‘No!’ I yell at the top of my voice.
The boy suddenly vanishes and I spit out an apology as I hurry into a nearby bathroom where I’m sick into a basin. Then I take deep breaths and rinse my mouth out with cold tap water.
Iknowthe version I saw of him when I was drowning was real. And Iknowthe version I’ve just seen of him is imagined. But for the sake of my own sanity, I need to discover once and for all who he is and what happened to him – alive or dead. Only then might he leave me in peace. And until that happens, I fear he will continue edging me towards the point at which I no longer have any sense of what is real and what isn’t.
Madness, I believe that’s called.
Chapter 12
Damon
I stare at the building from the opposite side of the road. It’s been many years since I’ve been here, but it still feels familiar. It is an unassuming detached house, nestled in a row of identical homes in a nondescript suburban street on the outskirts of London. Above the door is a datestone announcing its 1922 construction. Windows are surrounded by flaking wooden frames.
I hold the daffodils I’ve brought with me in one hand, and with the other I remove a vape from my jeans pocket. I take a long drag before exhaling a strawberry-scented cloud. I quit smoking last summer, but that dead boy has me on edge. Even though nicotine is a stimulant, my skewed logic promises it will calm me down. And buying disposable vapes reinforces the message that I only need a temporary nicotine hit. I slip it back into my pocket and approach the front door, pinning my hopes on its occupant giving me some much-needed answers.
The bell is silent when I press it, so I knock instead. There’s no answer, so I knock again. A faint voice comes from inside.
‘Let yourself in!’ she shouts. ‘You know where the key is.’
She can’t have been aware I was coming, so must be expecting someone else. I crouch to shout through the letterbox. ‘Hi Helena, it’s Damon Lister.’
She doesn’t reply.
I’m about to straighten back up when I spot an out-of-place brick, slightly redder in colour than those surrounding it. I run my hand over it and discover it’s plastic. It springs open when I push it to reveal a key. It unlocks the front door and I make my way along the reasonably bright hallway, and trace my finger through the dust on the surface of a console table. The house smells as if it hasn’t been aired out for some time.
‘Helena?’ I call again. ‘It’s Damon.’
I poke my head around the first open door and find her sitting in an armchair, a book in her hands. It’s calledDead in the Waterby Ed James. I smile to myself. It could also be the title of my autobiography.
‘Damon, how lovely to see you,’ Helena says with surprise. She places the book on an adjoining table and uses the arms of the chair to push herself up and shuffle unsteadily towards me.
This is the first time I have seen my foster mother since Melissa and I invited her to our wedding six years ago. We’ve stayed in touch, but only intermittently. When I texted her once to ask if I could visit, she admitted she was in hospital awaiting an MRI scan following a handful of mini-strokes. Concerned, I told her I could be there by the afternoon, but she said her sister was with her and that she’d be staying with her for a while at Helena’s house as she recovered. Each time I offered to come visit afterwards she had another excuse, and I took the hint that perhaps she wasn’t ready for people. Also, I didn’t want to encroach on her recovery.
I conceal how thrown I am to see how she’s aged. She must’ve been in her early forties when she came into my life, and she was strong in both presence and opinion. The version before me nowis approaching sixty and a sliver of her former self. Her Afro-style, raven-black hair is now almost completely white. Her irises are the colour of faded amber and there are lines below her nose that her lipstick bleeds into. The left-hand side of her face droops ever so slightly. The hands that once held me as I cried are curled like claws. I only realise how skeletal she is when I hug her.
I hand her the flowers I bought from Euston station and she thanks me. ‘Who did you think it was when you said I knew where the key was?’ I ask.
‘Oh, no one really,’ she replies vaguely. ‘A friend who said they’d stop by.’
‘I tried calling before I came but it keeps going to voicemail.’
‘I don’t turn my phone on very often, which is quite cathartic,’ she says. ‘If people want me, they know where to find me. Anyway, how are you?’ She gives me another hug before I can answer. ‘It’s so nice to see you.’
She uses a hand to steady herself against the fireplace. There are a pair of framed photographs on it. Seeming to catch me looking at them, she shifts to obscure them with her reed-thin body.
‘Can I get you a tea or coffee?’ she asks.
I’m thirsty but I don’t want to put her to any trouble. I point to the daffodils. ‘Why don’t I find a vase for these, then put the kettle on?’
She says yes and I leave the room, recalling where the kitchen is. I lived here briefly, soon after my mum’s death. Helena was a stopgap while social services located somewhere suitable for me to remain long-term. She is my life’s true constant. My only link between my hazy past and lately lurid present. I return with two steaming mugs and note that the framed photographs have now been positioned face down. Neither of us mentions it, but it feels as if she is keeping something from me.
Chapter 13
Damon
As I settle into the sofa, Helena asks me about my life and I tell her little has changed. Am I still in touch with anyone at the children’s home, and do I still get the nosebleeds that plagued me as a boy? I answer no to both queries, but tell her that out of habit, I continue to carry a handkerchief. That rag, with two holes in it and my initials embroidered on the corner, is the only keepsake I’ve retained from my childhood.
‘And how is Melissa?’
