran through his veins. He recalled the talk his uncle had had with him one night, when he was around six or seven. He remembered the chill in his limbs in that cold prison visiting lounge as Freddie told him never to talk about Donny again, that they weren't even to say his name around his dear old mum. He had said that Donny had said very hurtful accusations about Frankie, and that he had throttled her and bruised her up. He was a bad man, he had told him, and had run off to his parents up north because he wasn't man enough to take care of Frankie or young Junior himself.
Through the fog of his drunkenness he looked at this man he shared his blood with, this happy little man sitting on the recliner, and wondered: was he really capable of that? Did he really hurt his mum?
Donny reached over and stroked Junior's hair back. 'Where have you been all night, eh?'
Junior watched the man before him before sighing into the touch. He craved the affection, even if he was reluctant to accept it. 'Business, with me uncle.'
'Business,' repeated Donny in a hearty man-to-man way, letting his hand slip downward to squeeze his son's shoulder. 'What sort?'
Junior peered up at him, eyes puffy from the drink, and slurred out, 'Can't tell you that, old man, or I'd have to kill ya.'
This made Donny break out into a big, bellowing laugh, and Junior joined in a moment later before he was being pulled against the man's chest, his hair ruffled.
'Cheeky lad,' he said. 'But come on, now, I'm your old man. You can tell me anything. What am I going to do, eh? Go and grass to the Bratva?'
Junior looked up at his dad with love in his eyes and sighed once more. It couldn't hurt, right? Telling him a few things. He was his old man, after all. Maybe this would prove to be the bonding experience they both needed. And besides, he was right: what was he going to do, run off and grass?