Chapter 26 Damon
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 is all 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, nothing about 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.