Chapter Eighteen
In the darkness of the Penny Farthing, she used to try to put Ava Adams aside. Try and bury her beneath a cloak of confidence – pretending that the nerves, the worry, the fear all belonged to another person. A person she could choose not to be. A person she could hide.
But she couldn’t do that with Mr Carter. Not if this was going to work. And so here, now, in this room she was … Ava. Just Ava, with her thoughts knotted, and her breath high in her throat, and her palms damp.
She knew there was an art to knowing when to begin.
An art to finding the precise moment when a subject had stopped thinking of all the small things that rattle through one’s brain – the next meal, errands, tasks done well, tasks done poorly – and would allow themselves to slip into that relaxed state, yet finding it now felt like searching for a speck of glass in an endless sea of sand.
She was rusty. That much she could tell from the way her own heart hammered in her throat – the desperation that seemed to tick through every vein, the constant, endless chatter of her own mind: What if you’ve forgotten how to do this? What if it’s been so long you cannot do it any longer?
Her mother had taught her to be commanding. To be compelling. And yet now as she sat there, across from Mr Carter, she wondered if she knew what either of those words even meant.
But the slowing of his breath gave her hope.
And the metronome kept clicking back and forth, steady and brave.
And so she continued: ‘Nine.’
The chair had become more comfortable somehow.
As though the pillows had become softer.
It felt a little like sinking into a warm bath – the white porcelain bath his mother would have the servants fill in his room upstairs, beside the fireplace.
He could almost feel the water lapping rhythmically up his chest, and he counted each wave.
‘Five …’
Damien couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this warm – and comfortably so.
It was not like overfeeding the fire and then spending the evening sitting closer and further away, sweating and then freezing in equal measure.
Now he hovered at the perfect temperature, Ava’s voice still whispering into his ear.
The water around him rippled, and for a moment he wished he could sit here, in this warmth, forever.
‘One.’
He slipped beneath the water, and looked up. There was something floating on the surface of it – a dark shadow bobbing back and forth.
The boat.
He swam up towards it – feeling the strength in his arms, the surprising ease with which he could slice through the water.
He didn’t feel weak, as he had then. He felt powerful, and sure – and when he broke the surface he could see the boat, rocking gently back and forth, a little further from him than he’d thought.
‘Where are you, Damien?’
‘At the lake.’
He imagined he could feel the warmth of the sun on his face – for he could see it glinting off the water, almost blinding him.
It was hard to get back into the boat, almost impossible to try and drag himself up and into it, but somehow he managed, kicking with all his might until he flopped – soaked and breathless – into the bottom of it.
‘Are you alone?’
A sour panic gripped him. Suddenly he didn’t want to sit up in the boat. He didn’t want to reach for the sides, to pull himself up – but he found he was already doing it. Already squinting against the sunlight to look towards the shore—
‘Yes,’ he said, relief threading through his voice as he stared back at the empty shoreline. ‘I’m alone.’
Not even the ducks had been at the water’s edge that day – and everything around him was eerily quiet, as though he were still underwater. As though everything was distant, and muffled.
‘I can see the house.’ He could see how the wisteria was still shedding – casting a blanket of purple petals beneath the windows, the doors.
‘Is it your house, Damien? Do you live there with your family?’
His mind skirted it, like a horse shying from a shadow. ‘I’m alone,’ he said – though this time he was less sure, and he could hear how his voice shook.
‘You’re alone?’
‘I was alone,’ he repeated. ‘On the lake.’
And then his gaze tracked back to the door of the house, watching how it yawned open on its hinges, and suddenly he wanted to be back in the water. Back in the place where there was no sound but the rushing in his ears – nothing to see but the blueish light above him.
‘I don’t want to do this any longer,’ Damien murmured.
He couldn’t feel the sun’s warmth upon his face anymore, but nor could he feel the solidity of the chair beneath him.
He felt as though he was getting pitched and tossed, back and forth, his stomach roiling as he heard footsteps running towards the shore.
As he heard someone shout for him – the sounds muffled, as though he were still underwater.
And then he heard something else – another voice.
His father’s voice, the way he bit the words through his lips.
It’s your fault.
Your fault.
‘What’s your fault, Damien?’ Ava asked. ‘What can you see?’
He scrunched his eyes shut, until all he could see was darkness. Until it could surround him, envelop him.
‘Nothing,’ he heard himself say. ‘Make it go away.’
He could feel himself straining with the effort to keep his eyes shut, could feel every muscle in his body tense as he fought to keep the darkness around him. For he was safe in the darkness. He belonged in the darkness.
‘Just tell me what you see.’
‘No,’ Damien murmured. ‘Please.’
‘Damien.’ Ava’s voice was still soft, still soothing. ‘You’re safe and well.’
‘Make it go away.’
She began to count him back – and each number was a pull, drawing him closer, as though she had thrown a rope into the roiling, black depths and dragged him forth. Each number was a thread of relief.
‘Three.’
He couldn’t stop himself. He opened his eyes, and watched again as the wisteria moved. As the door yawned open, and now he was further away, he could not see what lay beyond. Only that there was a light there.
Flickering.
‘Two.’ A figure in the doorway. A shadow upon the step, mouth open, calling—
‘One.’
Damien’s eyes flew open, and Ava barely had time to jerk back before he pushed past her, running for the door.