Leave the Last Page by Stephen Barnard

chased him and then just disappeared in front of his eyes, but by the way, take a look at the scratches on the side of the car?
    He couldn’t tell them anything. He had to let them take him off it and pass it to someone else. The best thing to do would be to walk away from it completely.
    Maybe
, he thought.
    He looked at his watch. He needed to get home, and make sure Dan was alright. He’d left him alone, having asked his neighbour just to keep an eye open.
So much for spending some quality time with him.
He decided to ring him and tell him he was on his way.
    He had a missed call on his phone. From his father.
Dad never rings
, he thought.
    He called back.
    â€˜Jimmy Fields.’
    â€˜Hi Dad, it’s Benedict.’ He had to use his full name with his father otherwise he got told off, even at the age of 36.
    â€˜Oh, hi son. How are you?’
    â€˜I’m fine, Dad.’ A lie, of course. ‘What’s up?’
    â€˜Nothing, nothing’s up. I just thought I’d call and see how you were.’
    Jimmy Fields never called anyone just to see how they were. He had always been a practical, no-nonsense man who had spent most of his working life driving lorries, long distance. When he wasn’t doing that he had always been at the gym, pounding a punch bag or sparring with willing partners. Talking was never his strong point, not if he could get his point across with a gloved fist. Even now, with the boxing gone and near the end of his working career – driving buses for the last couple of years – he wasn’t one for small talk and polite conversation. Ben was a little taken aback at receiving a call. ‘Everything’s okay, Dad. Busy with work as usual.’
    â€˜And Daniel?’
    â€˜Dan’s good. He’s with me this week so I’m hoping to get some time with him, work allowing.’
    There was a lengthy pause on the other end.
We’ve nothing to talk about,
thought Ben. He was as bad as his father for keeping contact. His dad was always at the bottom of a list that he never seemed to get to the end of. He lived less than ten miles away, but he probably saw his dad maybe three times a year. Dan saw his grandfather even less.
    â€˜Been busy in your workshop?’ Ben asked, just to break the silence.
    â€˜Not really. You’re sure you’re fine, Benedict? I just got a…feeling, I guess. Never felt anything like it. I got a bit panicky to be honest. I’m glad you called back.’
    That was the most his father had ever said in one go on the telephone. ‘Don’t worry about me, Dad. Look, I can’t promise, with work and everything, but I’ll try and get round to see you with Dan this week.’
    â€˜Daniel,’ Jimmy corrected.
    â€˜Daniel.’
But you’ve never been ‘James’ though, have you, Dad? Hypocrite.
He didn’t say it though. ‘I’ll talk to you in a day or two, Dad.’
    â€˜That would be…good. Thanks, Benedict.’
    Ben wrapped up the call but then kept staring at his phone. This day was getting weirder and weirder.

    *
    When Ben got home, Dan was in his room playing a game on the internet. It was a gloomy space, the only light coming from a reading lamp and the laptop screen. The walls were painted cream but you couldn’t see any of them due to the posters tacked on every available surface. They displayed images of rock bands, movie stars and fantasy characters.
    Dan was sat on his bed, leaning against the headboard. He looked up from the screen briefly to acknowledge his dad.
    â€˜Have you eaten?’ asked Ben.
    Dan pointed to a plate that had some pizza crusts on it.
    Ben picked it up and then leant on one of the walls, overlooking what was taking place on the laptop. It was a game set in some fantasy world; no doubt Dan was playing against other similarly serious-looking teens in other dark bedrooms all around the world. Dan rolled some virtual dice on the