Dad tried so hard. But his make believe was never good enough. Mum had managed to get me to space, or zoom across a cityscape with capes on our backs. These days our attempt at piracy on the high seas was a boy and a man in a cardboard box. The dragon chasing after me refused to be more than a sock puppet and halved ping pong balls.
Once we tried a futuristic army game with sticks for guns and my stuffed toys for monstrosities. A little violent for my age perhaps, but that was the least of our worries. After ten minutes Dad ended up sitting on the floor, a phone in his right hand tuned to the cricket, tears staining his eyes.
‘I promise I’m trying,' he said.
After that afternoon he often stayed up way past midnight. Sometimes I heard singing from downstairs. The smell of some kind of joss stick, deep and smoky.
On the day he shook me awake the sun was still on the other side of the world. Orange streetlights through the window provided the only source of illumination. His hair was stubble length, and his breath smelt of woodsmoke.
'Wake up marine,' he said. 'The monsters are here.'
He handed me a silver gun. Although plastic, the weight was impressive, and the muzzle lit up when you squeezed the trigger.
We crept downstairs. They groaned with every footstep, but another noise won the battle. A high pitched clicking mixed with meaty thuds. The joss stick scent burnt my nostrils.
The stranger hanging from the ceiling had grey wings, grapefruit eyes, and teeth sharp enough to chew through steel. When it swooped over the armchair towards us, I gave Dad the biggest grin. It was good to feel excited again.
Line: The dragon chasing after me refused to be more than a sock puppet and halved ping pong balls.
