“You’re not actually building anything here, are you? ” The social worker’s gentle smile didn’t soften the question. Daniel shifted on the sofa, glancing at the pile of scrap metal and old phone parts he’d been tinkering with all week. “Not phones,” he said, forcing a laugh.
“Probably not now you mention it. ”
His son Bertie, eight years old and bright-eyed, sat beside him, bouncing his knee. Daniel had promised this visit would go smoothly. He’d cleaned the flat, hidden the empty bottles, and rehearsed his lines.
But the moment the woman asked about their routine, his stomach twisted. “We’re fine,” Daniel said, a little too quickly. “Family’s doing okay. Really.
”
Bertie looked up at him. “What if we’re not okay? ”
“Let’s not worry about that yet, lad. ”
Daniel’s mind drifted, as it always did, to the CCTV footage.
If only he hadn’t tried to scare them. He’d only meant to give those kids a fright—a warning, nothing more. But now the detective was sniffing around, and if it went badly, Daniel could lose Bertie for good. “I think I’ve done all right, actually,” Daniel muttered later, after the social worker had left with a promise to check in again next month.
“No, I peed myself at tea break,” his brother said, laughing. “I meant the race tomorrow. ”
“I’m not running tomorrow. ”
“Why not?
”
Daniel stared at the wall. “My nana always said I should have joined the secret police. If I run the whole day, I’ll be constantly thinking about her. I don’t even know if I want to race anymore.
”
The next day brought more bad news. The detective showed up at the shop, asking questions about the night those kids got hurt. “If you had that CCTV footage, this would’ve been solved by now,” he said. Daniel’s hands trembled as he wiped down the counter.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. ”
But he did. He knew exactly where the footage was—hidden in the back, in a drawer he hadn’t opened in weeks. He just couldn’t decide if destroying it would save him or sink him.
That evening, Bertie came home from school, quieter than usual. “Dad, why did that lady ask if you hit me? ”
Daniel’s blood ran cold. “Who asked that, son?
”
“The woman who came to see us. She said it’s just routine. ”
“It’s not routine,” Daniel snapped, then softened. “Look, I would never hurt you.
You know that, right? ”
Bertie nodded, but his eyes were uncertain. Daniel knew that look. It was the same look he’d given his own father, the one who’d taught him that a real man never showed weakness, never let anyone close enough to hurt him.
That night, Daniel couldn’t sleep. He kept replaying the warning he’d etched into his own mind: “If you do not destroy your enemy, your enemy will destroy you. ”
He thought about the kids he’d scared that night—graceless kids who’d gotten too close to his territory, who’d crossed a line. He’d only wanted to warn them off, but now they were talking, and the detective was listening, and Bertie was asking questions that cut like glass.
Sarah, his friend from the hospital ward, called him the next morning. “You’ve barely said two words all week, and it was your idea to go to the support group. ”
“Not good,” he said. “No thanks to him.
”
“Who? ”
“The detective. He won’t let it go. ”
“Are you sure there’s nothing else going on?
” Sarah asked. Her voice was soft, but he heard the worry underneath. Daniel was about to answer when Bertie walked into the kitchen, holding the green jacket that had been missing for days. “Found it under your bed, Dad.
”
Daniel’s heart stopped. In the pocket was the phone he thought he’d thrown away—the one with the messages, the threats, the proof of everything. Bertie was already reaching for it. “Don’t touch that!
” Daniel shouted, snatching it away. Bertie flinched. Stepped back. Looked at his father like he wasn’t sure who he was anymore.
“I’m sorry, son, I didn’t mean to yell,” Daniel said, but the words felt hollow. The next day, the social worker returned for an unannounced visit. She noticed the bruise on Bertie’s arm—a bruise Bertie insisted he got playing football, but Daniel knew the truth. He’d grabbed him too hard yesterday, trying to keep the phone out of his hands.
“We’re just concerned about your stress levels, Daniel,” she said. “We think it might be best if Bertie stays with his aunt for a little while. ”
“No,” Daniel said, his voice cracking. “He’s my son.
You can’t take my son. ”
The detective showed up an hour later with a warrant for the CCTV footage. Daniel watched him pull it from the drawer, watched him read the timestamp that placed Daniel at the scene of the kids’ injuries, watched him look up with cold, certain eyes. “Danny,” the detective said, “we need to talk about what happened that night.
”
Daniel’s throat went dry. He looked at Bertie, who was standing in the doorway, clutching his school bag, his face pale. “Dad? ” Bertie whispered.
“Are you in trouble? ”
Daniel opened his mouth to lie, to say everything was fine, to protect his son from the truth that had been eating him alive for weeks. But the words wouldn’t come. Because the truth was, he was in trouble.
And this time, he couldn’t fix it with a lie.
