I think I recognise the young woman opening the front door to leave Helena’s house. I’m sure I saw her on a previous visit here. She can’t be much older than her mid-teens. I cannot place why there’s something familiar about her when the light makes her irises glint.
‘You’re Damon, aren’t you?’ she asks as she reaches me on the driveway. ‘You’ve been here before, recently.’
I nod cautiously, unsure if this is an accusation. She senses this, because she adds, ‘It’s okay,’ and smiles. ‘I left an envelope out for you that I found amongst some paperwork in Mum’s wardrobe. I’m Sally.’
It takes a moment for what she’s said to register. ‘Helena is your mum?’
‘Yes.’
I had no idea Helena had a daughter and I’m briefly lost for words. But now it’s obvious. She has Helena’s huge smile and high cheekbones, but she’s of dual heritage and her tawny skin glimmers in the late afternoon sun. We weren’t supposed to meet. That’s why her mum kept something so important from me. An image of Melissa comes to mind and I realise it’s a common theme with people I love. Because Helena knows what I’m capable of, I betshe was concerned I might hurt her daughter. Was Sally in the photographs on the fireplace that Helena lay face down?
‘I found the envelope,’ I continue, ‘but there was no sign of your mum. Is she okay?’
Sally’s smile thins. ‘She’s not, no. She had another stroke – well, several, her doctors think.’ My heart sinks. ‘The first was probably soon after you last saw her and it knocked her for six. She was beginning to pull round when she had the second, which took a lot more out of her.’
Is this my fault? Did I put pressure on her? ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ I reply. ‘How is she now?’
Sally shakes her head. ‘She’s been moved from hospital and into a private nursing home. She’s conscious but barely responsive. I can give you the address if you’d like to visit? I know you mean a lot to her.’
I briefly wonder how much Helena has told her about me. Whether Sally has heard the edited, redacted headlines or been told the whole sorry story. Maybe she has listened to those cassette recordings and it’s given her a flavour of who I really was. No, if it was the latter, she’d have run a mile from me by now. I know I would’ve.
Without warning, it happens again. A pulse of energy bubbles under the surface of my skin and sends my thoughts scattering. Now all I want is to knock this innocent girl to the ground and strangle her until the blood vessels in her eyes burst. I can see myself walking through the doors of Helena’s nursing home and clamping a pillow tightly over her face. I imagine being caught by a staff member and finding an object to attack them with, to stave in their skulls.
‘Are you okay?’ Sally asks.
I return to reality with a jolt. She stares intently at me, trying to read me.
‘Um, I’m not sure I am,’ I reply with honesty. Because now the thoughts are so easily and rapidly escalating to urges. And I fear I might not be able to control myself if I am around her for very much longer.
‘Look, I’m leaving,’ she says, to my relief. ‘Why don’t you go inside until you’re feeling better? If Mum trusts you, so do I.’
‘Thank you,’ I say.
But first she takes my mobile number and promises to text me Helena’s nursing home address. I have no intention of visiting her. I cannot guarantee her mum’s safety if I do.
I make my way to the front door with no idea of who I am anymore. No, that’s a lie. I do know who I am. I am him. The version Helena and my dad thought they had erased all those years ago. My grandmother’s words remain steadfast.
It wasn’t safe for you to be out on the streets.
The first thing I spot in Helena’s house is the envelope addressed to me, now on the fireplace. As far as I can tell, each cassette is still present inside. However, knowing they exist is enough to send a wave of anger rippling through me. I don’t want them here. I don’t want them to exist anywhere in this world. So I take them into the garden, prise out a large stone from a crumbling rockery, and start smashing them with the same force I used on poor Daisy’s face. I only stop when the contents of the envelope rattle. At the end of the garden is a gate and I hear movement behind it. Outside, refuse collectors are wheeling away a black bin. I slip the envelope into an as-yet-unemptied container and wait until it’s pulled away.
I return to the house, lock the door behind me and scan the news feeds. The headlines on the BBC, Sky News,Mail Onlineand theGuardianall remain as they were an hour ago. There is no mention of anything related to me. I’ve been lucky so far. But time is my enemy. If I don’t move quickly, what I have planned won’t work.
However, I’m distracted by a scrunched-up ball of paper in the otherwise empty fireplace grate. I pick it out and unfurl it.
When I thought I had everything figured out, I’m caught off guard once again.
Chapter 93
Helena
She has stopped counting how long she has been here. The days are interminably long and the nights drag on even more so. Everything has blended into one infinite nightmare. Lying in a care home bed, unable to move anything but her eyelids when she blinks. Even that is an involuntary reflex action. However, sometimes, when she focuses hard enough, she can hold them closed for a handful of seconds at a time. It’s about the only part of her body and her life she has any control over.
Helena wishes her heart would listen to her brain and begin its descent towards death. Some days she prays for an infection to sweep through her useless frame, undetected by doctors until it’s too late to treat. Or maybe a brand-new superbug that’s immune to antibiotics. Even Covid, pneumonia or a heart attack would suffice ... Anything, as long as it’s fatal. Because she knows there is no coming back from where she now finds herself. Not this time. And that isn’t only based on what she overheard the doctors telling Sally. Helena knows her mind and body are no longer symbiotic. They have formed two separate identities working independently and against one another. And she has had enough of both.
Helena doesn’t like the specialists. They talk to her with loud voices and use oversimplified language, as if they’re trying to explain something to a hearing-impaired child. She wants to remind them she is a grown woman in her late fifties and is perfectly capable of understanding long words and neurological terms despite her circumstances. They discuss her condition with one another, about how the stroke in her brain stem is on the higher end of the spectrum. She wishes Sally hadn’t been the one to find her, lying in a heap on the dining room floor, her knickers soiled and her face drooping half an inch lower than it should be.
She passes the day listening to daytime television, when the staff remember to turn it on. Sometimes they forget and she’ll be drowning in silence for hours. She’ll sing songs to herself, Barbadian folk tunes her father sang when she was a little girl, to help her drift off to sleep. Or she’ll focus all her efforts on trying to move a finger or a toe. No luck, as yet. She will also challenge herself to raise and lower her heartbeat only by concentrating on it. Sometimes it works, but if she goes too far an alarm sounds. A nurse will appear, check on her, then reset the machine and leave.
