Chapter 27 Damon
Damon
I inhale sharply at the sight of Mum’s exposed back. The surface level is a horrifying combination of red, raw, open wounds and blackened flesh. Smoke rises from her as if she is still smouldering.
I clap my hand over my mouth hard to stop myself from yelling, I taste blood. I’ve split my lip. I quickly return to face her, shaking my head in disbelief.
‘What happened to you?’ I gasp.
She says nothing.
I want to wrap my arms around her and hold her tightly, but of course I can’t. I don’t know yet how all of this works, but I do know that much. She isn’t real. All I can do is glare at her.
I’ve never been told the complete story of Mum’s death.
I probably could have found out if I’d asked, but I’ve chosen not to.
All I know is that she took her own life when I was twelve.
And all these years later, it remains an ache I can’t describe.
So why would I make it worse by learning all the details?
At the time, it was only her and me sharing a flat, and I assume I must have found her body, which explains why there are so many blanks in my memory.
Children often bury memories of abuse, neglect or distress.
It’s not uncommon to hide from trauma, the gentle-voiced hypnotherapist told me.
But as I stare at Mum here before me in such a terrible state, perhaps it’s time to confront the truth, no matter how hurtful that might be.
There are many moments before she died that I do remember, like being aware we were different to other families.
Not because she and Dad weren’t together.
A lot of kids on our estate lived with only one parent.
But they seemed happy. And Mum – well, she wasn’t.
She didn’t smile as often as the other mums and dads did.
Long periods could pass when she never smiled at all.
And I’d wonder if it was my fault. Perhaps I wasn’t enough to make her happy.
As a young boy I also remember Maud with clarity. She was a regular visitor for much of my childhood – Mum’s special friend who came to stay, often for weeks at a time. A tall, much older, willowy woman with sapling arms, pinched features and eyes like black coals. She was unreadable.
‘Maud’s on her way,’ Mum would warn shortly before she began spending more and more time in her room, or sprawled out on the sofa of an evening, in almost the same position as where I’d left her that morning.
‘How long is she staying for?’ I’d ask.
The answer was always a shrug because Mum never knew.
She’d arrive without luggage, only leaving the flat when Mum did, only ever returning to her own home when Mum was back on her feet. But despite these extended stays, Maud and I rarely spoke. I’d hear them talking behind closed doors, but if I entered the room, they’d fall silent until I left.
As the years passed, I began to sense those impending visits even before Mum announced them. She’d stop doing silly voices when she read me bedtime stories. Playdates weren’t organised with other kids. There’d be zero interest in my days at school.
I remember wondering how many of Maud’s visits were my fault. Maybe I made it too difficult for Mum to raise me alone. Perhaps I was the one who had pushed my parents apart. If they were still together, there would be no need for this stranger to intrude on our lives.
Now, in the supermarket aisle, my hallucinations of Mum and the boy are turning their heads as one, the attention of both fixed on me. They open their mouths. The boy’s is still a black hole, and hers emits a puff of white smoke through the gaps in her teeth.
‘Oodis,’ he says. ‘Oodis,’ she repeats.
I’m about to ask them what this means when a customer distracts me with an inquiry about where to find cleaning products, and I point him to the correct shelves. Mum and the boy are gone by the time I return my attention to them.
Soon after my shift finishes, I’m driving towards the fertility clinic and hoping the next time I die I can carry more of her back to the present.
Melissa is already there, waiting for me.
There’s a tension between us which is understandable after what I have twisted her arm to agree to do.
Neither of us mentions it now. The counselling session that follows goes much better than last time – the boy is absent – and I’m told, there and then, that there are no concerns, so I undergo the first in a series of blood tests.
Ninety minutes later, I say goodbye to Melissa, and it’s when I’m making my way back to the car park that I sense him following me again.
The dead boy. I take an outdoor set of stairs to the sixth floor instead of the lift, as I don’t want to be trapped in a confined space with him.
It’s only when I approach my car that I spot him ahead of me, yet I can still hear steps behind me. Is it Mum?
But before I can turn around, something pushes me head first into a wall and I drop to the floor in a daze.