Ziggy
Ziggy
Ziggy lay on the sofa under the Buzz Lightyear duvet he’d had since he was five, wishing he could escape “to infinity and beyond.” He scrolled through TikTok on his phone, while Kylie watched yet more TV. He was already an hour late dropping her off at nursery, but the more he anticipated Janine’s disappointment-mixed-with-worry face, the less he wanted to go, and the longer he left it, the more disappointment and worry he could expect. It was a vicious circle.
The jarring sound of the doorbell made him jump. Was it Floyd? The police? Social Services? Someone from his school? The best strategy was obviously to pretend not to be there, since none of the options were good ones. He pulled the duvet over his head.
Kylie, however, had other ideas, and began to scream loudly.
He couldn’t pretend not to be in when there was a baby yelling. They’d break the door down.
“You missed a golden opportunity there to remain silent,” he said to his daughter, echoing the phrase his mother had said to him so many times.
Ziggy pulled the duvet around him, so he looked like a creature from James and the Giant Peach— a huge maggot with size-ten feet. He stood up and shuffled to the door, putting his eye up to the spyhole.
It was Daphne. For a minute, he felt relieved, before remembering that Daphne was quite possibly the most dangerous of all the potential variables. He leaned his back against the door. Perhaps she wouldn’t know he was there.
“I KNOW YOU’RE THERE, ZIGGY!” Daphne shouted, mere inches away from his head, the force of her words making the door between them reverberate. He opened it, just a crack. Daphne thrust the end of her walking stick into the gap, narrowly missing jabbing him in the eye, and levered the door open wide enough to push her way past him.
“Right,” she said. “We need to sort out this pickle you’re in.”
Ziggy sighed. “Don’t even bother suggesting we go to the police,” he said. “If I’m labeled a grass, my life, and Kylie’s, really will be over.”
“Believe me, I have no desire to go anywhere near the police, either,” said Daphne, who had dragged the details of Ziggy’s situation from him after she’d “rescued” him from the pub. “We’re cutting out the middlemen and going straight to see the chap responsible for this irresponsible behavior of yours. What’s his name?”
“Floyd,” mumbled Ziggy.
“Speak up!” said Daphne.
“Floyd,” mumbled Ziggy, a fraction louder.
“Go get dressed. I’ll sit with Kylie,” said Daphne.
When Ziggy returned, Daphne and Kylie were engrossed in something on Daphne’s iPhone.
“What are you watching?” said Ziggy. Not because he cared, but because he was trying to delay the inevitable.
“Ask Iona,” said Daphne. “This extraordinary young woman—Iona Iverson—helps people with their problems on YouTube. She tells it exactly like it is. She gets millions of views. It’s hilarious, isn’t it, Kylie?”
Kylie grinned back at Daphne, and clapped her tiny hands together. Ziggy didn’t know if his daughter genuinely loved Daphne, or if she had Stockholm syndrome.
“Are you thinking she could help me?” said Ziggy, looking at the woman on screen and realizing that his definition of “young” and Daphne’s were not the same.
“Good God, no,” said Daphne. “Your little problem requires more…specialist knowledge. She’s a lesbian, you know. I’ve always fancied having a go at being a lesbian.”
Ziggy was so thrown by Daphne’s lesbian ambitions that he forgot to ask the most crucial question: What specialist knowledge?
···
Floyd had a lookout stationed on the wall, as usual, swinging his legs and exhaling clouds of sickly sweet vape fumes.
“Are you sure this is a good idea, Daphne?” Ziggy whispered to her as they approached. “You really don’t know what you’re dealing with here.”
“I can assure you, I do,” said Daphne.
“It could end really badly,” said Ziggy.
“For someone, maybe, but not for me,” said Daphne. “And not for you or Kylie. Trust me.”
Ziggy had to stop her. If Daphne ended up in the hospital—or worse—he’d never forgive himself.
“Daphne, let’s just walk on by,” he said, grabbing her by the sleeve and trying to drag her through the estate entrance. Daphne just dug in her heels and pulled out her arm, leaving him holding an empty jacket and looking like a cloakroom attendant.
“OI, YOU!” she shouted at the lookout. “I NEED TO SPEAK TO FLOYD.”
The lookout peered down at her and laughed. “He’s all out of dementia meds, grandma,” he said.
Daphne gave him the sort of look that would have crumpled anyone not backed up by the sheer force of Floyd.
“OK. I’ll speak to him,” he said, rolling his eyes then turning away from them and talking into his phone. A few seconds later, he said, “Floyd says to come to his office. Ziggy knows the way.”
Ziggy nodded, although the only other time he’d had an invite to the “office” was when Floyd had kicked the crap out of him for losing that package. It was the last place in the world he wanted to go back to. He wondered if there were still patches of his blood and vomit on the concrete floor.
