Damon
A young woman takes me by surprise when I turn to walk along Helena’s drive. She is making her way from the house to the street. She looks wary of me and I don’t blame her. I’m hardly a picture of health.
I quietly make my way unannounced into the house using Helena’s hidden key. It’s so silent in here I assume I am alone, until I find Helena in the lounge. She is in her armchair, head bowed, chin resting on the top of her chest. It is deathly silent in here. A chill blows through me as, for a moment, I worry she might have slipped away. I don’t know if I can deal with a second dead body in a matter of days. But to my relief, I hear the faint sound of her ragged breathing. No one in my life seems to remain dead forever.
Well, except for the car park man. At least, Ihopenever to see him again.
I take a moment to really see Helena as she is today. It saddens me to admit how much she has deteriorated. I recall the woman she was and try to imagine who she might have become had the strokes not taken away the life she knew. I find myself thinking about allthe children out there today, desperate and alone as I once was, who have been denied the care she could have offered them.
A part of me wants to admit to her about the man whose life I took three days ago. To offload that, like my dad, I am a killer. That stranger has been almost all I’ve been able to think about as I replay each moment again and again. I still don’t know who he was or why he targeted me. And everywhere I go I’m constantly looking over my shoulder to check if I’m being followed by someone else. In case he wasn’t working alone. Each time I question my response to his actions, though, I return to the same conclusion: I did what I had to. It doesn’t prevent me from feeling guilty for purposely taking a life, but I one hundred per cent believe he was going to kill me. I look at a sleeping Helena again and decide against offloading on her. She doesn’t deserve that burden.
The day after killing him, I watched from inside my car while refuse collectors attached the bin holding his body on to the back of their truck, hoisted it aloft with its lift, and tipped its contents out of sight. The rubbish from the next three bins helped to bury him deeper. I’ve been regularly checking news feeds but, as yet, there have been no reports of bodies found in the Cambridge plant where Northampton’s refuse is transported and sorted. But even if he is discovered, I don’t think there’s any way he can be linked to me. I hope to God this is over.
As Helena sleeps, curiosity takes hold and carries me up her staircase – slowly, as my ribs are still tender – and into the room where I stayed during my brief time here all those years ago. The curtains are closed and all that remains is an empty chest of drawers and two single, unmade beds. As hard as I try, I can’t recall how it felt to be here. It’s all so muddled. I can only assume that, with Mum’s passing, I was as traumatised as I was confused. But the overriding feeling this house offers is of safety. Perhaps it’s why I keep returning to it of late.
I know it’s intrusive, but I push open the door to Helena’s bedroom. Inside is an open wardrobe full of identical blouses, jumpers, trousers, and a rack of flat-soled shoes. The third bedroom contains a cabin-style bed, with a desk below it. Dots from oily putty residue mark the walls where photos and pictures were once stuck. I get the impression this was also someone else’s home, and perhaps not that long ago.
‘You’re back,’ Helena says when I return to the lounge. I jolt as her voice catches me off guard. She shifts in her seat and her bones crack when she stretches her arms before her.
‘My social services report,’ I say as I take a seat opposite her.
‘Have you received it?’
‘Yes. And it hasn’t shed any light on the gaps in my memory.’
She sighs. ‘I suspected that might be the case.’
‘Then why didn’t you warn me?’ I find myself snapping at her. ‘Why did you let me get my hopes up?’
‘Would it have stopped you from applying if I’d told you some of it might be redacted?’
‘No, but it might’ve managed my expectations.’
‘I told you it wouldn’t necessarily give you the answers you want, Damon.’
I lean towards her. ‘My report isn’t the only reason I’m here.’
Helena opens her mouth, hesitates, then closes it again. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she might have an inkling as to what I’m about to say next.
‘My dad.’
We stare at each other in silence as she considers her response.
‘And?’ she asks.
‘He killed Daisy Barber,’ I say. ‘Then attacked her dead body so viciously, her parents weren’t allowed to identify her. And he was also questioned about the death of Callum Baird. But you know this already, don’t you?’
She gives a slow, deliberate nod. ‘Rightly or wrongly, I made a judgement back then not to tell you. You had already suffered so much with your mum’s passing, I thought it was in your best interests not to compound that pain.’
A grudging nod. ‘I understand why you didn’t when I was a kid,’ I reply. ‘But you could have brought it up since. You must’ve known I’d find out eventually.’
‘Damon,’ Helena says calmly, ‘let me ask you the same question I asked you last time. Has the experience of dying three times—’
‘Four,’ I correct.
‘Four?’
‘There was another,’ I reply, as if I had no control over it. ‘Last week.’
