Dylan greeted me with a warm hug, "You're freezing, come in from the cold."
He led me upstairs, to a room at the front of the house that I'd not been in before. What I assumed was once a bedroom had been transformed into an elegant dining room, with polished wooden floors and walls adorned with a rich floral print. The centre of the room was a heavy wooden table, complete with a four candle candelabra.
He pointed to two jugs, "What would your prefer, red or white?" He asked, "I don't drink," I said, sheepishly. He laughed, "Neither do I. Lemonade or Ribena?" He asked, again.
"Ahhh, got ya, it's red all the way for me," I said.
"Me too," he poured the juice into two long stemmed wine glasses.
He handed me the glass, "Let's drink to..."
...I cut in, "Your dad's successful escape!" I exclaimed, raising my glass.
His facial expressions ran the gamut from surprise to shock and eventual elation as he slugged his drink down in one and asked, "Are you sure?"
"As sure as I can be. I went past Paddock Field, and stopped at number 12, met a lad called Joshua, he told me to tell you."
Dylan put his glass down, "Who's Joshua?" He asked.
"I was going to ask you the same question."
He shrugged his shoulders, "I've no idea." He pondered for a moment, "No, I do, he's probably an acquaintance of Granny Grace, brought in to help with dad's escape and delivery to number 12," he surmised.
Dylan drained his glass, "Lets go down to the cellar, check the news sites," he said, making excitedly for the door.
###
It felt surprisingly good being back in the underground hub, wherein I'd met the devil himself on my sixteenth birthday.
A comforting feeling of warmth and safety enveloped me as I sat with Dylan and stared at the myriad screens as he searched for news, "Still nothing about Paddock Field or Carla, the authorities are definitely laying low on this one. I smell a cover up," he said.
"LOOK!" Dylan pointed at a Mac to my right, "It's news about my dad." Dylan hit the news site and pressed play on the accompanying video. The female news reader spoke, impartial and professional – "The residents of South London have been told to be on high alert after the escape from Eeelgate High Security unit of a highly dangerous inmate. Thirty eight year old Donal Goodie is described as 6.1 inches tall with thinning grey hair and distinctive high cheekbones. Residents are told to not approach the man, but to report all sightings to the appropriate authorities."
Afterwards Dylan looked sad, "Thinning grey hair; the dad I remember had full blonde hair, like mine," he said, running his fingers through his lustrous beige mane.
I smiled supportively, "Time changes us all, he's still your dad, he'll just look older." I said, before adding, "Your surname's 'Goodie' and mines 'Badoe,' we've got good and bad in our names, don't you think that's weird?" I asked.
"Not at all. It means we were meant to be together, to fight the good versus bad fight,' he said, confidently.
"Maybe, but I don't want to be the bad one."
Dylan stood up, "There's so much good in your name that it cancels out the bad." He took my hand, "Come on, let's go to bed."
###
Dylan's bedroom was on the same floor as the dinning room, but at the back of the house.
I entered after him, suddenly shy and nervous, unsure of his intention.
