Sins of the Father by Fyn Alexander Page A

space. Angel looked around and saw Daddy throw his fist into the man’s face. A second later, they were outside the cubicle. Daddy landed his fist several more times in the man’s stomach, only stopping when the man crumpled to the floor. Then he kicked him a couple of times.
    Outside the washroom, Jack waited, looking terrified. “Hang on, Mr. Saunders. Let me pull his jeans up.”
    With a strong arm around Angel’s waist, Daddy half walked, half carried him outside with Jack following. In the cold evening air, Angel bent at the waist and vomited profusely on the sidewalk. “Jack, the car’s across the street. Get the door open,” Daddy said. Vaguely Angel heard a beep when Daddy pressed the remote door opener. Jack legged it across the street while Daddy hauled Angel to his feet by the arms. “As for you, if you throw up in my car, you won’t sit down for a week.”
    Angel must have passed out, because when he opened his eyes again, they were dropping Jack off at his house and he heard Daddy say, “Thank you, Jack. You did a very smart thing by phoning me. Good lad.”
    “No problem, sir. He’s my best mate.”
    The next time Angel came to consciousness, he was leaning over a garbage can in the underground parking lot of their building. He’d never felt so ill in his life. He couldn’t support his weight sufficiently to stand up, and after bringing up again, he slid to the ground and lay on his back looking up at Daddy. Anger was etched into every feature of Daddy’s face. His mouth was hard, his eyes narrowed. Leaning down, he lifted Angel off the ground, none too gently, and carried him across his arms. It must have been the drugs because the picture that filled his head was of the Pietà in St. Peter’s Basilica. When they had gone to Rome, Daddy had stood for a long time looking at it. Angel saw himself as Jesus and Daddy as Mother Mary. He remembered thinking the proportions were wrong and that Mary must have been huge to hold Jesus like that.
    “It is the emotion, the serenity induced by ascension that matters. We can all achieve that in different ways,” Daddy had said.
    Now as he floated along in Daddy’s arms, he felt like Jesus ascending.
    A jarring fall brought him out of his vision, and the nausea came back. Daddy had tossed him onto the bed, and knowing he was going to vomit again, Angel rolled off onto the floor. Drifting back over the evening, he was in the headmaster’s office with Daddy clenching his fists against his knees every time Mr. Staynton suggested Glasgow or Leeds. He was in the cubicle in the men’s washroom at Barcode with that old dude ready to ream his ass while his cheek was pressed against the cold metal partition. Blood spurted from the dude’s nose when Daddy punched him. The car ride. Daddy thanking Jack for calling him. What a good friend Jack was.
    Jumbled thoughts grabbed at him. With both hands, Angel started to hit his head because the pictures that were filling it now were awful. He was back in the foster homes. He started crying. Rolling onto his back, he opened his eyes and only then knew he had rolled into his vomit. It was all over his hair.
    “Are you awake?” Lying naked on the very edge of the bed looking down at him was Daddy.
    “Yeah.”
    “You need to get in the shower. You’ve got vomit in your hair, and you’ve pissed yourself.”
    “Oh my God,” he moaned.
    Standing, Daddy leaned down and hauled Angel to his feet. In the bathroom, he got him out of his shirt and jeans. “What happened to my jacket? Did I lose it?”
    “I took your jacket and boots off you when we got in. Can you stand on your own?” Daddy’s voice was calm. Not sweet or loving or gentle, but he didn’t sound angry, which was a relief. Angel was expecting to be punished for such stupidity.
    “I think so.”
    Breathing heavily from the exertion of standing, Angel waited while Daddy turned on the shower. The more he came down from the drugs and booze, the more he became