Sweet Sixteen: Part. 5

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"I knew your dad when he were about your age, he used to go to the old library after school, a lovely, gentle soul he was," explained the old woman who called herself Granny Grace. We sipped weak, milky tea in a greasy spoon café close to my home. "It were a tragedy such a fine man came to such an abrupt end. I feel for you sweetheart. And yer darling mum, losing the love of her life and having to bring you up as a single parent." She leaned back and looked me up and down, "Mind you, you're a credit to her, yer dad would be proud at how you've blossomed."

"You know my mum?" I asked.

"I know a lot of people, but not a lot of people know I know em." She leaned in, "You wanna know something?"

I leaned back, "Too right."

She leaned back in to me, her face too close for comfort, "Your dad and Dylan's dad, they were like that," she lifted up her hand and crossed one finger over the other. I shook my head, "What does that mean?"

She looked at her crossed fingers, then at me with an, 'are you stupid,' look on her face, "Close as could be, they were," she said, wagging her enfolded fingers in my face.

This sudden insight into my dad's youth astonished me, "Wait, what, like my dad and Dylan's dad knew each other?" Granny Grace rolled her eyes, "Christ all mighty sweetheart, you're slow off the mark. That's what I just told ya, that they knew each other."

My attention switched to a sudden doubt, "Why didn't Dylan tell me this?"

"Dylan doesn't know, which is why I'm telling you now," she said, dipping a biscuit into her tea and sucking it in her toothless mouth.

"Why are you telling me this, now?"

She put down her cup, "Because of that mess down at Paddock Field. What they were doing to that poor girl in the name of Juju. And she's ended up in the slammer as the guilty party, it ain't right."

My mind struggled to comprehend what she was saying, then a horrible thought occurred to me and I blurted out, "Are you saying my dad and Dylan's had something to do with the incident at Paddock Field, yesterday?" My voice was laced with a little anger, as my dad was my hero and I resented any suggestion that he was involved in anything bad or evil.

She threw her head back and laughed her throaty old lady laugh, "Now that'd be a first, crimes committed by a dead fella and his living friend who's locked up in the countries most secure lunatic asylum," she said, sarcastically.

Then something strange happened, her face suddenly softened, a kindness lit up in her eyes and she almost looked younger, "Listen sweetheart, you're sixteen now, a big girl." I felt her hand take mine, "Granny Grace wants to tell you something, in confidence, just between you, me and Dylan. Do you understand?"

"Yes," I said, my heartbeat picking up a beat.

"Your daddy went to Ghana to sort out some bad Juju, he was a good man, it's what he would do."

I shook my head, "No, he went to visit my grandma, and got run over by a truck," I corrected her.

She clasped my hand, "That's what you were told, sweetheart." She let go of my hand and patted it, "Now Granny Grace is looking for the truth, but I need yours and Dylan's help, is that something you're going to give me?"

My heart stopped beating and suddenly soared, with a love for my dear dad, "Of course, no question," I replied. I was kind of: intrigued, heartened and fired up by the idea that my dad's death might have had another reason, rather than the finality of his sudden obliteration by a truck.

She smiled and patted my knee, "Good girl. Now you better be off home soon, we don't want your mum being worried." I checked my phone, "It's ok, she's not expecting me back for another twenty minutes," I said.

She looked over her shoulder, then back at me, "Something you should know sweetheart, there are two kinds of evil walking these South London Streets. One: is the type few people believe in, the supernatural type, the evil that Dylan's dad dealt with by killing Old Man, and ended up being locked up in an asylum, certified insane by the disbelieving authorities. And two: the evil carried out by humans, the scum of society." She leaned in and lowered her voice, "And granny Grace deals with that type of evil," she said, with a wink.

I was about to ask her what she meant by that, but she kind of avoided any more questions from me by suddenly perking up and becoming all chirpy, "That's enough for tonight, I'm ready to hit the sack."

But, I was eager to know more and asked, "Can I meet you tomorrow, with Dylan?"

She stood up and grabbed her stick, "You can meet me anytime, I'm always available. Mind you, don't know when Dylan will find the time, what with that sister of his." She started for the door, "I'll be here from three onwards, if Dylan can't make it, come on yer own."

At the door she stopped and turned, "That reminds me, I'm going to visit Dylan's dad in the morning, tell him that, it might be incentive for him to make sure he joins you." She lifted up her stick and waved it, "Goodnight, sweetheart."

###

Mum had the flat all cosy, with candles and t-lights scattered around the room. She lounged on the couch watching TV with a glass of red wine, "How was your dinner date, daughter?" She asked.

"It wasn't a date, you know it wasn't."

"Ooooh, don't be getting all defensive, now."

I jumped in, to change the subject, "Can I have a glass of wine?"

"No, you certainly cannot." She put her glass down and looked at me sternly, "I hope this fella's parents didn't give you wine, Benita. Did they?" She asked, indignant.

I laughed, "No, course they didn't."

She jumped from the couch and pushed her face into mine, "Breath on me."

