Writelink Arena

Hi ALL,

I am a new writer @ WriteLink. Here's my latest short story (1600 words), Daddy's Girl.

Comments most welcome

The subject matter is a little strong, so this story isn't suitable for very young readers.

Here's a one paragraph synopsis:

Ray Gillingham's wife went missing eleven weeks ago. He wrote in his police statement that he came home one evening to find his front door open, and his two-year old daughter locked in a cupboard. Following an intensive and fruitless police investigation, he appears on a reality television crime show to make a direct appeal to the public.

Thanks for taking the time to read me work.

Warmest regards
Greg

www.gregmcqueen.com

[More:]

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"Daddy's Girl"
A Short Story by Greg McQueen

"No! Stop! Stop!"

Ray grabbed her arm. "Emma, please ..."

She tugged to get away from him and stamped her tiny feet. "I want, Mummy!"

Crouching, Ray held her gently by the shoulders. "Sweetheart, Mummy isn't here."

"Find her, find her!" Her small body shook and she began crying.

Ray dipped his head, suddenly unable to look his daughter in the face. She's two, he thought. How can I explain?

"Ray?" came a male voice from across the room.

Ray looked up at a blonde, spiky-haired man in his early twenties standing in the doorway. He wore a head-mounted microphone and earpiece, and had a walkie-talkie clipped to the front pocket of his baggy jeans. Ray couldn't remember his name, but had heard someone refer to him as the floor assistant.

"It's time," he said, gesturing for Ray to follow him.

A woman, blonde, early thirties, had been sitting in the corner of the room. She stood and smiled, and as she walked over and crouched to look at Emma, Ray noticed that she had a lower back tattoo, a butterfly; a similar design to his wife, Amanda.

"Hi, Emma," she said.

Emma sniffed, snot bubbling in her nostrils and tears dripping down her round little face.

"It's okay, sweetheart," said Ray. "Daddy's going in the other room only for a few minutes."

"Mummy there?" asked Emma.

Ray pulled her close and kissed her hair. "No, sweetheart."

"I need your help, Emma." The woman pulled a tissue from her pocket and gently wiped Emma's cheeks. "I've forgotten what cows look like." She tucked the wet tissue in her breast pocket and took Emma's hand. "Silly me. Do you think you can draw one for me?"

Emma nodded. And the woman took her across the room to a table loaded with crayons and paper.

"Draw Mummy?" said Emma.

"Of course, sweetheart," said Ray.

Emma took a crayon and started scribbling.

"Love you," added Ray.

Emma said nothing. Not even looking at him as he left the room. And as he hurried up the corridor following the spiky-haired floor assistant, he heard his daughter crying.

"Mummy! Maaaaa ... MUM-MEEE!"

Christ, Ray thought. CHRI-IST!

He followed the floor assistant down a flight of stairs and along another corridor. He wasn't sure if he could still hear Emma, or whether it was just her voice bouncing in his head ...

Mummy ... Mummy ... MUMMY ...

She's not a baby anymore, Ray told himself. She's got a voice. Knows what she wants.

At times it felt humiliating. If she fell over and bumped her head, it was, "Mummy kiss it better." Whenever he fed her, she'd refuse, saying she wanted something different. And if he insisted, she'd cry. But if Mummy came and picked up the same spoon Emma ate it gladly.

Even dressing her was impossible. Emma would thrash about, shrieking, and when he tried tickling her she'd say, "No, Daddy. No! Mummy do it." It was the same at bedtime, "Mummy sing," and if he picked up Emma's favourite bedtime story, "Mummy read it ... Mummy, Mummy, Mummeeeee!"

How can a two year old make you feel so inferior? Ray asked himself. Make a father feel so ... worthless!

The floor assistant stopped at a set of double doors with a glowing red sign above them, 'On Air.'

"Absolute silence once through these doors," he said.

Ray nodded.

"Follow me to the left, and we'll get you in position."

The floor assistant opened the door, and Ray followed him into a large room in semi-darkness. He stumbled over a thick cable just inside the doorway, but instantly righted himself. The floor assistant frowned, and wordlessly pointed out several other similar cables criss-crossing the floor as they made their way through the studio.

Ray felt the heat from dozens of lamps on the ceiling as he stepped past the line of television cameras. Shading his eyes from the unnatural brightness, he took a seat on set.

The floor assistant nodded, gesturing a thumbs-up, and then stepped away, vanishing into the darkness past the line of bulky cameras.

A voice hollered, "Okay. Back in ... ten, nine, eight ..."

Ray glanced at the presenter, who was sitting in a chair a few metres away slurping coffee from a mug.

