A Deal’s a Deal.

“I remember when Mummy used to dance to this! It’s Mummy’s song!” Charlotte blurted at the television advert. Charlotte is a 12 year old girl with blue eyes so light they are almost silver, and short, curly blonde hair that reminds her Dad of Annie from the famous film. “So do I sweetie” her dad replied with a subtle, melancholic smile. “Will I see her again in heaven?” She asks, with both eyebrows raised, staring at her Dad as if he’s about to reveal a life-changing secret. “Of course you will, she’s waiting for us both and probably practicing her dance moves for us.” said the Dad, gladly. They both giggle and turn their eyes back to the black and silver box television, perched on the top shelf next to a vintage record player surrounded by a messy collection of The Beatles, Led Zeppelin and Rolling Stones vinyl. “Why are so many people at that big clock, Daddy?” Charlotte asks. “That's Big Ben, and they are there to celebrate the coming of a New Year, but this is a very special one, it’s the turn of the millennium, meaning we won’t see another one like this for a thousand years! Are you ready for the fireworks?” The Dad responds with feigned enthusiasm. “Yeah! I love fireworks! And Daddy, I want to be a dancer like Mummy when I’m older.”

He unsticks his bare legs from the earthy brown sofa and snuggles up to Charlotte. He rests his chin on the crown of her head and slowly shuts his eyes as the smell of her fresh hair and citrus shampoo wash his foreboding thoughts away. Just as he’s about to offer some words of support, the landline rings. He stares at it for a few seconds as if he’s seen a ghost. He picks up the bulky, beige phone; the handset and transmitter permanently stained with his late wife’s make-up. “You’ve got ten minutes left” comes a deep, raspy voice that feels unpleasant but enchanting at the same time. He looks over at Charlotte and sees a wondrous smile plastered across a face dripping with dreams and longs for the blissful ignorance and optimism of childhood. Her delight tempts a feeling of hope before a sudden emergence of dread swallows it whole. He catches a glimpse of himself in the foggy glass of the sash window and takes a second to admire his high cheekbones, unwrinkled skin and titan shoulders. Then snaps out of it; spending the remaining ten minutes with his Daughter in his arms, her eyes fixated on the television and his on her. He feels a heat wave of pure love that is so overwhelming he feels it must have come from God.

The countdown begins. “10, 9,” Charlotte screams. “8, 7, 6,” her Dad joins in but his voice mellows every number, and tears begin to stream down his cheeks. “5, 4, 3, 2, 1, happy new y-“

Explosions startle him awake. His mind is blank. His back aches as he sits up in his musty bed, food crumbs on the stained white bedsheet digging into his leg. One arm crutched onto the half-painted bedside cabinet, he braves the stabbing pain in his shoulder and stands up. Stood there, staring at the cold hardwood floors, they bit his toes, yet he felt nothing. Stumbling through the bungalow cottage, he falls into the dining chair and shuffles through empty bottles of liquor to find another drop. Nothing, just empty bottles and two thank you letters from Cancer Research UK and Parents Against Drink Driving. Over on the shelf next to his wife’s dusty old vintage record player is a picture of the three of them on their first holiday. He thinks back to that night and tries to let out a smile. He remembers watching the two of them dance; every giggle and wiggle, every prance, every swirl and flick of a hair curl moving like threads through the fabric of time and space, sowing his whole world together. He remembers the feeling like it was yesterday but feels nothing in its place. 

He staggers over to the front door, the pungent smoky aroma of fireworks is sneaking through the hinge gaps and letterbox, he pulls it open, and the rattle knocks icicles off the the bright red head jam. He stares aimlessly, noticing how little effect the pain of the brutal English winters is having on his bare skin. A crisp, loud clicking is echoing through the street, he looks down the brown cobbled roads lined with the shadows of tiring branches reaching over the graveyard's wrought iron fences. Opposite, The Old Heckled Hen, a pub almost as old as England itself, sits lifeless in a haze of mist. An old Victorian mill towers behind it, looming hauntingly like an ancient heirloom filled with curses. A mysterious figure in a long black trench coat strolls out of the fog as if he has time on his side. An icy howl pierces the dad’s time-worn skin as if it emerged from the man approaching him. “It is time,” said the mysterious man. He knew the voice, he’d heard it twice before. He thinks back to the dream, or memory, or last night, he’s not sure. He thinks of the feeling of love he got from his Daughter so powerful that it could only have come from God itself, the hope Charlotte had of seeing her Mother again, and his promise that they’ll be together again in heaven. She had strength and hope. It was almost like she was grateful for the time she got to spend with her Mum, and even wanted to honour her life by becoming a dancer too. He suddenly realises he’s made a grave mistake. 

“I’m sorry, but I can’t do this. I was weak and desperate, as I have been for the last twenty-five years. I didn’t think it through, I don’t know why I would agree to sell my soul for one more day with Charlotte, sell my only chance at spending eternity with them, to hold them forever.”

The mysterious man looks fixedly at the Dad, his uncommonly clear green eyes have a magical hue to them. He says simply “A deal is a deal” and places his hand on the Dad's shoulder.

He sprang up from a deep sleep that left him feeling like he’d just run a marathon. A dream? A memory? Last night? he wonders. He hurries to the dining room table, scattered with empty bottles and opened letters, his wandering hands knocking them off the table, as he looks for his iPhone. 11:30am, 1st January 2025. He quickly throws himself into his blue denim jeans, muddy suede boots and slim-fit wool jumper and hurries out of the front door. Icicles fall in front of him, the winter sun blinds him and the street is alive with people. He can hear The Old Heckled Hen opening and the happy hour sign rattling in the wind. A Rolls-Royce rolls slowly over the cobbles, passing a long queue of respectable churchgoers dressed in their Sunday best queuing up at the royal mahogany door. He starts to believe it was just a dream. He hopes. His back aches have gone, he sees his reflection in a puddle and notices his shoulders seem wider again, the corners of his lips twitch a little, challenging the boundaries of an unexpressive face. He decides to go and speak to someone just to test his theory and approaches a family in the queue for mass. An elderly woman in a long cream dress and partially covered by a black swallow-tail coat nods her head invitingly “How do you do?” she says in a sweet, motherly voice. “Hey, mister! Blurts a little girl, he assumes is her Granddaughter. He doesn’t speak. The Grandma and Granddaughter glance over at each other with glaring eyes and budge in closer together in a way that doesn’t make it seem too obvious. Then a raspy voice comes from behind. “Good morning, sir. This is my wife and Granddaughter” the Dad turns around, taken back to see a slender man in a long black trench coat, uncommonly clear green eyes and a narrow moustache waxed into a straight line. He pauses for a moment. A dream? A memory? Now? He takes a deep gulp. The slender man continues “I’ll be delivering a sermon today on the topic of grief, how I got over the loss of my child, Sarah’s mum” he says while putting his arm around his Granddaughter and pulling her in tightly. “If you watch over these two while I’m up on the pulpit, I’ll buy you a pint at the Old Hen after mass, deal?” The granddad sticks his hand out. “Deal” he replied. 

Later that day all four of them were sitting around a sticky maple table, stale smoke fills their noses, clicks and thudding of pool and darts lingers in the background. The two men share stories of loss and grief and begin to discuss plans on how to help other men in their situation.

For the first time in 25 years the Dad finds some peace. The million painful pieces of his heart that shattered and dispersed 25 years ago begin to find their way back to each other. His loss is permanent, and it will never get better. But the sorrow is replaced with gratitude for the time he had with his wife and child, the despair is replaced with hope, and depression replaced with purpose. 

“Cheers for the pint, mate!” The Dad says.

“A deal’s a deal”.