Beyond the Dark Waters Trilogy

by Graham West

  The phone rang, abruptly interrupting my thoughts. It was Kelly Dawson’s mother.

  “Mr. Adams? I’ve spoken to Kelly. She’s going to try texting her…just thought it might help.”

  I thanked Mrs. Dawson profusely, feeling a wave of warmth towards this woman for her concern. I could hear the scream ringing in my head. The scream that rang out in the night—the look of terror on my daughter’s face. Mrs. Dawson listened as I told her about Jenny’s dream and her reclusive behaviour. We had something in common; we both had teenage girls. Josie might have been the psychologist, but neither she nor Lou knew what it was like to bring up a child, and right now I needed a little guidance.

  “If I was you,” she said softly, “I’d back off. Let her come to you. That’s what I’ve always done with Kelly, and invariably she opens up when she’s good and ready.”

  I thanked Mrs. Dawson again and replaced the receiver, knowing that I could do nothing but wait for Jenny to return. When she did, I’d make her a large cappuccino and a plate of hot, buttered toast. I’d ask no questions. As far as I was concerned, the incident at the graveyard had never happened.

  But by eleven that night, Jenny hadn’t returned. I tried to suppress the fear that was rising within me. My daughter had, after all, walked off in the heat of an argument; she was teaching her father a lesson and she just might stay away long enough to make sure I learned it.

  I didn’t sleep. The whisky did nothing but burn my throat, leaving a thick coating on my tongue that tasted like the hide of a wild boar. I showered and shaved the following morning, taking several swills of mouthwash and brushing my teeth until the sour taste of stale alcohol had been drowned by peppermint.

  The radio presenter was quizzing a caller on his taste in music while I poured myself a fresh orange juice from the fridge. That’s when I heard Jenny’s key in the door. My heartbeat quickened. Say nothing. Remember the plan. A coffee and a plate of hot, buttered toast. Okay?

  There was a welcome sound of footsteps on the stairs. It didn’t matter. I’d take her breakfast up and leave it outside the door—just like a hotel. I’d be her waiter until she was ready to treat me as her father. Then, I’d listen the way her mother listened, and I’d resist the urge to shake her into unconsciousness for being an eighteen-carat little bitch.

  I left the toast and the coffee on a tray outside her door and called through before leaving. It was several minutes before I heard any movement. Jenny stayed in her room for the rest of the day while I continued to serve food and hot drinks, never breathing more than a word to let her know that there was a tray on the other side of the door. My heart ached; it ached for Elizabeth. It ached for Hanna. It ached for Jenny. I longed for my father; I longed for his faith, his ever-present God, because I was useless at coping with life on my own.

  I left a cup of hot chocolate at her door that night before taking to my bed with Bob Dylan’s autobiography. I managed another chapter but the words were lost in a fog. My head ached and my eyes were heavy, yet when I dozed, it was nothing more than a light and fitful sleep. The bedside lamp remained on and the book was still in my hand as the sun rose in a cloudless sky, bathing the room in a warm summer glow. Hanna would have come running to my bedside; “The park, Daddy! Can we go to the park?”

  I wandered downstairs, my eyes still heavy. Why did this feel like the mother of all hangovers when I hadn’t even touched a drink? I went to open the fridge but stopped suddenly. On her fourth birthday, Elizabeth had bought Hanna an alphabet of brightly coloured plastic letters that decorated the fridge door. They reminded me daily of my baby’s love of colour, but now I stood rooted, staring at the words they formed.

  F I N D M E

  It could only have been Jenny. She must have ventured downstairs during the night while I’d slept. Was this a cry for help? Find me? What did she mean?

  I called softly though her bedroom door and waited before tentatively opening it. Jenny was lying in her bed, staring at the ceiling. “Jenny?”

  She turned her head, looking at me with eyes that told me nothing. She was so pale—almost white.

  “I saw your message on the fridge…”

  Jenny frowned.

  “The letters—you spelled out a message.”

  Something inside me froze. My daughter knew nothing about it. I could tell before the words left her lips.

  “What letters?” she asked drowsily. “I haven’t even been downstairs!”

  Back off. Mrs. Dawson’s words had never left my mind. I simply nodded my acceptance and tried to mask the confusion I felt. I told Jenny that I was taking a walk and would be back later that morning. She nodded without a hint of a smile and closed her eyes.

  I walked for several hours, along the maze of footpaths that took me through the acres of farmland stretching from the borders of our suburban haven. I stopped at the old church to spend a half an hour feeding my morbid curiosity. I had become something of an obsessive grave reader. When I returned, Jenny was still in her room. The silence disturbed me. No music, not even the faintest hint of movement. I prayed that Mrs. Dawson was right, and my daughter would finally feel the need to confide in me.

  I continued to play the hotel waiter for the next two days, serving Jenny her food on a tray and grateful that the plates were returned clean. At least she was eating; small mercies and all that. Finally, I found the courage to ask if she was okay, attempting to sound as breezy as I could. Jenny just nodded and flashed me a fake smile that vanished almost before it had registered. Her TV was on but the sound was down. My daughter turned away as if she couldn’t bear to look at me for more than a few seconds at a time. I left her watching the flickering images on the screen.

