Stop it.How long am I going to keep thinking like this? Why can’t I focus on what I have and what lies ahead and not what I almost lost?
Because it’s easier to recall and dwell.
Finally, when the shower is hot enough, I climb inside and close my eyes as the water cascades over my head and down my back.
My tattoos catch my eye. My first was the words ‘Offering Others Direction In Sorrow’across my collarbone, etched there when I was seventeen. I don’t even know what it means. It was a phrase I woke up remembering after a dream in which Mum emerged into my subconscious. I think it might have something to do with the way in which she died. My dreams of her are always vague: she is more of a presence than a participant in any dream event. Her name, Bobbi, runs along my wrist. The rest of my tattoos extend all the way down to my hand. They are all linked together to form a sleeve, made up of drawings and motifs I have doodled or found online. Some remained identical from scraps of paper to skin, while others were finessed by tattooists.
Only when the water temperature begins to cool do I turn off the shower and open the door.
And that’s when I see it.
A deep red pool of blood in the centre of my bathroom floor. And a child’s footprints leading into my bedroom.
Chapter 8
Damon
A hand clamping down upon my shoulder fires the fear of God through me.
When I wheel around, I find only my co-worker Jason, wildly amused by the high-pitched shriek I’ve released. A woman carrying a basket full of children’s clothes on hangers looks me up and down in the supermarket aisle where I’m stationed. I mouth her an apology.
‘Did you hear yourself?’ Jason gasps between howls of laughter. ‘I so wish I’d filmed that for TikTok.’
‘Why are you creeping up on me?’ I snap.
‘I said your name, like, three times. You were miles away.’
‘I was concentrating.’
That couldn’t be further from the truth. In body, I am here. I’m living and breathing, but in my mind, I remain trapped under the waves off Brighton’s coastline.
‘You’re thinking about that kid again, aren’t you?’ he asks. ‘The one you saw in your dream?’
‘It wasn’t a dream.’
‘You gone allSixth Senseon me?’ Pulling an imaginary blanket up to his chin, he trembles and whispers, ‘Are you seeing dead people ... all the time?’
I put my scanner down on my trolley. ‘I don’t think I can see dead people. What I saw was one dead person as my life flashed before me.’
‘So it was a ghost?’
‘I ... I don’t know what it was.’
‘Your brain’s playing tricks on you then, innit? I bet it does all kinds of weird shit when it thinks it’s game over. The last thing my pap told us before the brain tumour screwed him over was that he used to be the king of the Netherlands. Nan said the furthest he’d ever travelled was to Wales, and that was only ’cause he got the wrong train to Newcastle.’
‘Yeah, you’re probably right.’ I pick my scanner up again, eager to abandon this conversational cul-de-sac, and move on to the next aisle wishing I hadn’t told Jason about the boy. I need to keep it to myself. But I was still rattled by the puddle of blood and footprints I thought I saw on my bathroom floor. They vanished when I held my lids shut. At least I didn’t mention to Jason I’m worried I might be responsible for a boy’s death.
I suppose I was hoping for a different reaction from Jason to Melissa’s immediate dismissal. I should’ve considered he is only nineteen and not particularly worldly wise. At least sixty per cent of the workforce here is around his age – either students, teens on gap years, or university graduates biding their time until they find a career. The rest are fifty-plus, either dipping their toes back into the working world after their kids have flown the nest or made redundant from long-term careers and left with little other choice.
And amongst this population, you’ll find people like me: those who took a stopgap job here years ago, then never left. I’m fast approaching my thirties and still filling other people’s trolleyswith click-and-collect orders. This is a job, not a career. I don’t know what I expected from life, but this wasn’t it. However, I’m determined to do better. With our plans to start a family, I need to explore my options and make a move instead of treading water. Poor choice of analogy, I know.
I check my device. I’m taking longer than I should, so I pull myself together. Thirty minutes later, my digital order sheet is empty and I’m making my way through the doors to the warehouse and lining my trolley up against the others awaiting collection. Then I head to the bathroom to pee, checking my phone on the way. Melissa has texted, asking if I want takeout tonight and offers me four options. I choose old favourite Nando’s, and she confirms she’ll order it online and pick it up en route from work.
As I close the bathroom door behind me, an icy chill blasts through me.
I am not alone.
This time, it’s not only a pool of blood on the floor. As clear as day, the dead boy is also here and he’s standing in the centre of it. The hairs on my arms rise as he glares at me, head slightly cocked, eyebrows knitted, mouth open wide. I cannot see his teeth or tongue. Instead, there is only a gaping black hole. I think he is trying to speak but all I hear is a rasping, choking sound. Slowly, his arm unfolds and reaches out to me, as if pleading for my help, like he did when I saw him as I drowned. Blood drips through his fingers, some trickling along his arm like red spider legs.
