Chapter 80 Damon
Damon
I look up at the building ahead of me – the DIY store where Dad works.
I need to tell him what I now know about myself and hear in his own words why he took the fall for Daisy Barber’s death.
Why he sacrificed fifteen years of his life in prison for my behaviour.
But no matter how he answers, I know we won’t see each other again after today.
He deserves a life more than I do. One far away from me and that I cannot taint.
I will leave him to get on with what remains of it.
I stretch out my fingers and wince. I’ve removed the splint from my broken knuckles, but still they nag at me.
And my ribs still ache from when Melissa resuscitated me a month ago.
We haven’t spoken since, but I intend to make things right on that front as well.
One reparation at a time. And if she doesn’t forgive me? I will find a way to make her.
I continue my inventory: I’m still walking with a stoop ever since my grandmother hit me across the back with a shovel.
And the man who attacked me in the car park surely caused some degree of ligament damage to my neck when he tried to wrench me out of my vehicle.
How I’m even still able to physically function amazes me.
The sliding doors to the store sweep aside for me as I make my way inside, hoping I’m not seen by either the security guard or the deputy manager who escorted me out last time I was here.
I’ve decided to approach Dad at his place of work instead of at home again so I don’t cause my grandmother more unnecessary stress. Not that I care about her; she’s a stranger to me. And besides, she strikes me as being a hardy old bird who can take care of herself. Like I can now.
‘I’ve come to see Ralf Lister,’ I say to the young staff member behind the customer service desk. ‘Is he working today?’
‘Can I ask what it’s about?’ she asks hesitantly.
‘He’s . . . my dad.’
She moves towards a microphone and her amplified voice asks a person whose name I don’t recognise to come to the desk. She must have misheard me. I clench my right fist ever so slightly.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘It’s Ralf Lister I wanted.’
She looks me up and down and offers an apologetic smile but says nothing.
Another sudden rush of energy passes through me along with the crackling of static electricity.
With some effort, I overcome the urge to grab her by the collar and slam her face down on to the cash register.
These urges are becoming more frequent and insistent, yet I’m still able to resist them.
Does she thank me for this? No. Instead, we stand in silence until the deputy manager arrives.
There must be a photo of me behind the desk and an order to contact him, not Dad, if I reappear.
He’s gathering himself to speak, but I pre-empt what he might have to say.
‘I don’t want any trouble,’ I begin, and hold my hands up to my chest in mock surrender. ‘I want to talk to him.’
He looks to the assistant, then back at me, and asks me to follow him into the lighting aisle.
And what an accommodating fellow the deputy manager proves himself to be, for there Dad is, waiting for me a few metres away.
His face is bruised and I spot a trickle of dried blood running from his ear to his neck.
Shit. He looks rougher than me. He glares at me, but says nothing.
It’s the deputy manager who clears his throat and speaks.
‘I’m very sorry to have to be the one to tell you this,’ he says to me, ‘but I’m afraid your dad died a couple of weeks ago.’
‘What are you talking about?’ I say. ‘He’s standing behind you.’
But as I point to the space Dad occupied an instant before, I see that he’s vanished.