by Julian Matthews
Dad was up early. He’d snuck into my bedroom like a trained spy and whispered: “Jack, wake up. I just got the call from Q. I have to go.”
I could smell the Old Spice, drenched to mask the carousing from the night before. My eyes were barely open: “Where to this time, Dad?”
“Tahiti! Agent 003 is in trouble.”
He wore a suit from Robert Tailor. I know because we went there together to make one for me too. Dad said the colour was gunmetal grey and if we ever got shot at by assassins, the bullets would bounce off.
He had his blue tie with tiny embroidered spaceships on them. I adjusted it for him. His coat and pants were not ironed, like he had slept in it. The Agency could afford Giorgio Armani but Dad said, this way, he’d be more discreet. “A proper spy always blends in with the crowd.”
Dad was no Daniel Craig. He had none of the swagger and muscles, nor the boyish looks of Pierce Brosnan. He was more a cross between a cheeky Roger Moore and Sean Connery, all old-school charm but deadly when riled. But, maybe, less hairy.
That night, he came home late. I imagine the mission was hard-fought: he parachuted into the villain’s mansion, disarmed four henchmen, rescued Agent 003, then escaped on a jet ski while dodging bullets and climbing into the awaiting submarine in the Pacific Ocean. “All in a day’s work,” he’d say.
But Mum didn’t understand. “Why so late? Where have you been?! Drinking with Malcolm again!”
She had none of the finesse of a KGB interrogator. I could see Dad’s head bowed, shoulders slouching, stumbling into the kitchen. “Not enough, ahh?!” she trailed him, like an angry hen, pecking at his dignity. “I threw out all your whisky!”
I’d shut my ears in bed, before the bang and crash. I imagined telling her: “He’s a spy, mum! He goes out every day to save the world. It’s a stressful job!”
But, of course, I couldn’t. Dad swore me to secrecy. He told me once, if he told her the truth, he’d have to kill her. I believed him.
The next day, I could hear him breathing in my face again. “Jaaack. Wakey, wakey.”
I rubbed my eyes, then shot up. “Dad! Where did you get the suit?”
He was in a white space suit and helmet. “Elon Musk, of course! The Chinese astronauts are in trouble.”
“What’s up, Dad?”
“Meteor shower! Have to get them off the Tiangong Space Station before 0800 hours.”
“That’s two hours from now, Dad!”
“Yes, I know. Time is of the essence. Gotta fly. Can you make your own breakfast, comrade?” and saluted me.
“Aye, aye, sir!” I saluted back.
That day, I paid more attention in class during science.
Grumpy Mrs Lam was telling us about the solar system. She said the Earth was one of nine planets circling the sun. I immediately got up and corrected her. I said there were only eight planets in our solar system. I named them all. Then, I explained that Pluto was demoted to a dwarf planet. “It’s tiny, only about two-thirds as wide as Earth’s moon. It’s too small to be a planet.”
“Sit down, Jack!”
I continued: “Pluto was named after the Roman god by Venetia Burney. She lived in Oxford and told her grandfather, who then told NASA.”
“Where did you hear that from, Jack? ChatGPT?” she asked, exasperated.
I stood my ground: “It’s a secret! If I tell you, I have to kill you!” I said and the whole class guffawed.
Had I said too much? Had I given Dad’s identity away? Even as we spoke, he was saving the Chinese astronauts in his orbital mission.
Dad said the Chinese were very secretive. They did not want to lose face by being seen rescued by a gwailo. He put his index finger on his lips, before leaving that morning.
Mum once told me that Dad had lost his journalist job. I knew that that was just his cover. That night, I heard him crashing against the furniture, then rummaging through the drawers.
I shut my ears when mum stomped down the stairs. If she only knew. It was a secret space mission. He was probably still adjusting to the gravity.
The next day, I was up early. I was so excited to tell dad what happened in class.
Dad burst through the door. He was in a red suit and a cape billowing on his back.
“Dad! Who are you now?!”
“Can’t you tell? I am Ironicman!”
“Is that like Ironman’s koko?”
“No, I am not from the MCU. I am from SSU!”
I giggled: “What’s the SSU?”
“Stupendously Smart Universe, of course! Mum told me all about Mrs Lumpy. You showed her. You’re a genius kiddo!”
“Mrs Lam!” I chortled and dad lifted me up, swung me onto his shoulders. Then we flew around the room and out the window. The air was swooshing around us as we circled the neighbourhood.
“Woohoooo!” I screamed. We were like soaring eagles scanning for prey.
“A spy is always ready for action!” I said, repeating Dad’s mantra.
He looked me in the eye, in the rushing wind: “You can be anyone you want to be, kiddo. Anyone!”
We both landed together among a circle of our relatives. Mum was crying softly.
I was in my suit from Robert Tailor. It was tight, uncomfortable, but Mum insisted I wear it.
Dad was no longer an astronaut, a spy or a superhero. He was lying in his gunmetal grey suit – it was ironed this time. It wasn’t bullet-proof, after all. His eyes were shut.
I leaned forward to adjust his blue tie with the tiny spaceships on it. My eyes welled up. Mum pulled my hands away.
I saw one eye open and wink at me.
Then they closed the casket and lowered him into the ground.
Julian Matthews is a mixed-race poet and writer based in Malaysia. He is a Pushcart nominee and is published in The American Journal of Poetry, Loch Raven Review, New Verse News and London Grip, among 60 other journals and anthologies. Link: https://linktr.ee/julianmatthews
