game,’ he says, holding it out to me. ‘I’m sorry. It was either this or a crab.’
*
The arcade is a low-ceilinged temporary construction, a bit like a demountable classroom. The walls and ceiling are black.
With my dad in tow, I ignore Ridge Racer, Street Fighter II Turbo, Mortal Kombat and PacMan and walk straight up to Shocker, the authentic electric chair replica, that takes up the entire back wall.
The seat is an oversized oak throne. Above the back rest is a genuine volt-o-meter that records your progress towards the ultimate goal: 13,200 volts.
‘Here we go, Dad. I want to pay for you to have a go on this,’ I say. ‘You’ve got to hold on until the end of the ride otherwise it’s a waste of my money.’
There are warning signs all around it. ‘High Voltage’ and ‘Overhead Power Lines’. They have a Welsh-language one with a picture of a man being electrocuted: ‘Danger/Perygl’.
‘How much are you paying to kill me?’
‘Enough,’ I say.
I remember the time Dad gave me thirty quid to go to the therapist.
Dad sits down in the chair. He straightens his spine.
I help him do up the leather limb restraints. I make sure that his fingers are making secure contact with the electrodes on the armrests.
I put the warm pound in the coin slot.
‘I didn’t do it!’ he says.
‘Repent! Repent!’ I say.
‘My wife made me do it!’ he says.
‘Any last words?’
He opens his mouth while he thinks of something.
‘If you gotta go, you gotta go!’
Dad says this on long car journeys when I tell him I need a piss.
‘Any better last words?’ I say.
‘And now for the mystery!’ he says.
A few of the kids in the arcade look across from their games. Two boys glance over from the sunken seats of Formula One cars.
My dad is wearing a green short-sleeved shirt and khaki shorts.
‘I sentence you to death by electrocution,’ I say, hitting the ‘High Power’ button.
There is the sound of a heavy steel door being slammed shut and bolted. Then we hear his heartbeat beneath the hum of an electric generator warming up. The volt-o-meter twitches.
He raises his eyebrows and does a this is scary face. He has no idea.
The execution begins. The chair vibrates violently. I can tell that he was expecting something more serene. His sandals flap against his feet. There is the sharp fizzing of static.
Two boys in caps stand next to me, watching.
Dad holds on.
‘Go on, Dad,’ I yell.
His best glasses slip off his nose, on to his knee briefly, before falling to the floor.
One of the boys laughs and points.
‘You can do it!’ I tell him, scampering forward to pick up his specs. I look up at him. He is blinking wildly.
The needle on the volt-o-meter waggles past the halfway point.
The woman who hands out change is watching from outside, smoking a cigarette. She looks bored.
Wisps of steam unfurl from behind his head.
His face has gone red but, to my surprise, he is beaming, his teeth chattering with the force of his grin. His laughter sounds choppy as he bounces on the seat.
I can see the shape of his knuckles, white against the skin.
One of the boys yells: ‘Bang!’
A shaft of smoke bursts out the top of Dad’s head. There is the sound of frying and sizzling.
As the sound of the electric current fades, all that remains is the monotone of my father’s flatlining heart monitor.
‘Yes!’ I shout.
The two boys nod, approvingly, and saunter away.
The smoke rolls along the low ceiling and pours up into the night – a reverse waterfall – like when the kettle boils beneath the plate cupboard.
The seat slowly stops shaking.
Dad’s eyes look glazed. His grip loosens on the electrodes.
His head slumps on to his shoulder. His tongue lolls. His limbs go limp.
I step up to the throne and take his hand in mine, as though I’m about to propose.
‘You’re not dead,’ I say.
His eyes roll back into his head. He groans, long and throaty. His arms rise slowly, his wrists are limp. The experiment has worked. It’s been months, maybe longer, since Dad pretended to be a reanimated corpse. His zombie hands wrap around my neck. They draw me into a hug.
‘You’re not dead,’ I say.
Devolution
It’s Wednesday. We’re sat round the dinner table. Since my treatment, Dad’s returned to work and has become far more communicative at mealtimes. I’m thinking of becoming a psychiatric doctor.
We had honeydew melon with Parma ham for a starter and now we’re eating Moroccan lamb with couscous and sultanas. For the