"... seven, six ..."

Ray watched as the presenter put down the coffee and picked up a script.

"... five, four ..."

The countdown went on in silence, a hand poking from the shadows behind the cameras: three fingers, two, one. The hand pointed at the presenter. A red light on top of a camera came on, and the presenter cleared his throat and looked confidently down its lens.

"Welcome back to, Crime Wave. I have Ray Gillingham with me in the studio."

Ray shifted nervously in his chair as the presenter turned and looked at him for a moment.

"Ray's wife, Amanda, went missing eleven weeks ago," the presenter went on. "Ray arrived home from work one evening to find his front door open and his two year old daughter, Emma, hysterical, and locked in a cupboard. And despite an intensive Police investigation, Ray's wife is still missing."

The presenter swivelled his chair to face Ray. "Your daughter must be traumatised, " he said. "How is she coping now, Ray?"

Ray said nothing. He was so nervous that he didn't realise that the presenter had directed the question at him.

The presenter glanced at one of the cameras, drawing the audience, then repeated the question, "How's Emma? She must be missing Amanda terribly?"

Ray nodded. He felt awkward, numbed. The heat of the studio lights was making his head sweat, and a bead of liquid rolled down his temple. He'd wanted to sound sincere, wanted the public to experience how he felt. But all he could do was sit there, dumbstruck.

"Take your time, Ray," said the presenter. "Look to the camera. The next sixty seconds is yours ..."

The camera directly in front of Ray rolled towards him. He glanced nervously away, able to see himself on a nearby monitor, and became painfully aware that a close-up of his flushed and sweaty face now filled millions of television screens.

This is it, thought Ray. Be a father. Do it for Emma.

He cleared his throat and looked straight at the camera.

"Amanda. If someone is holding you, I want you to know that we're doing everything possible to bring you home." Ray wiped his face, hands clammy and trembling. "And to the person who's got you ... might have got you. Please. Amanda is missed by her family. Emma, her daughter, misses her. I miss her. I miss my ..."

Suddenly, emotion hit. It shuddered up his throat, causing him to screech the last word of his sentence, " ... wife!"

Looking away from the camera, Ray screwed up his face. Anger. Grief. Guilt. Overwhelming. His emotions leaked from him, drowning his expression in uncontrollable tears.

The presenter spoke sombrely, "Ray Gillingham. A direct and heartfelt appeal for the safe return of his wife, Amanda. Her photo is now onscreen with the number to call should you have any information ..."

Ray felt a hand touch his shoulder and looked up. It was the spiky-haired floor assistant. He put his finger to his lips, indicating for Ray to stay quiet. The presenter was still talking to camera, introducing a crime reconstruction of the brutal rape and murder of an elderly woman.

"Okay. Video tape's running," a voice yelled. "We're live again in ninety seconds."

The floor assistant took Ray's arm. "Sorry. Don't want to rush you, but ..." He shrugged.

Ray stood, wiping his face on the sleeve of his shirt, and followed the floor assistant past the cameras to the exit at the back of the studio.

"It's all right," said Ray, sniffing and wiping his nose. "I remember the way."

The floor assistant opened the door, and Ray stepped into the corridor.

"Good luck," said the floor assistant, before stepping back inside the studio and abruptly shutting the door.

Ray stood alone for a moment, sighing loudly as he ran his hands through his damp hair.

That's it, he thought. A public appeal. Nothing more I can do. If the police can't find her, a couch potato with nothing better to do on a Saturday evening than watch a reality crime show isn't going to either. It was worth it though. For Emma's sake.

He walked back along the corridor, and as he reached the stairs he heard Emma yelling from the greenroom on the next floor.

"No!" she cried. "Don't want to ... Mummy! Mummeeeeee!"

Ray stood on the stairs for several seconds listening to his daughter's screams.

She's probably been that way the whole time I've been in the studio, he thought. Still don't know how I'm going to explain this to her.

He trudged up the stairs.

She's too young to understand, he told himself. She just wants Mummy. She only ever wants her mummy.

He got to the top of the stairs and headed down another passage to the greenroom. Emma was inside--howling, sobbing, crying out for the one person not there.

Mummy.

Ray turned the door handle. Anger. Grief. Guilt ... Jealousy. He buried them. Deep. For Emma's sake.

Gotta be strong, he told himself as he opened the door. Show her she's got to be Daddy's girl.

And as Emma struggled, pounding at his chest and wailing as he took her in his arms, Ray Gillingham wondered whether the police, or even a couch potato, would ever discover his wife's body.

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