THREE: DAY OF FATHERHOOD

A few hours after that little incident, Beckett sat cross-legged on a hillside that he had zoomed to, looking at the little orb. His back hurt, faintly. There were some strands of green in there, twisting and turning. But nowhere near enough. He shook the little glass ball, annoyed, and watched the essence of goodness bounce and roll inside.

He had several names crossed off of his list—after a morning of slugging it out with muggers, throwing old ladies across roads and teleporting around to people he had sinned against and helping them with the washing up, he felt that he deserved a break. He had come to a realization though; the more emotional and deep his helping was, the more greenness he gained.

So. He had to do things right. He had to be caring and kind and thoughtful and... blah blah de blah. Wasn't this going to be fun? Pursing his lips, Beckett leaned his elbows on his knees and slipped the orb back into a pocket, pulling out the list. He'd decided to start at the top—and so far, quite a lot of the names had been crossed out, though that didn't make him any more of a good person, he supposed. And 'quite a lot' wasn't much in comparison to the hugeness of his list.

You see, the people at the top of the list hadn't really been that hard done by. He'd kicked their puppy or insulted them, but they weren't really that bad; so what he had to do to repay them was something small and stupid, like give their dog a bone (I beg your pardon?) or tidy their living room. He didn't even need them to see him—he just had to make their lives a little easier.

As a man who had spent his entire life being catered for by others, he was not finding this easy. Cleaning up after other people was not something that often crossed the mind of Cutler Beckett, and when it did, it was to tell someone else to do so. Clambering to his feet, Beckett straightened his wig (which—after the explosion, the journeying and constant hard work—was now almost permanently askew, and seemed reluctant to stay on his head) and closed his eyes.

He vanished from the hillside with a popping sound.

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"Tad Bowen? Have I ever wronged you?" Beckett asked. The adolescent in front of him just stared for a moment, as if he couldn't believe his eyes. He'd just been going out into the garden to check on the chicken coops in the morning, and suddenly—there he had been. Cutler Beckett, slightly transparent, leaning on the edge of the coop easily.

"Y-yes," Tad said, trying to hold the stammer in. He failed.

"And... how did I wrong you?" Beckett asked.

"You—you killed my father," Tad said, slowly, "Jim Bowen. He worked for the Company. Remember him?" Beckett did not. But he pretended to.

"Oh, yes... him! Uh, yes, that wasn't really my fault," Beckett said.

"It was your fault. I saw you," Tad glared at him, "I saw you do it!" Beckett was surprised. So this was a man that he had actually killed? Hmmph, he usually got Mercer to deal with that sort of thing. Suddenly remembering Mercer, Beckett wondered what his sin list must look like. True, Beckett had given the orders... but Mercer had done the deed! Ha! He must've gone down by about seven hundred names thanks to Mercer... anyway, back to the matter at hand.

"Oh. Oh dear," Beckett said, trying to force some sympathy into his voice. Suddenly, he noticed a green spark wandering around his pocket. He snatched for it, but it went through his hand. He stared—and realized. He'd just lost a green spark. Desperately, he tried for niceness, and asked in a helpful voice, "Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Can you bring my father back?" Tad asked.

"No. No, sorry. I don't have the powers," Beckett waved an arm airily. His eye still on that green spark, which was on the verge of fading. Beckett chewed on a lip. No! No, don't go! I didn't mean it! Please, just give me another chance! I wont do it again, I swear!

"Oh," Tad looked down sullenly, "I was only seven when you killed my father, you know," he said, reproachfully. Guilt trips didn't work on Beckett; though he attempted to pull a face that looked like it cared.

"Well... I'll... I know," Beckett said, after thinking. He had had to get used to doing things that were nice, or romantic, or thoughtful, to gain extra green sparklies. He liked sparklies. Basically, he was beginning to grasp the idea of doing things with soul (snerk). "I'll... take you to the beach?"

"What?" Tad asked, seeming confused.

"Isn't that what fathers do?" Beckett demanded. Tad blinked, and then nodded, slightly.

"Yes... my father used to take me to Pine Regis beach," Tad said, almost bashfully, "But why would I want you to take me to the beach? You killed him!" he folded his arms as he spoke. Beckett looked around himself. A next-door neighbour was finding Tad's conversation with thin air fairly interesting.

"Because... because I'm reformed, now," Beckett said, eyeing the green spark greedily; it was still there, but only just, "I'm a good person now. And I'm going to take you to the beach!" He grabbed Tad's arm, and then suddenly swooped upwards into the sky, dragging Tad behind him in a sweeping arc, upwards, shooting away over the horizon.

The neighbour dropped his trowel, astonished.

Tad Bowen had just twanged away into the sky...!

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"Please, d-don't do that again," Tad said, breathlessly, from the sand. He had collapsed to the beach, after being dragged through the air for twelve minutes at about fifty miles per hour (which, if my calculations are correct, meant that they had travelled about ten miles—distance equals speed over time! I think...).

"We're here, aren't we?" Beckett said cheerfully, waving his arms around him.

It was the morning, so the beach was somewhat miserable. There weren't many people there, but the sun would be strong soon, and it looked to be a rather nice day. Beckett put his hands on his hips, pleased with himself, as a single green spark lazily moved towards him, and then plopped into the crystal ball. Great! But only one? Looked like he had work to do.

"It was c-cold up there," Tad moaned, dragging himself to his feet at last, and looking around the beach. Beckett looked around, wondering how he was going to do a father-son excursion on super-speed with a boy who wasn't his son.