Ziggy steered Kylie’s pushchair toward the row of garages at the back of the estate, Daphne following close behind. When he reached the right one, he knocked.
“It’s Ziggy,” he said, forcing the reluctant words out of his mouth. Nothing happened. “Floyd’s expecting me,” he said, his head up against the metal door.
The garage door opened, just enough to let them through if they ducked a little, then closed with a metallic bang. The garage was lit by a single, bare, flickering light bulb hanging from the ceiling. Two or three flies buzzed around it, like electrons around a nucleus. Floyd sat in a vast leather reclining chair, playing some game on a PlayStation that involved copious amounts of killing. He was probably limbering up for the real thing.
“You wanted to talk to me, grandma,” he said, not taking his eyes off the screen.
“Yes. And look at me when you’re speaking to me,” said Daphne. Ziggy tensed, waiting for the inevitable explosion. Nobody talked to Floyd like that and got away with it. Nobody apart from Daphne, it appeared.
“Ha ha! You’ve got balls, I’ll give you that,” said Floyd, handing his controller to one of his minions to continue playing for him, and swiveling his chair to face Daphne. “So, what do you want?”
“I want you to leave Ziggy alone,” she said. “He can’t work for you. He has exams to do, and a child to look after.”
“No can do, babushka,” said Floyd. “He owes me.”
“Don’t you think it’s a bit of a coincidence that someone just happened to steal his backpack at exactly the time he was carrying your package? And less than an hour after he’d told you he wanted to quit being your errand boy?” said Daphne. That thought had occurred to Ziggy, but he’d dismissed it. He was just incredibly unlucky. The chances of one of his sperm hitting the jackpot after just one unimpeded outing had been remote, too. And yet, here he was.
“You think it wasn’t stolen at all?” said Floyd, narrowing his eyes. “You think he’s been lying to me?” Oh God, she was just making things so much worse. Shut UP, Daphne.
“Look. I was in this game long before you were even born,” said Daphne. “And I played it far better and harder than you. The people who worked for me could have chewed you and your minions up for breakfast, you pathetic little waste of space of a man.” Argh, stop, Daphne, STOP.
“Careful how you speak to me, old woman,” said Floyd, but he was watching her with amused interest rather than aggression.
“You’re not even clever. It’s the oldest trick in the book. You get one of your own people to steal your own stash from your courier, thereby ensuring that they’re in hock to you for the foreseeable future,” said Daphne. “That package wasn’t stolen at all, was it? It was brought straight back to you. You beat Ziggy up for fun, and now you’re ruining his life, just so you have a free dogsbody.”
Ziggy waited for Floyd’s angry denial, but he just leaned back in his chair and laughed. Was Daphne right? Had he been manipulated all this time?
“Look, I tell you what I’ll do, grandma, since I like your style,” said Floyd. “You give me that necklace, and we’ll call it quits.” He gestured at the diamanté choker around Daphne’s neck.
There was a pause, while Daphne twisted the glittering stones at her throat.
“OK,” she said, eventually. “But you’re to leave Ziggy and his family alone. And tell all your friends to back off, too. Capisce? ” She unclasped the necklace and passed it to Floyd.
“Sure. Whatever,” said Floyd, tucking the necklace into his jeans pocket. It dangled from the top like a sparkling serpent, searching for air. “Now, bugger off. I’m busy.” He took the controller back from the minion and turned to face the screen.
···
“I can’t believe that just happened,” said Ziggy as they walked back toward his flat. “How did you know all that stuff?”
“I watch a lot of television,” said Daphne. “That was a mixture of Happy Valley and The Sopranos. Now, you need to get back to school and get your life back on track as quickly as possible, or I’ll make you wish you were dealing with Floyd and his gang again. Understand?”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Ziggy. “But, Daphne, I’m worried about that necklace. What’s going to happen when Floyd realizes those stones aren’t real?”
“Mmm. I’m worried about that necklace, too,” said Daphne. “Time’s running out, Ziggy.”
“Time for what?” said Ziggy, but she just shook her head, leaving an awkward silence hanging in the air between them.
Then Ziggy had an idea. A way to show Daphne how incredibly grateful he was for what she’d done for him and Kylie. She’d be thrilled. He was a genius.
“Daphne,” he said. “Would you consider being Kylie’s godmother? We’d love it if you would.”
There was a pause. Daphne was obviously trying to work out how best to express her enthusiasm.
“Don’t be bloody ridiculous, Ziggy,” she said. “Of course I can’t. What an incredibly stupid idea.”
That was not the reaction he’d expected. But then, nothing about Daphne was what one would expect.