Brut for a Brut

Brut for a Brut

Acrid. That’s the first word that hits me. The senses overloaded — a memory, an image, a smell so sharp that anywhere in the world, at any time in my life, if I caught it, it would drag me back to that exact moment.

I’m sitting at the bottom of the stairs. A scrap of carpet under my feet — the “hall,” the only space my mum allowed my dad to step into. Just past the front door. No further. Ten years it had taken to draw that line. Ten years of anger and shouting, broken promises and bruises, booze and fights, fear and reality.

My dad shuffled towards me, a warrior with a sunken heart. A man with a reputation for never backing down, suddenly broken. He knew he’d fucked up long ago, but maybe—just maybe—he regretted some of it. Or maybe that’s me trying to give him something he never had.

He bent down, his frying-pan hands resting heavy, sweat beading on his forehead. His back was shot, had been for years. I knew the pain was tearing him apart, maybe that’s why he drank, why he smoked himself hollow.

“Your mum hates me,” he said. His breath rasped, his chest heaving, oxygen snarling through his nose. Out of shape, but still a mountain to me. Small, stocky, magnetic. Always a hit with women. Always close to criminals.

We didn’t say much. We didn’t need to. I felt for him, wished for him.

“Where are you going?” I asked, even though I knew he’d lie.

“Got a job in India,” he said. Ridiculous now, but to a twelve-year-old boy it sounded almost believable.

“I’m sorry, son.” His face collapsed as he dragged me into him, wrestler-strong, crushing me so tight I couldn’t breathe. He was crying. He always cried when he saw me, those rare occasions he showed up.

Once, his visits terrified me. But not anymore. Not now. After years of chaos, my mum and I had found peace. No more hiding. No more screaming. No more police at the door. She’d won. My dad had underestimated her — she was a warrior too.

I wanted to hug him back as hard as he held me. I wanted to slap him. I wanted to scream at him for abandoning me, for never being a real man, a real dad. But I was young, and I’d already learned the only survival skill that worked: forgiveness. Maybe my mum had planted it in me. Maybe it was just in my soul.

He kissed my cheek, his sweaty skin smothering me, his stubble like tiny razors scraping across my face. Then came that stench — Brut. Acrid, choking, unforgettable. Brut for a Brut.

He said he loved me. Gave me a watch — swore he hadn’t nicked it. Then, just like that, he straightened up, shook off his sadness, adjusted his suit jacket. The mask slipped back on.

“Right, I’m off to the pub,” he grinned, peering through the hall door like a cheeky intruder. My mum was waiting on the other side, probably gripping a big fucking knife.

“See you, Pat,” he called, slamming the door shut before she could answer.

“I love you, son,” he said again, striding into the dusk. The streetlamp lit him like a spotlight. He looked back, saw us both in the doorway, and leapt comically into the air. Ever the clown.

I shut the door. Relief washed over me. But deep down I knew — I wouldn’t see him again.

And I didn’t.

He’d picked one fight too many. Two harder, hungrier men. He was murdered just before New Year.

I don’t miss my dad. He was never really there to miss. What I miss is the idea of him — someone to believe in, to look up to, to rely on. Instead, what I’m left with is pity. And sometimes, that cuts deeper than forgiveness ever could.