I was ready to deck him, your dad. I have this friend right, she does karate, and we had this conversation some time ago (three weeks?) Anyway, so she showed me how to make a proper fist. You have to stick your thumb in front of your curled fingers else you’ll break it, and then you have to tense it like this, see? So I had that packed in my pocket all tensed up ready for your dad and I turned up at your house and rang the bell. Your dad answers, and it’s like, who the heck is he? All sharp and smart in white and black, greying at the temples, hair gelled a bit, cufflinks (you know what I mean, you lived with him). Anyway, so I let go of the fist and didn’t quite know what to do right? And then he does that lovely thing where he remembers, and he says “You’re Sophie’s friend aren’t you? You used to play piano together?” and he’s bang on, and so I’m left a bit stuck, my hand still vaguely fist-shaped ’cause there’s not enough room in my pocket to loosen it completely, and what do I say to that? So I’m like “Yeah I am, hi.” Hi? What on earth. Anyway, he says hello, and he’s all polite and sweet, your dad, and I’m not quite sure what to do. “Did you want to speak to me?” he says (bit telepathic), so I nod, and he goes “I’m on my way to work but can I give you a lift somewhere?” So I remember some manners and go all “Oh that’d be great thanks, thank you very much, would love that, I appreciate it, thanks.” (You’d have laughed at me for that Soph.) Then I’m sitting next to him in his car, the Mercedes, the silver one, kinda wondering whether that’s where you would’ve sat. And as we join the main road I say “Mr. Wilson, about Sophie and her –” “Yeah, I know,” he says, bit telepathic again, “I wish I could’ve done more.” And that’s it. That’s all I wanted. I wanted it to be his fault, I mean, even if it wasn’t I wanted him to be the reason right? ’cause God knows I did all I could, and so did everyone else, and that just left him. But he’s this lovely middle-aged man wearing this crisp black suit, going to work like everybody else, and he’s sorry right? He’s really, genuinely sorry. I can even hear the catch in his voice Soph, and your old man’s welling up. And what do I do then? ’cause the fact is it’s obvious he misses you just as much as we do. And as much as admitting he could’ve done more is like a confession, it also kinda proves that it wasn’t his fault at all.

Anyway, so I was ready to deck him, your dad. I have this friend right, she does karate, and we had this conversation some time ago (three weeks?) Anyway, so she showed me how to make a proper fist. You have to stick your thumb in front of your curled fingers else you’ll break it, and then you have to tense it like this, see? So I had that packed in my pocket all tensed up ready for your dad and I turned up at your house and rang the bell. Your dad answers, and it’s like, who the heck is he? You were gorgeous Soph, but your dad, he’s a right mess. I reckon your mum must’ve looked like a supermodel. Anyhow it’s your dad there, barefoot in a dressing gown that’s gone all yellow with stale sweat, holding a can of beer. He looks a bit yellow too, bloodshot, sickly. (Sorry, but it’s true.) And the problem is, I reckon he’d probably die if I decked him, doesn’t look like he could stand tickling let alone a full-on punch. So I screw that idea and say “Hello, are you Mr. Wilson?” And he pauses a moment as if I’m some teenager trying to sell him double glazing, and goes “Yeah, yeah I s’pose I am, who are you?” So then I have to explain, “I’m one of Sophie’s friends from school. We used to play piano together.” “Oh right,” he goes. Not really with it is he, your dad? Anyway, looks like I’m gonna be doing all the talking, so I get a bit cocky and go “Can I come in please?” and he kinda just steps back a bit and waves me through. Soph I was scared for him, the house was a tip. I mean, I know you weren’t like that ’cause I saw the inside of your locker, so I presume he’s just really let things go. And once he’s shut the door and we’re both standing in the hallway he goes “So what do you want?” like I’m still trying to sell him double-glazing. “Can we talk?” I ask, and he’s like “Yeah, yeah, sorry, forgot – …yeah come on in.” and waves me into some room or other that’s covered in TV mags and beer cans and hopefully a cat somewhere ’cause one of the magazines is moving a bit. “What is it?” he says. “It’s about Sophie, Mr. Wilson, your daughter.” (Felt like I should reiterate that point since he didn’t seem nearly bothered enough.) “I just…I need to know…did you know? About what was going on with her?” “What, the boys?” “No, the other – her eating disorder. Did you know about it?” “Ah. Knew there was something going on.” “Mr. Wilson it killed her.” “She killed herself.” At this point I felt like I was gonna start swearing Soph, and actually was tempted to deck him and see what would happen. But I kept a lid on it and thought maybe he didn’t understand. So I’m there for about two or three hours explaining it to him. I explain it graphically right? ’cause otherwise he won’t get the message. But it’s like he doesn’t care. He sips his beer, has his eyes half-closed, nods, murmurs, doesn’t really respond…and then all of a sudden he bursts into tears. And I’m like, what? So I wait, feeling really awkward, and eventually he calms down a bit, and then he says “She was so much like her mother. I lost Amy to cancer. Couldn’t deal with losing Amy a second time. I knew Soph was gonna die. I got so scared and useless and…I’m a coward. I know that. Believe me,” he says, and actually looks at me properly, and he’s got your eyes Soph, and he says, “Believe me, nothing you say could punish me more than knowing how she punished herself.” And I kinda realise then, it’s not even his fault. He was barely keeping himself together. He cared about you Soph, he just didn’t know what the hell he was doing.  

So I was ready to deck him, your dad. He deserved it yeah? ’cause we were all trying to help, and there was your dad who was meant to be, well, your dad, right? And it’s like there’s support from all sides, except the one that could matter most. And what were we supposed to think? He’s the adult, he’s the responsible one, and we’re all there doing our best but we’re only kids. And I’m sorry Soph, I really am. I tried, but maybe I didn’t try hard enough. Your dad, he loved you, but maybe you didn’t know. And your mum, she wasn’t there, maybe that hurt you too deep. And I wanted to deck your dad right, ’cause somehow he was the one who deserved it. But that wouldn’t really be fair ’cause it wasn’t your dad’s fault, and it wasn’t ours, and it certainly wasn’t yours. So I’ve got this fist right? It’s curled like this, with the thumb on the outside, and it hurts a bit ’cause the rose stems have thorns on them, and I’m gonna open my fingers now one by one and leave these flowers right here, six feet above you. I’ll come again Soph, don’t you worry. I’ll come tomorrow, and the day after, and I’ll keep coming until I find the answers yeah?