I complied, through giggles. Her nose sucked up my breath and it immediately wrinkled, "Eurgh, old tea breath," she exclaimed, sitting back down, satisfied I hadn't had alcohol. "The cheek of you, asking for wine, and you only sixteen."

"I was only asking."

"Well don't bother asking again, not until you're well over twenty one." She took a sip, "So what do this young fella's parents do?"

Taken off guard, I sort of mumbled, "I told you his mum's dead, that's why we've got a connection; a shared experience. His dad's erm, he works in a mental institution."

She raised an eye, "Really, you don't sound so sure."

"No, I'm sure, he works in a mental institution, but I can't remember what his job title is, it was a bit of a complicated one."

"Is he some kind of psychiatrist?" She asked.

I acted enthused, "That's it, something like that." I hated lying to mum, but right now, I had no other option. I wasn't ready to tell her the truth of what I was discovering. I certainly couldn't tell her about what I'd been told about dad. She cried at the mere mention of his name, so any suggestion that he may have died in suspicious circumstances was a no go area, until I knew more.

Which is why I was so surprised when she took a sip of wine and brought the subject of dad up, "Benita, you know it will be six years next Saturday since daddy's passing?"

"As if I'd ever forget that date."

She seemed worried and I wondered if she was going to spill what Granny Grace had already told me.

When she continued to run her fingers round the rim of the glass, my concern that mum had been keeping this a secret from me began to gather momentum in my mind.

"What is it mum?"

She looked at me, her expression a mix of fear and concern, "I've got something to tell you."

She continued to play with her glass, "Come on mum, spit it out," I said; knowing it would really hurt me if I knew she'd been keeping a secret from me for all these years.

I could see she was nervous and I began to get a little panicky myself, "Mum please, what is it?"

I braced myself.

Her head remained bowed as she said, "I've been asked out on a date."

My relief was such that I instinctively laughed. She lifted her head and gave me a relieved smile, "Are you alright with that, your mum starting to date again?"

"Mum, why wouldn't I be?"

Her smile vanished, and she seemed nervy again, "Mum, why would I be bothered about you going on a date?"

She put her glass down, "It's with your maths teacher, Mr Lacey."

###

"You look really tired," said Dylan, when he arrived at the coffee shop at nine o'clock the following morning. "Thanks, you look fresh and fantastic," I replied, not hiding the fact that his greeting totally peeved me.

He sat down. "I didn't mean that in a mean way, I meant it in a concerned way, don't be mad with me."

I relaxed, "Then buy me a mocha, with whipped cream, to make me feel better," I smiled.

###

By the time I'd finished my mocha, I'd told Dylan everything Granny Grace had told me. He stared ahead and said, "Destiny. It's almost like our dad's brought us together to find the truth and fight the evil."

I nodded, "I buy that."

"When can I meet this Granny Grace?" He asked.

"This afternoon, she'll be in the caff at three."

He swivelled his head, "No, I can't do three."

"I know, Granny Grace said you wouldn't be able to," I said, without really thinking.

He looked alarmed, "What did she say, how did she know?"

I tried to back track, "I don't know," I said, sounding lame.

"Benita, what did she say, what reason did she give for me not meeting her today at three?"

"Polly," I said.

He stood up, "Alright, she knows stuff about me and my family, can you meet her at three and tell her I'll be able to make it at five?"

I nodded, "Yes."

There was a definite hint of evasion in his manner, like he didn't want to talk about Polly, at that point. And I didn't push it, whatever the issue with Polly was; I'd let him tell me in his time.

He looked at his watch, "Let's go and meet Pastor Abadom, he's a real stickler for good time keeping, we mustn't be late."

###

As we passed Paddock Field we saw it was heavily sealed off with police ticker tape, "Whatever's happened in that flat's not being reported; I checked all the news sites and found nothing," said Dylan.

I nodded agreement, "There's a reason they're keeping it out of the news, but they've got to break it sometime."

"They can break news, but it doesn't have to be the full truth. They'll dilute it in some way," said Dylan.

I remembered Clara's distress, "They better not, I won't let Clara be blamed, or killed and forgotten," I said, determined.

###

We stopped at a dilapidated old shop that sold party items like balloons, cards and streamers. The window was filthy and all the merchandise looked dirty and dated, a proper depressing party place.

Dylan pressed a buzzer on a black door next to the shop. After a few moments, we heard the rattle of locks and the door opened a few inches, secured by a heavy looking chain. A white woman's face peered through the space: middle aged, heavily black rimmed eyes with thick mascara, and startlingly dyed orange hair. "What do you want?" Her question delivered almost angrily.

"We've come to see Pastor Abadom," said Dylan.

"What's your name?"

"Dylan."

One black rimmed, blood shot eye darted to me, "And yours?"

"Benita."

Her one visible eye widened, "Benita who?"

"Benita Badoe," I said.

I saw her recoil in definite horror, "Go away. And don't ever come back here!" She shouted.

Both Dylan and I jumped back at the force of the door slamming in our faces.

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