"Stay with us son," repeated Dylan's dad as we carried him through narrow labyrinthine corridors behind the stage.
Dylan's dad – what the...? My head hurt with questions.
Yes – it really was Dylan's dad. The man I looked at was the man I met who was introduced to me as Dylan's dad – mind trip.
"Why did you fake your death?" I asked, as we turned a corner. He shot back, dismissively, "Not now!"
My temper rose, "Just tell us!" I shouted back.
Josh, who bore the brunt of Dylan's weight, eye locked me and nodded his head, his gesture clearly said, 'Drop it, B.'
But I couldn't, "Are you and Granny Grace stitching us up for something, you're both part of this trafficking gang, aren't you?" I asked, my words dripping with accusation. The question worked, he looked at me, "Listen," he said.
"To what?" I asked.
He pointed back toward the warehouse, "That gun fire, it sounds like Granny Grace's wiping them all out back there. Not the best way to deal with this situation, but then our strategy hasn't quite gone to plan." He said.
Josh's back hit a door and it flew open, filling the corridor with early evening sunlight. It was relief to get outside and get Dylan on the floor. Josh sprinted toward his bike; the concern for his old friend evident in his stride.
Dylan's dad, continued to slap his son's face and his eyes flickered open, a weak smile spread across his face, "Dad – you're – alive – or – is this – heaven?" He asked, his eyes darted, searchingly.
"I'm alive, you're in Peckham, and we need you to stay alive until we get you to hospital, you hear me?" He asked.
Dylan nodded a slow 'yes.'
"Your name's Donal, isn't it?" I asked.
When he looked at me and said, "Yes," I felt my heart warming a little.
He must of sensed it, because he lowered his head and quietly said, "We thought if Dill believed I was dead, he might see sense, break free from the hold they had over him and return to the good side with you and Josh." He looked at me, "I never considered he'd try and kill himself, instead," he said, with a look of guilt in his eyes.
The roar of the bike's engine brought us both back to the urgency of the situation. Donal stood up, "The full truth will out soon, Benita. Be patient," he said.
I looked him in the eye, "I thought, or hoped you were my dad," I said. He actually flinched when I said those words; he averted my eyes and stooped to attend to Dylan.
Something in his reaction bothered me, or rather upset me; it was the realization that I had to let go of hope – my dad probably was dead.
Yet why would Donal come into my room and leave my dad's hair gel; and what of the note I received from my dad, printed on my old note paper – was this a deliberate attempt to upset and torment me?
The questions distracted me so much that I hardly noticed that Dylan was propped up on the front of the bike, with his dad straddling him securely.
"Benita!" Donal's voice jumped me from my thoughts.
"What?"
His hand hovered on the accelerator, "When you know the truth, hold your temper," he said. His focus turned to Josh, "It's a long time since I rode one of these things, wish me luck!" He said, zooming off, leaving a cloud of dust and debris in his wake, while Josh and I said in unison, "Good luck."
