Damon
I shove three fingers down my throat until I spew six partially dissolved tablets into the toilet bowl. My heart races as I hurry back into the lounge and watch the video footage for a second time.
Like I do when I’m viewing my life events playing out, I’m a spectator as I reverse the car until the door and my attacker collide with a concrete post. Then I drive forwards before pausing, slipping the car back into reverse and knocking him down again. Next, I see myself dragging him into the bin storage area and shutting the doors behind me. The stench of rotting food and death is as strong in my memory as it was in that moment, as I recall the effort it took to hide him inside one of the dumpsters.
I put the phone face down on the coffee table for a moment, hoping this is a hallucination. It’s wishful thinking, though. When I pick it up again, the message is very much real. The static positioning of the camera and the slight reflection from a windscreen suggests this was taken from inside a car. I’m so angry at myself. In my haste to get rid of the body, I didn’t give myself a moment to think of how my attacker got there. If he’d travelled byfoot or by vehicle, and where he might have parked it. Now I know. It was almost directly opposite mine.
Someone has sent this to me for a reason. To tell me they know what I have done. But who? I check the number against those in my phone’s address book, but none match. I brace myself for the response as I call the number, but it doesn’t connect. The call simply ends. There’s no voicemail either.
Think, Damon. Think.Is the car this was filmed from still downstairs? I doubt it, if the footage has been taken from it. But it’s worth checking out.
I hurry down two sets of stairs, through the double doors and into the basement car park. I stand in front of my vehicle, parked in its allocated space, and survey the area, comparing it to the angle of the film. Opposite me are two cars that I cautiously approach. Only the Astra is unlocked. I open the door and take a seat inside, noting a plastic mount on the dashboard in which a camera might fit. This has to be it.
My mum suddenly appears in the passenger seat, but there’s no sign of the young boy who so often returns with her. She now has a hole in her cheek and in her mouth sit red embers, which she begins to spit into the footwell.
‘You died because you found out what Dad did. He as good as admitted it,’ I tell her. ‘I don’t know what you want from me. Please help me to understand you.’
She looks at me with hollow eyes before her neck bends with a series of cracking sounds until her ear touches her shoulder. She diverts attention from me towards something in the door pocket. It’s a book.
I swear I can feel the heat coming from her as I lean over and reach for the book. I recognise the cover instantly.A Little Life. And I know who left it here for me to find.
Chapter 68
Damon
I ring the doorbell of a house in the Shropshire countryside and a housekeeper with a stern expression answers. She invites me inside, leading me into a room that overlooks immaculate gardens. It appears to be a working office. There’s a desk with a dark brown leather chair behind it and I’m surrounded by grey filing cabinets. A trolley next to a mobile gurney contains electrical equipment. Knobs and dials are labelled ‘Pulse’, ‘Duration’, ‘Frequency’ and ‘Current’. There’s a device with the words ‘Sigma EMR’ written across the side. On top of two cabinets are computer monitors and a keyboard. Even to my uneducated eye, much of this equipment looks dated. Now I must wait for the man I’m here to see.
I’ve encountered the name Dr Owen Fernandez-Jones only once before, when Dr Dahl included it in the note he sent to Helena, along with the cassette recordings of our sessions. But it came with a warning, advising her to ‘tread carefully’. What with everything I learned from those tapes, his name must have been pushed to the back of my mind until I had the mental capacity to take it in. And that moment came a few nights ago, during a fitful sleep. It was a welcome distraction. Because each time myphone’s screen illuminates, I’m convinced it’s going to be another video from Laura. She sent that clip of me in the car park and left the book in the car for a reason. She’d commented on it being a favourite of hers when she spotted a copy in my flat. But in the seven days since, she’s yet to respond to my messages.
What the fuck do you want from me?read the last one I sent.
Nothing. It’s as frustrating as it is frightening. I can only assume this is all part of the game. That she revels in the torment of making me wait. Perhaps I should have swallowed those pills after all and brought an end to this chaos. But I didn’t. Because my story isn’t over yet. Not until I help those children and Mum. I owe it to them for what Dad did.
I’ve been trying to take my mind off her by tracking down Fernandez-Jones, which hasn’t been easy. There’s barely a mention of him online, suggesting he paid for his digital footprint to be erased or suppressed by search engines. A red flag appeared in my head. Then after making a post on Threads appealing for help, a user sent me an email address and a link to a biography buried so deeply on the web, I wouldn’t have been able to find it myself. It described Fernandez-Jones as a pioneer in the field of something I’d never heard of.
Electroconvulsive therapy (ECT) is a physical treatment that uses an electrical current to pass through the brain and cause a brief seizure. The procedure is performed under general anaesthesia and affects areas of the brain that control mood, thinking, appetite, and sleep. ECT is often used to treat severe depression, catatonia, or mania. Up to forty per cent of patients can have temporary memory problems while they are having ECT. Rigorous scientific research has not foundany evidence of physical brain damage in patients. The most serious potential long-term side effect is that a patient might forget events from their past. A small number report gaps in their memory about events in their life that happened before they had ECT. Sometimes these memories return fully or partially, but these gaps can also be permanent. Recent research suggests that seven per cent of people report some persistent memory loss a year after ECT.
My heart throbbed as it slowly sank in that I must have undergone the procedure. Was my response to Mum’s death more intense than I remember? Did Helena arrange for me to meet Fernandez-Jones because I met one or more of those criteria? It would explain the gaps and missing events I didn’t even notice had vanished until recently, along with distorted my memories. If Dad and Helena weren’t going to tell me the truth, I thought, perhaps Fernandez-Jones might.
Now, as I await him, vultures have swept in and eaten the butterflies circling in my stomach. I lied to get myself an invitation here, calling myself David Smith and explaining I was a mature student studying psychology at Northampton University. I told him I was fascinated by his pioneering work in the field of ECT used to treat depression. He initially declined my invitation and recommended former colleagues I might speak to. He only agreed when I assured him that anything he said would be for research purposes only and strictly off the record.
Suddenly the door opens, and whatever I was expecting, he is not it. A short, squat man barrels into the room and shakes my hand firmly before throwing himself down on to the chair behind the desk. He must be in his sixties, but the skin of his faceis unnaturally tight. He has a deep, even, ochre tan, sparkling white veneers, and a thick head of hair that could only be the result of a transplant. He looks more like a gameshow host than a doctor. He asks if I found his place okay, then wants to hear a little about my course, and I recall and recount what I’ve read about it on the university’s website.
‘Right,’ he says as he entwines his fingers and stretches them out in front of him until the bones crack. Then he offers me a smile that leaves creases around his eyes. ‘Let’s cut the pretence. Do you want to tell me why you’re really here, Damon?’
Chapter 69
Damon
His recognition has me on the backfoot. I glare at him, unsure of how to respond.
‘I may no longer be practising or teaching, but I still have contacts in academia,’ he boasts. ‘There is no one with the name David Smith enrolled on the university course you claim to be studying.’ I have a feeling he enjoys having the upper hand. ‘I prefer to fly below the radar these days, so David Smith must’ve had a reason to track me down here. I assumed at first you might be a journalist or one of those irritating podcasters or TikTokers, trying to put their own spin on events of the past. Attempting to portray me as a modern-day Frankenstein because I dare to challenge the norm. So I planned to correct their misconceptions. And then I saw you approaching the house and I recognised you immediately. And you are a far more interesting guest.’
‘So you remember me?’ I ask.
He looks me up and down. ‘I rarely forget faces. And you haven’t changed that much.’
‘It’s been sixteen years.’
