Frankie checked the address on the scrap of paper that Uncle Harry had pressed into her palm. This was the place alright, 5A Paradise Drive. She knocked on the door and waited for something to happen. But nothing happened. Why had she come? He didn’t deserve it. She only wanted to see if he was still alive. That’s all.

She remembered that when she was five dad had lifted her up onto his shoulders to watch the community hall burn down after it had been struck by lightning. She had marvelled as the red and orange flames leapt into the night sky and the fire trucks lined the road. High up on dad’s broad shoulders, she felt his bristly face brush her leg, and she felt safe and warm. But no amount of happy memories could undo what he had done.

When her knocking went unanswered, she breathed a sigh of relief; now she could scarper back to Aunty Camilla’s. But then the door opened and there he was in front of her dressed in his army fatigues. She stepped away; he didn’t look like dad, not seated in a wheelchair.

‘Frankie?’ he said, as if he was confused about who she was.

She peered over his shoulder into the tiny unit.  A pair of shorts, a T-shirt, a dozen CDs, three cans of lemonade, an ashtray, two packets of White Ox, and a beanie were littered across the floor. The whole place was a right royal mess.

‘Christ Almighty,’ he said, ‘what are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at school?’ 

‘Shall I go home?’

‘No. Sorry. Sorry. It’s fantastic to see you,’ he said. ‘I was surprised, that’s all. Come on in. Mind the clutter. I’m still unpacking.’

He wheeled himself back into the unit while she edged past him so that she couldn’t turn and run. He picked up a pile of his clothes from a stool and chucked them on the floor.

‘Here, take a seat, love,’ he said. ‘It’s great to see you. I didn’t expect, well, you know. Come here and let me look at you.’ 

She sidled towards him and leant down to offer him a hug as she had always done. He reached out and touched her hand with his white glove. She rocked back in alarm. No, no, she couldn’t do it. Not the fear again. His face fell to the floor before he reclaimed himself.

‘Can I get you anything? he said. ‘Do you want a coke? A cup of tea? I don’t think I’ve any cake in. I haven’t had time to get to the shops. I could probably rustle up a bit of toast if you’re hungry. Are you hungry? Probably stuffing yourself at Camilla’s, eh. What can I get you? Sorry about the mess, like I say, you know, I haven’t had any time, what with everything. So what’s up then?’

‘It’s alright dad, I’m fine. I don’t need anything.’

He picked up a can of lemonade from the floor, pulled the ring and held it out for her to take.

‘Here, have a drink, mate, you must be thirsty. It’s hot as hell out there.’

She sipped the fizzy drink and glanced around the room. There was no sign he had more belongings to unpack: no stack of boxes or packing cases, or even any luggage. There was a tiny television set balanced on top of a wooden stool, but she couldn’t see a sofa, or an armchair, or any pictures that might brighten the drab yellowing walls. She supposed he hadn’t had time to make it homely. She didn’t like the jail-house bars over the window.

He gestured for her to sit on the stool opposite him. 

‘Please, darling, take a seat,’ he said.

She sat down without a clue as to what to say or do; she had no plan, no script, no magic wand; but she knew how to ride a wave and she wasn’t going to duck a big breaker.

‘You’re here then?’ he said.

‘Yeah.’

‘So how you going? How’s my beacon?  

‘I don’t know what I’m doing here,’ she said.

‘I’m glad you’ve come,’ he said. ‘Yeah, really glad, darling.’

‘Mum doesn’t know.’

‘No? Best not tell her then, eh.’

‘So this is where you’re living then?’ she said.

‘Yeah, it’s a bit of a dump, mate, but you know, I needed somewhere and well, it is what it is.’

‘I’ll help you tidy up,’ she said. ‘I’m getting good at housework now I’m helping out Aunty Camilla.’

‘Are you now? Well, there’s a turn up for the books. But anyways, look, no worries, I’ll be fine.’

She closed her eyes, hoping to connect with the reassuring sound of birdsong, but found only the hard roar of an A380 on its descent into the airport.

‘How was the surf comp?’ he asked.

‘I lost in the final,’ she said.

‘Oh, mate, I’m so sorry,’ he said.

‘I thought it would be the end of the world if I didn’t win. Turns out it’s not. I’m only fourteen, so I can go again next year. If you get tossed off a wave, you get up again.’

‘Good on ya girl, that’s my Frankie,’ he said.

‘What else can you do?’

‘Are we good then? You and me.’

She studied the stranger before her.

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Maybe, we’ll see. When’s your trial?’

‘I’m stupid, so stupid,’ he said. ‘I don’t know why I did those things.’

He reached into his pocket for a packet of cigarette papers.  

Frankie glared at him.

‘Are you still doing that?’ she said.

He tried to slip the packet back into his pocket, but it fell to the floor.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said ‘I’m sorry for a lot of things. You know I swore I would be a better father than my own, mate, but it all turned out different.’

‘At least you’re out of hospital now,’ she said.

‘Yeah, thank God. It feels like I spent a bloody lifetime in there. I don’t remember you coming to see me anyways.’

She stared over his shoulder.

‘No,’ she said, ‘I couldn’t, not after everything.’

He rocked gently back in his chair.

‘Yeah, you’re right. No worries, mate. I couldn’t expect it, not after what I did.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘You couldn’t.’

‘I still go back to the hospital every week.’

‘Yeah?’

‘For rehab with the physio. And they change the dressings. Then there’s the bloody head doctor. It keeps me well busy I can tell you.’

‘What’s that smell?’ she said. 

‘What smell, mate?’

‘Are you on the booze again?’ she said with alarm. ’I’m sure I can smell it.’

‘No mate, never. Never again, really. On my life, no drinking I swear.’      

