Then something ominous crawls over her, pinching her skin with its razor-sharp pincers. His vision of the dead boy. If this is allhappening again, it is so unfair. Damon deserves better. And she resolves to do anything within her limited means to protect him.
But deep down, Helena fears it might already be too late. That what Damon thinks he saw might only be the beginning.
That he is going to learn the truth.
Chapter 15
Damon
Night and day, the dead boy appears. He intrudes on my dreams, and when he awakens me, the whites of his eyes shine through the darkness of my bedroom. Sometimes he is a shadow hovering by the window. At other times, he’s leaning over me, his face so close to mine I taste the cold, metallic tang of his blood, as though it has dripped from his mouth into mine. He leaves when he is ready, only ever on his terms.
So once again, I turn to the internet to search for help, for answers – and, failing that, to distract myself. Websites, YouTube, self-help e-books – all in search of a way to make myself remember if the boy is real. But nothing has worked.
I’ve passed sleepless, lightless hours imagining ways I might die, learn more about that boy, then bring myself back to life. At one point, I even found myself in the kitchen, filling the sink with water. The boy wasn’t shrieking or slamming about the room now, but simply watching me in a curious silence as I pulled off my top, let all the air out of my lungs and dunked my head in the water. My skewed logic had suggested that if I could remain underwater long enough to black out, my life might start flashing before me. Then my legs would buckle and I’d fall to my knees on the floor, the jolt bringing me back to full consciousness.
However, my distressingly robust survival instinct meant that each time the panic and the pain became too intense, I’d simply withdraw my head, gasping for air, like a fish in a polluted pond. Three times I tried, and three times I failed. My brain wouldn’t stop fighting against itself. Mentally and physically exhausted after my last attempt, I lay sprawled across the damp floor until I fell asleep.
When I eventually came to on the floor, cold and damp and ravaged by aches, another idea occurred to me. Something a little more logical and that didn’t depend on me pulling off my own journey to death and back. Which is why I am here this morning, standing in a doorway in Northampton’s market square. I’m a few minutes early for my appointment, so I take my third disposable vape from a packet and take a few long puffs. The clouds above are ominously black and the rumbling of thunder is followed by a white streak of lightning over a multistorey car park in the distance. My body twitches with its own answering electric charge of fear. I’ve always had an irrational terror of storms, particularly electrical ones. It’s ludicrous, but I can’t even be around toy plasma globes, the ones where you place your hand on the side of the glass and its electric tendrils follow your movements. They break me out in a cold sweat. Melissa searched online once for what I’m experiencing and apparently electricity-related anxiety is an actual thing. Electrophobia, it’s called. Maybe that should be my Marvel superhero name.
I’m distracted by the ping of a text message from Melissa. It’s a new appointment date for a counselling session at the IVF clinic – followed, if I pass, by blood and urine tests. They need to ensure my DNA isn’t at odds with Adrienne’s, which could lead to genetic abnormalities in our child if she conceives. She has accepted my apology for suddenly ‘falling ill’ during our last session. I blamed it on a bug doing the rounds of my supermarket colleagues. Melissa didn’t seem as convinced by my explanation as Adrienne was, but then, she knows me better.
Thick raindrops appear and I look up to see an office above a betting shop. I press a video doorbell and it isn’t long before I find myself inside a pleasantly decorated office. A woman in her forties greets me. She has a helmet of chestnut-brown hair and I smell mints on her breath.
‘Damon.’ She reaches out to shake my hand. Hers is firm and warm; mine is like ice in comparison. I wonder if she notices. ‘I’m Jodi, it’s lovely to meet you. Can I take your coat?’
She makes small talk as she hangs it up, and a shiver runs through me. The post-death freeze continues. And it’s not only skin-deep, but deep in my bones. I take a seat and I cross my arms and legs.
My defensive body language isn’t lost on her. ‘A little bit unsure of what you’re getting yourself into here?’ she asks softly. I nod. ‘Most of my clients arrive with a little trepidation or scepticism. When all else has failed, hypnotherapy is a lot of people’s last resort.’
Penultimate resort, in my case, but I keep this to myself.
‘Your online inquiry said you want to try and recollect something from your past, but you’re not sure what?’ she continues. She tilts her head a little. ‘A repressed memory, I assume?’
My face heats up. Once I begin talking, I’m aware of how far-fetched this must sound. Especially when I reach the part about the boy. ‘I’m frightened I might’ve had something to do with his death,’ I admit.
She shifts in her chair. ‘Okay,’ she says, and taps her cheek with her index finger as if puzzled by a sudoku. Clearly not a typical inquiry. ‘Well, let me explain a little about what I do. Firstly, I need to clarify that while we can use hypnosis to uncover memories, we can never be sure they’re accurate. Our memories don’t always remain the same and can alter over time. So even if we do locate what you want to find, there is no way of knowing the actual truthof what might have happened to that boy. I’d rather you were aware of this now than leave later, disappointed.’
‘So if I do remember something while under hypnosis, it could bear little resemblance to true events?’
‘Yes. Think of it like watching a TV series or a film that comes with a disclaimer telling you it’s been inspired by real-life events, rather than re-enacting them.’
I feel myself deflating. ‘I’d like to give it a shot anyway,’ I reply, but with a note of dejection.
‘Okay. Make yourself comfortable and let’s try our best, shall we?’
Chapter 16
Damon
Jodi presses a button on a remote control and a window blind unfurls. She points to a lamp in the now dimly lit room. Her voice, already smooth, takes on an even more honeyed tone. She could melt chocolate with it.
‘So Damon, I’d like you to focus on the lamp ahead of you. If you try not to blink, the edges will appear fuzzy and blurred. And as you concentrate on the lamp, only listen to what I’m saying ... think of nothing else but what you hear and see.’
I do as I’m asked.
She continues to talk about relaxing and, despite the self-consciousness I’m feeling, the rhythm of her voice soon accomplishes that. I don’t know how long it takes – two minutes or thirty minutes – but I want to drift off to sleep. She suggests I imagine I’m floating on a cloud with the sun heating my face and body. And for the first time since I drowned, I feel something approaching warmth inside. She gradually counts down from ten to one ...
‘You’re back in the water Damon,’ she says, ‘and this time you’re safe and the sea is as warm as a bath. You know nothing badwill happen to you. If you look around, you’ll see the water is a beautiful turquoise colour, and as it touches your body, it feels like the softest, warmest blanket. As you gently slip under the surface, I want you to tell me what you see when you begin replaying the stories of your life.’
