Friday, September 8, 2017. Daily Brit Wit.
On the cards:
Possible or likely.
*Hey, we seemed to survive another mini series together. Would you look at that? Pint (3/3)
“Odelle refuses to speak or glance at her father during the trek through the underground. Barely acknowledges his nonverbal queues. She knows it’s petty of her; she’s more upset with herself than she is with him by now. She hides behind a poorly disguised, thin veil of prudence: if someone identifies the two of them together, it could come back and haunt them.
So she keeps to herself.
On one of their stops, her father motions her to enter a cafe while he runs a quick errand. She’s dubious, mindful of the need to stick together and the slight fear he’s abandoning her. His eyebrows furrow, shakes his head, and holds up both hands indicating ten minutes. She shrugs in okay and goes to order green tea.
Inside, she is relieved to have a few minutes to collect herself. She knows the passive aggressive attitude will be a weak link in their chain. She refuses to be the cause of everything unravelling now because she wanted to act like a little girl again. She shakes away the emotions and sips her tea.
Fifteen minutes later and an almost unrecognisable man sits across from her. Odelle blinks, opens her mouth to dismiss him, when her vision tells her brain it’s not some bloke trying to hit on her but her father.
‘Um, wow,’ she mumbles unintelligently.
His grin is indulgent. His hands cradle a coffee.
She’s close to giving him hell for it. Decides to sip her cooling and frankly better beverage instead. During her time alone, Odelle made a vow to put aside her childishness and trust her father. He’s made it this far.
‘Odelle,’ he whispers her name with reverence. She cherishes it and they share a fond mien. His hand snakes across the tabletop to lightly grasp her wrist. ‘I know…,’ he puffs hot air in frustration and starts again. ‘My running and subsequent resurrection has loosely been on the cards since this entire affair started. I’m not sorry I did it. But I am sorry you’ve been dragged along.’
She opens her mouth to protest but he gives her arm a small squeeze to stay her.
‘I’ve been lousy, I know,’ a dark chuckle. Sips his coffee and avoids her gaze. ‘I don’t even know how to atone for that and frankly I believe you shouldn’t forgive me.’
She stares at him, trying to gauge his level of sincerity. Before he left to fake his own death, she had been slacking in reading him. They used to read each other like an open Dickens novel, complex but full of meaning to them; and then…somehow Odelle lost her very best friend. He’s busy studying his mug; yet his shoulders are hunched, neck bent forward and his demeanour simply screams “vulnerable” to Odelle.
‘What do you need?’ She inquires, sotto voce.
Confused, his head jolts upward and his eyes lock on hers. She is careful not to flinch away. ‘You’ll…?’ He hardly dares to breathe.
‘I need to stay dead, honey bee.’ He answers reluctantly. ‘And it’s time I leave the country for good.'”