Melissa knows what he is asking of her. And she is conscious that if he is so desperate that he’s willing to allow a stranger to take his life in her hands, then he has reached a frightening new level of desperation.
She doesn’t answer him. Instead, she gives serious consideration to contacting the authorities to put the wheels in motion to have him sectioned under the Mental Health Act. However, it’s not as simple as that – there are all sorts of hoops to jump through first, involving mental health professionals, assessments and searches for spare beds. And she knows how determined and stubborn Damon can be if he doesn’t want to do something. If he refuses to go willingly, she can already foresee the complications that will bring. Once again, she will be the one who has betrayed him.
That’s why she finds herself slowly nodding. Even as she’s doing it, she knows it is stupid, irrational, a ginormous risk and completely wrong. She begins to cry. Not only for what is happening to someone she loves so much, but for selfish reasons. She fears motherhood is starting to slip through her fingers with every twist and turn in their relationship. She must find a way to turn the tide before it sweeps him away from her for good.
Chapter 26
Damon
I pull at the collar of my T-shirt when it rubs against my neck. I can only wear T-shirts to work, not collared shirts, so I’ve borrowed some make-up from Melissa to cover the rope burn marks.
I’m on autopilot as I stack the shelves and fill my trolleys with other people’s orders. All I’ve been able to think about is seeing my mum again. It’s hard to put into words what it means because it was as overwhelming as it was intoxicating. She wasn’t even attached to one specific life event; she was simply present, an amalgamation of thousands of repressed recollections, I suppose. I was able to hear the South London lilt in her accent, the faint lisp as she spoke, feel the softness of her fingers as they entwined with mine, I saw how the tip of her nose scrunched when she laughed and smelled the woody scent of her favourite perfume.
I wonder if her return was a one-off until I turn the corner of the aisle and there she is. I stop in my tracks, my mouth agape. It’s the first time I’m seeing her in hallucinatory form and she’s every bit as clear to me as the boy is when I see him. I can’t stop a smile from spreading across my face, but it’s momentary. Because there’s something off about her – and I mean more off than the fact this isall happening in my head. The version of her I saw as I drowned is different to who I’m seeing now. She’s a good few years older, with creases around her eyes and streaks of grey in her ash-blonde hair. Her sharp collarbones protrude from the off-white vest she wears.
Why, after all these years since she died, is she only now coming to me? Does she want to tell me something?
I approach her with caution. No one else can see her but me, yet the shoppers still walk around her, as if she is protected by an invisible forcefield. I’m no more than half a metre away when I stop. I see tiny clumps of mascara sticking together like little dead flies in her lashes. Her lipstick has bled into the skin around her mouth. But there’s something else. Strange wisps of white smoke floating above her head.
I barely have time to address them when the dead boy appears from behind me and walks towards her. ‘What are you ...’ I don’t get to finish my question before he takes hold of her hand. For once, his mouth is closed, and he isn’t scowling at me. His expression is impassive, mirroring hers.
‘They’re here together,’ I whisper, as if saying it aloud will help it to all make sense. Of course,nothingabout this makes sense. How do they know each other? This feels more than something my imagination has conjured up. Like two memories are merging to tell two separate stories with one common denominator. Me. If they are together in death, does that mean they were connected in life?
I return to the wisps of smoke above her head. It’s not cigarette smoke, but another kind of burning. It appears to be coming from behind her. Curious, I follow the trail.
And I wish I hadn’t.
Chapter 27
Damon
I inhale sharply at the sight of Mum’s exposed back. The surface level is a horrifying combination of red, raw, open wounds and blackened flesh. Smoke rises from her as if she is still smouldering.
I clap my hand over my mouth hard to stop myself from yelling, I taste blood. I’ve split my lip. I quickly return to face her, shaking my head in disbelief.
‘What happened to you?’ I gasp.
She says nothing.
I want to wrap my arms around her and hold her tightly, but of course I can’t. I don’t know yet how all of this works, but I do know that much. She isn’t real. All I can do is glare at her.
I’ve never been told the complete story of Mum’s death. I probably could have found out if I’d asked, but I’ve chosen not to. All I know is that she took her own life when I was twelve. And all these years later, it remains an ache I can’t describe. So why would I make it worse by learning all the details?
At the time, it was only her and me sharing a flat, and I assume I must have found her body, which explains why there are so many blanks in my memory. Children often bury memories of abuse,neglect or distress.It’s not uncommon to hide from trauma, the gentle-voiced hypnotherapist told me. But as I stare at Mum here before me in such a terrible state, perhaps it’s time to confront the truth, no matter how hurtful that might be.
There are many moments before she died that I do remember, like being aware we were different to other families. Not because she and Dad weren’t together. A lot of kids on our estate lived with only one parent. But they seemed happy. And Mum – well, she wasn’t. She didn’t smile as often as the other mums and dads did. Long periods could pass when she never smiled at all. And I’d wonder if it was my fault. Perhaps I wasn’t enough to make her happy.
As a young boy I also remember Maud with clarity. She was a regular visitor for much of my childhood – Mum’s special friend who came to stay, often for weeks at a time. A tall, much older, willowy woman with sapling arms, pinched features and eyes like black coals. She was unreadable.
‘Maud’s on her way,’ Mum would warn shortly before she began spending more and more time in her room, or sprawled out on the sofa of an evening, in almost the same position as where I’d left her that morning.
‘How long is she staying for?’ I’d ask.
The answer was always a shrug because Mum never knew.
She’d arrive without luggage, only leaving the flat when Mum did, only ever returning to her own home when Mum was back on her feet. But despite these extended stays, Maud and I rarely spoke. I’d hear them talking behind closed doors, but if I entered the room, they’d fall silent until I left.
As the years passed, I began to sense those impending visits even before Mum announced them. She’d stop doing silly voices when she read me bedtime stories. Playdates weren’t organised with other kids. There’d be zero interest in my days at school.
