Chapter 73 Damon
Damon
Now I watch myself chasing Callum Baird along the corridors of our block of flats. He is showboating, screaming with devilish laughter as he runs. He isn’t taking me seriously. But he should.
‘Help,’ he yells, pretending to be in fear as he runs down the staircases, before sprinting across the estate and towards a tree-lined pathway. ‘The paedo’s son is trying to grab my arse!’
He is faster than me, but I’m no longer the Damon he thinks I am.
I should not be underestimated. I have more determination and more staying power.
He turns as he runs, to see how far behind I am, and I see from his expression that I’m much closer than he was expecting.
We pass a man leaning against a building, a can of lager in his hand who swears when I almost knock into him.
I recognise him now as the man who yelled at me when I revisited the flat all those years later.
Callum leaves the path and runs through some patchy undergrowth.
But as he turns again to see where I am, he stumbles and falls into an adjacent street.
Almost before I can process what’s happening, a van clips him and his body is thrown over the vehicle and he lands on the road.
The vehicle screeches to a halt and the horrified driver hurries out.
It’s my dad.
I’m returned to who I was before I saw red. Still furious but trying to make sense of what’s happened.
I stare at Dad. He looks nothing like he does now. He’s slimmer, his tattoos fresh and his build more athletic. He is as white as a ghost and it takes a couple of seconds for him to register me, before he turns his attention to Callum’s motionless body.
‘I – I didn’t see him,’ Dad stutters. ‘It was an accident.’
I say nothing. He looks behind him and then to the other side of the road, but there are no other cars or pedestrians in sight. Meanwhile, I’m fixed on Callum. Dad has taken his life and it feels like an anti-climax. It should have been me.
‘Help me,’ Dad says suddenly. ‘Take his legs.’
I hesitate, unsure of his plan.
‘Damon!’ he yells and I snap out of my trance. He doesn’t see me slip the scissors into my pocket. I do as he orders, and Dad lifts the boy under his arms before we place him on the path.
‘I need you to call for help,’ he says.
‘Why can’t you?’
He is in tears and his hands are trembling. ‘I’m still on parole and the van isn’t insured. I’ll be straight back inside. Please, go and find someone. Tell them you found him like this. Don’t say we moved him, or anything at all about me. You promise?’
I nod and Dad looks nervously around him.
‘I need to go,’ he says and he starts back towards his van, then turns to look at me.
‘I’m sorry. I’m supposed to protect you, not the other way around.
’ Then he hurries the rest of the way to the van, pulls away and vanishes as quickly as he appeared.
It’s only when he leaves that I spot a silver cigarette lighter that has fallen from his pocket.
I pick it up and keep it for myself – my solitary possession of my dad’s.
Now it’s only Callum and me. I stand over his body, regarding him.
My fury has died down and I see him for what he is.
Skin and bones and a heart that no longer beats.
He is not a threat to me. There are no obvious injuries to his body, with the exception of an angular elbow.
It looks as if he is asleep. But then his eyes suddenly open and I jump.
‘I need help,’ he groans between laboured breaths. ‘I can’t move my legs.’
‘I’ll go get help,’ I say. I’m about to start running when he speaks again.
‘You called him Dad.’
My stomach clenches. ‘It was an accident,’ I say. ‘He didn’t mean to hurt you.’
‘You did this together. I’m going to tell the police.’
‘No, please don’t,’ I say, panicked. ‘I’ll find help. I can make it right.’
‘You’ll never see Mum again,’ he manages to taunt while still struggling for breath. He cannot help himself. Even like this, when his life is in my hands, he is taunting me.
‘She loves me,’ I argue.
‘No she doesn’t. Nobody does.’
No, no, no, I think. I cannot let this happen again. Because if I raise the alarm and he is right, I’ll be alone. I’ll lose everything to him. I will not let him ruin my life any more than he has.
So I lower myself on to him, pressing into his stomach and further constricting his ability to breathe. And for the first time since I’ve known him, he is scared of me.
‘Get off,’ he wheezes.
Then I take the handkerchief he’s humiliated me for using and thrust it into his mouth and deep down the back of his throat.
Now too weak to fight me off, he begins choking on the cloth.
His expression switches from panic, to imploring me to stop and spare him.
But I can’t – I won’t – risk losing everything because of him.
Finally, the boy’s eyes glaze over and the fight leaves his body.
I have murdered Callum Baird.