On my way home, I choose to tell Dad about what happened with Tyler, Nancy and Mrs. Reed, figuring it's better that he hear about it from me rather than someone else.
To my surprise, Dad is already there when I arrive. He must have clocked off early. He's in the kitchen, talking with someone. No sign of Mum.
Dad often has people over to the flat. As Mrs. Reed noted, he's heavily involved with local movements to stem the tide of immigration and keep Britain white. He does a lot of canvassing for politicians, works hard behind the scenes, helps stir things up.
I've always tried to stay out of that area of his life, but it's getting harder. Now that I'm older, he's started taking me to meetings. I've been to a few rallies with him too, and once he took me to a house packed with Muslims. I stood outside while he went in and had a long conversation with them. Well, it was more of a screaming match. I could hear them from outside, the Muslims shrieking, Dad shouting even louder. I felt small and afraid, no idea what was going on or what would happen next, standing in the middle of the street like a lemon, wondering what I should do if Dad never reappeared.
But he did emerge in the end, and I saw a Muslim guy glowering behind him. Dad pointed to me and said, "That's who I fight for - my kid, my wife, my friends. Anything ever happens to any of them, I'll come back here and burn the lot of you down to the ground."
Then Dad hugged me hard. I glared at the Muslim and shot him the finger. Dad laughed, clapped my back, took me for dinner and bought me the biggest hamburger I'd ever seen. I felt bad about it afterwards but at the time I was on cloud nine.
Part of me knows I should stop acting, that I'm on thin ice, growing less sure of where the actor ends and the real me begins. When I grunted at Nancy, that wasn't part of an act. That came from the soul.
I should tell Dad I don't share his views, that I'm not warped inside like he is, start standing up to him. But how can you say such a thing to your father? He loves me, I know he does, despite the beatings when he's angry. It would break his heart if I told him what I really thought of him.
Dad doesn't like to be disturbed when he's discussing the state of affairs with his friends and associates, so even though I'm hungry, I slide on by the kitchen, planning to head straight to my room. But Dad must hear me because he calls out, "B? Is that you?"
"Yeah."
"Come here a minute."
He sounds more subdued than usual. That tips me off to the fact that there might be somebody important with him. Dad's loud and bullish most of the time, but quiet and submissive around people he respects.
I head into the kitchen, expecting someone in a suit with a politically perfect smile. But I stagger to a halt halfway through the door and stare uncertainly. The guy with Dad is like nobody I've ever seen before.
The man is standing by the table, sipping from a cup of coffee. He sets it down when he spots me and arches an eyebrow, amused by my reaction.
He's very tall, maybe six foot six, and thin, except for a large potbelly. It looks weird on such a slender frame, and the buttons on the pink shirt he's wearing beneath his striped jacket strain to hold it in. He has a mop of white hair and pale skin. Not albino pale, but damn close. Long, creepy-looking fingers.
But it's his eyes that prove so startling. They're by far the biggest I've ever seen, at least twice the size of mine. Almost totally white, except for a dark, tiny pupil at the center of each. As soon as I see him, I immediately think, Owl Man. I almost say it out loud, but catch myself in time. Dad would hit the roof if I insulted one of his guests.
"So this is the infamous B Smith," the man chuckles. He has a smooth, cultured voice. He sounds like a radio presenter, but one of the old guys you hear on a Sunday afternoon on the station your gran listens to.
"Yeah," Dad says. He runs a hand over my head and smiles as if he's in pain and trying to hide it. "How was school?"
"Fine," I mutter, unable to tear my gaze away from Owl Man's enormous, cartoonish eyes.
"Some people think it's rude to stare," Owl Man says merrily, "but I've always considered it a sign of honest curiosity."
"Sorry," I say, blushing at the polite rebuke.
"No need to be," Owl Man laughs. "The young should be curious, and open too. You should have nothing to hide or apologize for at your tender age. Leave that to decrepit old warhorses like your father and me."
Dad clears his throat and looks questioningly at Owl Man. "Anything you'd like to ask?" he says meekly.
"Not just now," Owl Man purrs and waves a long, bony hand at me. "You may proceed. It has been nice seeing you again."