‘I would never come here again,’ she said.

‘Yeah, I know that love. I’m so happy you’re here and I wouldn’t mess that up. I promise, on my oath, no drinking. Never again.’

She stuck her nose in the air and sniffed.

‘I can smell something,’ she said.

‘The world’s gone topsy-turvy, mate,’ he said. ‘But it’s really good to see you.’

She smiled at him. She felt better when she smiled.

‘We’re still at Uncle Harry and Aunty Camilla’s place,’ she said. ‘I like it there.’

‘Yeah? I’m glad,’ he said. ‘They’ll be as happy as Larry to have you.’

He leant forward, picked up the cigarette papers from the floor, and turned them over and over in his hand.

‘How’s your mum?’ he said. ‘I hope that maybe, you know, after a time, she’ll come round.’ 

‘There really is a proper stink,’ she said.

His face stiffened.

‘No, you’ve got it wrong, mate,’ he said. ‘There’s no booze here, I swear.’ Then his mood lightened. ‘I know what,’ he said. ‘It must be my lotion. Here, I’ll get it.’

He pushed himself out of the wheelchair and onto his feet. Frankie jumped up as he limped towards the kitchen.

‘Wait, I’ll go,’ she said.         

‘You’re alright, mate. I don’t need the chair all the time. It’s just to give me a rest.’

She watched him walk across the room like a frail old man and her soul was saturated with sadness. Oh dad, what’s going on? She followed him into the kitchenette where he handed her a clear glass bottle full of thick yellow liquid.

‘See,’ he said. ‘It’s got alcohol in it for sure.’

‘What’s it for?’ she asked.

‘To rub on my hands and face,’ he said. ‘The funny thing is, the really bad bits under the bandages don’t hurt as much as the stuff that’s on the surface.’

‘It still hurts then?’ she said.

‘I’ve a cupboard full of painkillers, mate.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ she said.

‘And I’ve a psychiatrist and a social worker and a string of doctors and nurses, the full on job lot. It’s me own fault, I know.’ 

He shuffled back towards his chair.

‘Can you give us a hand, mate? I’m done in.’

Her body tensed as he rested his arm on her shoulder: but he was weak and feeble now and her fear diminished as they lumbered across the room.

‘This place is awful small,’ she said.  

He collapsed into his chair with a sigh.         

‘I’m beat,’ he said. ‘I’m not sleeping so good, you know.’

‘You have a rest, dad. I need the bathroom.’

‘Frankie?’

‘Yeah?’

‘We can still be right, can’t we? Tell me that we can,’ he said. ’You mean everything to me, darling.’

‘You set fire to our house, dad.’

Frankie sat on the toilet in the tiniest bathroom she had ever seen. The cistern and the sink were jammed into one corner and a shower occupied the other so that she could scarcely move an arm or a leg. The bare walls were filthy and the plaster was cracked and falling to the floor like tiny blue snowflakes, while the minute oblong window was inserted so high in the wall that the sun struggled to penetrate the gloom. The room felt hard and cold, as if no one lived here and no one cared.

Dad's moods were horrible. Mum said that he’d never been the same since he came back from Afghanistan. When he was on the piss, he crashed around like a rosella that had flown in through the kitchen window. Frankie had learned to step around him, as if she were a lion trainer. He got the shits and then he calmed down. The next day he was all sorry. ‘Hey, Frankie, I got you these cute earrings.’ Or ‘Mate, here’s twenty bucks to go buy yourself something.’

But not this time. Not after mum ran out of the house towards Uncle Harry’s car, grabbing Frankie with one hand and a suitcase with the other. Frankie sat in the back seat of the Holden and watched dad walk out of the front door. He was carrying a box, or was it a watering can? He began to water the boards. Then he was watering himself. Man, he must have really lost it. He reached into his pocket and produced a spark. Flames shot up like an orange fountain until the veranda was swamped by a wave of fire and black haze rose over the roof. Jesus, her house was going up in smoke. Dad staggered down the steps, his dark shape wrapped in flame. Her breath was crushed from her lungs.  Oh my God, dad was on fire.  

She finished peeing, stood up and pulled on her gear before taking a half-step towards the bathroom cabinet. It was stacked from the top to bottom with tablets, like a pharmacist’s warehouse. She didn’t know what most of them were for, but she did know that Prozac was not for pain. She recovered her composure and rummaged through the cupboard until she found a packet of cotton wool balls. She wandered back into the kitchen, where she picked up his lotion and sat down opposite him. His head was slumped forward as he snored soft and low. She watched his chest rise and fall before she lowered her head and looked up into his face.

She remembered the terror in her mother’s eyes and the burning in her chest from the running, running, running across the lawn as the ambulance drove dad away into the night.

She slipped her hands around his neck. She wanted to crush his windpipe and choke the blessed life out of him; and yet as she tightened her fingers her eyes misted and her heart grew heavy: for him and for herself and for mum and for Uncle Harry and for everyone and everything that had happened. She inspected the lines on his tired old face; he was weak and helpless, as if his spark had been extinguished.

She brushed his stubbled head with her fingers before she picked up his hand and rested it in hers. His flesh felt soft and flimsy. He was neither superman nor Frankenstein’s monster. He was just her stupid old dad. She unscrewed the lid on the bottle and poured the yellow liquid onto a wodge of cotton wool which she used to dab the ointment over his skin until his hand was completely coated; each touch was soft and gentle, as though he were a newborn baby.

Born in England, resident in Australia, Chris Barker has been an educator in schools and universities in the UK and Australia. He has published seven non-fiction books including in the field of Cultural Studies. He writes fiction between stints in the garden, where he grows vegetables and looks after chickens.