Chapter 67 Damon
Damon
I shove three fingers down my throat until I spew six partially dissolved tablets into the toilet bowl. My heart races as I hurry back into the lounge and watch the video footage for a second time.
Like I do when I’m viewing my life events playing out, I’m a spectator as I reverse the car until the door and my attacker collide with a concrete post. Then I drive forwards before pausing, slipping the car back into reverse and knocking him down again.
Next, I see myself dragging him into the bin storage area and shutting the doors behind me.
The stench of rotting food and death is as strong in my memory as it was in that moment, as I recall the effort it took to hide him inside one of the dumpsters.
I put the phone face down on the coffee table for a moment, hoping this is a hallucination.
It’s wishful thinking, though. When I pick it up again, the message is very much real.
The static positioning of the camera and the slight reflection from a windscreen suggests this was taken from inside a car.
I’m so angry at myself. In my haste to get rid of the body, I didn’t give myself a moment to think of how my attacker got there.
If he’d travelled by foot or by vehicle, and where he might have parked it.
Now I know. It was almost directly opposite mine.
Someone has sent this to me for a reason. To tell me they know what I have done. But who? I check the number against those in my phone’s address book, but none match. I brace myself for the response as I call the number, but it doesn’t connect. The call simply ends. There’s no voicemail either.
Think, Damon. Think. Is the car this was filmed from still downstairs? I doubt it, if the footage has been taken from it. But it’s worth checking out.
I hurry down two sets of stairs, through the double doors and into the basement car park.
I stand in front of my vehicle, parked in its allocated space, and survey the area, comparing it to the angle of the film.
Opposite me are two cars that I cautiously approach.
Only the Astra is unlocked. I open the door and take a seat inside, noting a plastic mount on the dashboard in which a camera might fit. This has to be it.
My mum suddenly appears in the passenger seat, but there’s no sign of the young boy who so often returns with her. She now has a hole in her cheek and in her mouth sit red embers, which she begins to spit into the footwell.
‘You died because you found out what Dad did. He as good as admitted it,’ I tell her. ‘I don’t know what you want from me. Please help me to understand you.’
She looks at me with hollow eyes before her neck bends with a series of cracking sounds until her ear touches her shoulder. She diverts attention from me towards something in the door pocket. It’s a book.
I swear I can feel the heat coming from her as I lean over and reach for the book. I recognise the cover instantly. A Little Life. And I know who left it here for me to find.