Reaching for my phone, I brace myself for the usual abusive messages from my ex. But for the second day in a row, nothing.
I glance at the clock. Dad asked me to tune into Radio 4 now, for reasons unknown. “You’ll see,” he smiled. Typical Dad, avoiding direct communication, everything a riddle.
The Desert Island Discs theme tune floats out of the speakers like a gentle breeze. The sly old dog! I turn up the volume.
“I’m delighted to welcome today’s Castaway, retired England cricketer, David Myles!” says Lauren Laverne.
“David, you’ve famously declined several invitations over the years. But there’s a very personal reason you’ve agreed now.”
“That’s right, Lauren.” The radio lends an ethereal quality to Dad’s gravelly voice. “After this interview, I’m retiring to a real desert island to spare my loved ones the pain of witnessing my demise. I recently received a diagnosis of terminal cancer. I hope the music and memories ease the blow.”
Time stands still. I sink into the sofa. Dad sounds like he’s under water. I try to focus on the song he’s chosen to carry me through this moment, surrendering myself to Bob Marley’s voice.
“…’Cause every little thing is gonna be alright.”
I listen, stunned, as he recounts his cricketing triumphs, glosses over life events, and plays his favourite songs, most of which are familiar but now sound foreign.
“The next two songs are for my daughter, Kelly.”
My blood drains when For Your Babies plays. Dad hates Simply Red and “that smug ginger bastard” Mick Hucknall. He’s always said, “If I ever play Simply Red, it’s a coded message.”
Bohemian Rhapsody is next. The lyrics bleed into one another. What does it mean?
My mind still struggling to connect the dots, I hear him choose his book, before he’s invited to select a luxury item.
“It must be inanimate. You can’t pick your family,” says Lauren.
“Indeed, though after today mine may wish they could.”
That’s the closest Dad’s ever come to an apology, I think, grimly.
“I’ll take the cricket bat that I scored my last ever century for England with, to bury in the sand, symbolically laying my life to rest.”
“David Myles, thanks for sharing your Desert Island Discs.”
Lauren’s voice is drowned out by hammering at the door. Expecting Mum, I steel myself for the emotional onslaught. She always over-compensates for Dad’s avoidance.
But it isn’t Mum. It’s my best friend, Sal.
She bursts in. “Put the TV on!”
“Um…”
But she’s already found the news channel, and for the second time today, I freeze.
My ex-boyfriend has been battered to death with a “blunt object.”
Every synapse in my brain is fizzing and making connections.
“…I’ll try to give you everything you need…”
“…just killed a man…”
“…cricket bat…”
I picture Dad, reclining against a palm tree, the evidence safely buried.
A calm settles over me, seagulls squawking over the sound of the lapping waves, as By the Sleepy Lagoon fades out.
