Chapter 34 Damon
Damon
‘What’s troubling you, Damon?’ Helena inquires with apparent concern.
‘Why?’ I ask and shift a little in my chair.
‘How many years have we known one another?’
‘Sixteen, or something like that.’
‘So it’s fair to say I might’ve learned a thing or two about you in that time.’
‘I suppose so,’ I concede.
‘I haven’t seen you in a while, and then you appear on my doorstep twice in a few weeks,’ Helena continues. ‘Don’t misunderstand me, it’s lovely to see you and you’re always welcome. But I sense something is on your mind.’
I hadn’t planned to return to her house so soon. But after reliving Mum’s death yesterday, I needed the company of the living. Of someone I could trust.
Once again, it’s her and me, sitting in her lounge.
Every piece of decor in here draws from a palette of muted greys, browns and whites.
It’s as if the colour has been washed from both her and the room.
The heads of the daffodils I brought with me last time hang limply over the rim of the vase on the fireplace.
The framed photographs I couldn’t see properly have vanished completely, leaving blank markers in the dust.
‘There is something on my mind,’ I admit. ‘And it’s them.’
I point to the space behind her, take a deep breath, and explain to her that it’s occupied by Callum Baird, Mum and, now, a little boy perched on Mum’s hip.
I spoke too soon when I thought I hadn’t brought anyone back from my last death four days ago.
This latest addition to my family of hallucinations appeared for the first time early this morning, further chilling my already wintry bones.
He either represents one step closer to the truth, or a further nudge towards being sectioned.
The jury is out as to which. When he appeared, he was alone in the corner of my bedroom, sitting on the floor and staring at me.
Now, he has one arm wrapped around Mum’s back, the other clutching a blue chequered blanket.
He’s no more than six months old. He has a shock of blond hair and a dummy in his mouth.
I check him out for similar burn marks to Mum’s, but he’s uninjured.
I’m an only child, so we’re not related.
I don’t know how he fits into all of this.
Unlike her or Callum, there are no immediate signs this boy is dead until the world around us falls absolutely silent.
Then, all I can hear are the palpitations of his breaths.
They’re normal at first, then gradually turn short and sharp before the gasping begins.
He reaches out his arms towards me in the same way Callum and Mum have done, as if I can help him.
But I am powerless to know what to do. And then he stops breathing and the colour drains from his face.
The more it pales, the more blue veins rise to the surface of his temples.
His cheeks fold in on themselves before the whites of his eyes begin to spot like drops of pink dye in milk.
Finally, his body flops to Mum’s side like a ragdoll.
Tears prick me for what this poor little mite must’ve gone through. I wish I could help him.
Helena turns slowly to see who I’ve become fixated by, but of course she sees nothing. I explain how I’ve died twice since I was last here a month ago, and she nods along with all this as if what she’s hearing is perfectly rational. If she thinks I’m insane, she’s hiding it well.
‘I’ve given this a lot of thought,’ I say, ‘and it’s time I applied to see my case records. I need to find out more about who I am.’
I’m expecting her to tell me that I need psychological help before delving into the past.
‘And what’s prompted this decision?’ she asks instead.
I look away from her to the three figures she cannot see.
I stare at Mum. I literally ache to have her hold me tightly in her arms one last time.
I long to touch her, to fill my lungs with her scent.
But all I can smell around me is charred flesh.
I want her to convince me that everything’s going to be alright, because she is going to make it so.
But if she couldn’t do that in life, I doubt she can manage it in death.
It’s time to stop burying my head in the sand and hiding from the other missing pieces of my past. And I trust Helena to help me.
She has always been there for me. She had me removed from my first children’s home when I was bullied by the other kids, and she visited me regularly in the next place until she was sure I was settled.
She was the closest thing I’ve had to a guardian angel.
‘I need to try and slot the pieces together to see if they fit,’ I say. ‘And it seems obvious the place to start is to read what was written about me.’
I go on to explain how I visited the location of Callum’s murder and found the block of flats where I once lived. And how, in a flash, Mum’s death came back to me.
Helena’s gaze flits to a gold carriage clock on her mantelpiece, then back to me.
Does she have plans? ‘It seems the further you delve into what you don’t remember, the more questions there are,’ she says.
‘And the more danger you’re willing to put yourself in, searching for what you think might be the truth.
Twice you have deliberately tried to end your life in the search for answers. That worries me a great deal.’
‘I didn’t want to remain dead,’ I clarify. ‘I wanted to come back.’
‘But you are aware the odds are against you? Each time you try it, they become steeper and steeper. Many people who’ve been resuscitated even only once have suffered debilitating after-effects with their mental health.
You have now died three times in all. You don’t know what long-term damage that has already done to you. ’
I think of the coughing fits I’m becoming prone to, along with the light-headedness and the racing heart. Let’s not even get started on reanimating the dead.
‘Is the truth worth dying over?’ she presses. ‘And what if you don’t like what you discover? Where will that leave you?’
I don’t know, is the answer.
‘I’m typically an advocate for confronting your past in whatever way you find the most comfortable and that allows you to move forwards,’ Helena adds.
‘But in your case, Damon, I wonder if it might be best to let sleeping dogs lie. I’m concerned that what you might read in your records could have a negative impact on you.
How has seeing your mum or those children benefited you so far? ’
‘Seeing her again and learning the truth . . . it’s . . . it’s hard to explain. It gives me a kind of comfort I didn’t know I was missing. But yes, there’s a longing that also comes with it which . . . hurts.’
‘And the children? Do they draw the same emotions from you?’
‘No. I feel bad for them. I want to help them.’
‘Like I want to help you, Damon. You might only have been in my direct care for a few weeks, but the maternal instinct I feel for my foster children never leaves. I don’t want you to be hurt when you have come so far.’
‘I’m twenty-eight now,’ I remind her. ‘Perhaps it’s time I made my own decisions.’
‘So if you’ve made up your mind, why are you here? You don’t need my permission.’
‘I suppose I want you to tell me I’m doing the right thing.’
She nods slowly and offers a half-smile.
‘You don’t need that. But you’re right, you are old enough to make your own decisions, and I apologise if it sounds like I’ve been trying to put you off.
I have no idea what the report says, but I assume you’ll find an application form to access your records on Lambeth London Borough Council’s website. ’
‘What do you remember me telling you about Mum?’
She hesitates for a beat. ‘So many memories from that time are clouded by my strokes. I wish I could help you.’
‘Try drowning. Works for me,’ I joke, but neither of us laughs.
She looks at the clock again and edges her way forward on her chair, as if preparing to rise. I sense she is drawing this conversation, or my visit, to a close because she’s waiting for someone.
‘Before you leave, Damon, I need you to promise that you aren’t going to risk your life again,’ she adds. ‘I’m positive that’s not what your mum, or any parent, would want from their child.’
‘Okay.’ I nod. ‘I won’t.’
It’s the first time I’ve ever lied to her.