"Yes, yes," Beckett said vaguely, and then remembered his mission. He whooshed away, took a blanket from a washing line on a shoreside home, the Wembley house, ("I'll put it back!" he snapped to the crystal ball, which somehow managed to look disapproving) and shot back to Tad, wrapping it around him; quite tightly, so he was entombed in the blanket, but he gained a shot of sparklies for keeping the boy warm, so all was well. "What did your father used to do?"

"He took me out across the pier," Tad said, nodding his head towards it, as his arms were pinned to his side by the blanket, which was wrapped tightly around his entire body, save his head. Nodding quickly, Beckett grabbed his shoulder and yanked him towards the pier, flying them both over there in super-quick time.

"Walk, quick!" Beckett urged, pushing Tad in the small of his back and practically racing them both to the edge of the pier, pushing him along from behind. Despite the rushed manner things were proceeding, Beckett still gained sparklies, as Tad was having fun; he looked around, remembering everything—his father, his entire family...

Tad looked out at the horizon, his eyes shining. Beckett boredly looked around, and noticed the sun—the morning would be over soon. The sun was climbing ever higher. How to make this work?

"What did you do now?" Beckett asked.

"We'd usually get toffee apples," Tad said idly, "And talk ab-," Beckett had already grabbed him and pulled him along towards the toffee apple stand. The man behind it was bemused to see a boy wrapped up in a blanket standing there, blinking idly. Suddenly, a toffee apple rose into the air, was shoved into the boy's mouth, and then the boy was off, looking like he was being dragged backwards across the pier—he was doing at least thirty miles per hour.

Strange.

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Sure, Beckett lost a sparkly (that was his name for them now) for stealing a toffee apple, but for giving it to the boy, he gained about five. He pulled out his list, and looked at it. Yes! Names were being crossed out! Tad's name wasn't crossed out yet, though—he would have to up the goodness a little.

Tad, despite being dragged around a beach backwards at the speed of light doing things he used to do with his father, was having a great time. Beckett was really trying! Certainly, it was to save his own skin, but Tad didn't know that. Beckett pushed the wig straight on his head again, as they came to a standstill by the shoreline.

He looked at Beckett expectantly.

"Want to go for a paddle... son-for-the-hour?" Beckett asked, raising an eyebrow and feeling very ridiculous indeed. This whole thing was ridiculous! Completely and utterly absurd! He was searching through his memories for fatherly things to say. So far, he had come up with, "Alright, but if you break your leg, don't come running to me!", "You're not going out wearing that!", "Aye, lad," and "We'll see..." which, of course, meant (and still means) 'no'. And he wasn't too sure where 'aye, lad' came from, either. Scottish dialect was just easy to link with fathers, for some reason.

Actually, his father had always said things along the lines of, "Yes, son," and "No, son," and "Later, son," and little else. Apart from maybe, "When you're older, son," which he was still saying even as Beckett reached the age of seventeen. Which he had thought was a very grown-up age... at the time.

Tad struggled out of the blanket, and looked into the ocean, thinking. He hadn't had a day like this for a long time. He wondered if his mother had realized that he was missing—probably. Then, he looked at Beckett, who appeared to be stifling a yawn, though he quickly smiled when he looked. It was most probably a fake smile—Tad knew this. But at the same time... this was actually fun. Very fun indeed.

"Thanks for bringing me here," Tad said. More green sparklies shot from him towards Beckett, and then into the crystal ball. Beckett looked at it, smiling slightly; it was coming together. He had four and a half days left, and he was making good progress! Perhaps he'd be able to do it...

"That's... alright..." Beckett said, forcing the corners of his lips upwards, and looking slightly uncertain as to why he was there.

Tad smiled.

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"He really did just... fly off into the air!" the neighbour said in a thick Somerset lilt, shaking his head at his wife and scratching his head, "I don't know how to prove it... but he did! The Bowen boy just—he just—he..." the man sighed. His wife patted him on the arm, uncertainly.

"I think you need some rest, dear," she said, not unkindly.

Suddenly, they noticed a shape in the sky. They stared at it for a moment, as it became bigger, and clearer, and then landed in the garden next to them with a thump. Tad Bowen blinked, and then appeared to be pulled to his feet by some invisible force. He was wrapped tightly in a blanket that had stars and pixies embroidered on it. Suddenly, it was pulled off of him, and hung in mid-air.

"Thanks," Tad said, smiling, "It was great. Send my love to my father, will you?" Then he seemed to listen to thin air for a moment, nodding. Then he looked downwards. "For... my father... can I... I mean, can I have a hug?"

He looked at thin air for a moment, and then smiled slightly sheepishly, and wrapped his arms around something that wasn't there. He stood still for a moment, and then nodded, letting go. He looked a little bit teary. He shook his head, and smiled once more, wiping the corner of one eye with a finger.

"Sorry," he said, finally, "And... and good luck, eh?" Suddenly, green sparks shot from the boy's hands, moved towards the patch of air that he was talking to, and vanished.

The blanket suddenly shot away into the sky, as if it had been twanged up there by a very large catapult. The boy smiled and looked down to his feet, as his mother rushed outside, finally seeming to realize that he had arrived. She scolded him, and the two neighbours looked to each other, unaware of the day that a ghost gave a boy his father back for one day—one day that had been crammed into about an hour.

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"The boy had better not have had fleas," a voice muttered in the sky, unheard by anyone but a rather surprised gull.

NB: Pshaw! What a great father Beckett is, I think not. More random stuffs. Sorry if this chapter bored you... ah, Becky's still learning. The other canon characters will enter the story later on, don't worry... oh, and I wish all of you a merry christmas!