And just like that, I find myself recalling with clarity some of the events I saw then – the toys I played with as a child, the people I loved, the places I visited. For the first time in I don’t know how long, I feel something akin to peace. I have found my sanctuary, my place of security where I belong and where the harsh winds can’t reach.
‘And now I want you to think about the red-haired boy,’ she says, her voice remaining unruffled and reassuring. ‘Imagine you’re streaming your life’s events on a television screen. You’re using a remote control to stop and start whenever and wherever you please. What do you see?’
‘It’s daylight and I’m on a path between trees and bushes,’ I hear myself explaining. ‘I see him ahead of me.’
‘What is he doing?’
‘He’s lying on the ground. I’m getting closer and I can see blood coming from his mouth and ears. I think I’m saying his name.’
‘Can you hear what it is?’
I shake my head. ‘No.’
‘What is he wearing?’
‘Light-blue jeans and a T-shirt with a drawing of a surfboard on it.’
‘What else can you see around you?’
‘I hear cars in the distance. I think we’re on a path, close to a road.’
A sense of unease is creeping towards me, cooling the soft summer breeze I’ve grown accustomed to.
‘Look around you, Damon. Are there any signposts or landmarks?’
‘I don’t like this,’ I tell her.
‘It’s okay Damon, remember this is a safe place. Nothing can hurt you.’
Time skips forward because now I’m crouching by the boy’s side. He’s trying to say something but I can’t understand him. I’m trying to pull something from my pocket. A mobile phone maybe? He’s holding his eyes wide open and I can see the fear in them. He lifts his arm and stretches his hand towards me.
I’m aware of my escalating heart rate and a weight on my chest making it increasingly difficult to take anything but short breaths. I try to focus only on what I’m saying and on Jodi’s voice, but now something is muzzling that. Running water, a tap maybe? Though gradually, it grows louder and louder until it is deafening. Then I realise what it is. I’m no longer in warm, turquoise water; I’m deep inside the freezing temperatures of the Channel. I begin to cough, to choke on this memory. I’m drowning again! My lungs are filling up with water and I can’t breathe.
My eyes snap open as I try to get my bearings, then I dash towards the window.
‘Open it, please!’ I beg her and Jodi reaches for the remote control and the blind lifts. I unclasp a catch and now the window is wide open. I lap up the fresh air like a dog poking its head out of a moving car window.
I’m only aware Jodi has approached me when she places her hand on the centre of my back. I flinch and turn quickly, staring daggers at her until she withdraws. I don’t know what’s come over me.
‘Deep, calming breaths,’ she says, trying to mask that she’s a little ruffled by my hostile reaction. ‘In through the nose and out through the mouth. Take as much time as you need.’
I become aware of a tickling sensation at the top of my nostrils, like something is running down the back of my throat. A nosebleed. I pull the handkerchief from my pocket and hold it under my nose while leaning forward to stop myself from swallowing the blood. Then I pinch under the bridge of my nose and wait. A few moments pass before I check the handkerchief. It’s bone dry.
I turn to Jodi. ‘I was almost there,’ I say. ‘I was so close.’
‘Perhaps you aren’t ready.’
If I approached him when he was dying, that would suggest I found him and didn’t hurt him, wouldn’t it? And if it was a phone I was trying to remove from my pocket, then I was trying to call for help? This should reassure me, but it doesn’t. Because the look he has given me while I was under hypnosis and in each hallucination suggests he hates me. And the only reason I can think of for that is if I did something to him. If only I could remember what happened next.
‘I want to try again.’
‘I’m not sure,’ she says hesitantly.
‘Please?’
We return to our seats and she repeats her earlier script. But I’m too wound up to relax. The more I try to concentrate on the orange glow of the lamp and her voice, the less I succeed. Reluctantly, I’m forced to give up, and in frustration I slap my palms down on the arms of the chair. The noise is louder than I anticipate and I apologise.
‘What’s wrong with me?’ I say. ‘Why can’t I remember?’