  The plastic letters on the fridge… I’d resisted the urge to remove them altogether. But on the Thursday morning, after a night of high winds and battering rain, I found they had been rearranged again. A single word.

  H Y P O C R I T E

  I could hear the scream inside my head. I wanted to sweep the letters away and run. It was nine—too early for a whisky, but I needed a drink. I called Josie and set off for The Keys, where Lou made me a strong coffee and sat me down in the corner. Josie slid into the chair opposite and listened as I tried to make sense of the thoughts bouncing around in my head.

  “Well, if it wasn’t Jenny, and it wasn’t you…” She hadn’t felt it necessary to finish the sentence.

  “Yeah, I know—we have a ghost!”

  Josie smiled. “I hate to state the obvious, but you must know in your heart that this is down to Jenny and her state of mind.”

  “She’s not crazy, Josie.”

  I tried to sound casual but failed. I was the typical worried father who had woken suddenly to find he had to start using a skill that had lain dormant for years. Elizabeth had been adept at dealing with our children’s tantrums and moods. I had managed, like most men, to slink into the shadows until the storm had passed.

  “Of course she’s not crazy,” Josie said peaceably. “She’s grieving, she’s confused, she’s crying out for help. Maybe she doesn’t even realise it.”

  I took a mouthful of coffee, almost emptying the cup. Josie sipped hers as if to remind me of how civilised folk took their drink. “I think she may need some professional help,” she said, treading softly across my male ego. “It doesn’t mean that you’re a bad parent. You’re a fantastic dad—really, Rob, you are. But Jenny needs to talk to someone who isn’t so close—someone trained to deal with this kind of stuff.”

  I nodded slowly. Josie was right. An annoying habit of hers. “I’ll look into it.”

  “Maybe I could have a chat. It may be better coming from me.”

  She was right again. I couldn’t even imagine how Jenny would react if I suggested she should see a shrink. I’d be dodging a few flying plates, that’s for sure.

  I hadn’t mentioned the word I’d found on the fridge that morning, and I’d not been able to work out exactly why I was supposed to be a hypocrite. I’d
left Josie, agreeing to keep a low profile around my daughter, but that night, I was wakened by voices coming from her room.

  I raced up the stairs, flinging open the door. Jenny was sitting on the edge of the bed, her face lit by the flickering images on the TV screen, her eyes wild with fear. I stood, frozen, wondering what the hell I was supposed to do and instinctively reached out and turned on the light. The bulb exploded, the noise catapulting Jenny back into the world.

  At first, it seemed as if she didn’t even know who I was, recoiling in fear as I approached.

  “Sweetheart, it’s me!” I sat beside her, tentatively placing an arm around her shoulder. “Jen, we need to talk.”

  There was no reply, but at least she wasn’t pulling away. That had to be a start.

  “These dreams,” I began. “Can you tell me about them?”

  Jenny shook her head. “I’m sorry, Dad.” Her voice was little more than a strangled whisper.

  “You’re seeing Mum and Hanna, aren’t you? Look, don’t worry—I can handle it.”

  Jenny shook her head. “It’s not about them,” she whispered, staring down at her clasped hands.

  I was making progress, and I wanted to push harder for some kind of explanation, but Jenny wasn’t ready. I left her briefly and returned with a cup of hot chocolate. Josie would have been proud of me. Robert Adams, a man who normally stormed over people’s sensitivities in clown’s boots, was tiptoeing around his daughter’s emotions with the grace of a ballet dancer.

  “You know where I am…whenever you’re ready.”

  I left her cupping the mug in her hands and went to bed, opening the Dylan book at chapter nine. I wanted to be awake if Jenny decided to talk, but by three in the morning, my eyes were closing. I looked in on Jenny and was relieved to find her sleeping peacefully. The TV continued to flicker on the rolling news channel.

  ***

  I woke with a start later that morning, realising immediately that I’d slept late. The sun blazed through the window, and I could hear Jenny moving about in her room. It was nine-thirty. I washed and shaved, looking in on my daughter, who was busy surfing on her phone. She shot me an absent smile, and I resisted the temptation to glance over her shoulder, deciding it might be better to leave and make myself a strong coffee.

  The letters on the fridge door caught my eye.

  AA BB CC DD FF GG H JJ KK LL M N OO PP QQ RR TT UU VV WW XX YY ZZ

  S H E I S M I N E

  I stared at the letters. She is mine? Jenny?

  I called Josie from my mobile, standing under the tree at the bottom of the garden. “She is mine? What the bloody hell’s that supposed to mean? Why is she doing this stuff?” I was talking an octave higher than normal, sounding, even to myself, like a chipmunk caught in a trap. Josie was trying to calm me down.

  “Listen, Rob, you mustn’t say anything to Jenny—promise me?”

  “Sure.”

  “This could be nothing more than a game. She might be trying to freak you out!”

  “But why?”

  “Because she’s angry. It may be totally unfair, hun, but she might be blaming you for Elizabeth and Hanna’s deaths.”

  “My fault?”

  “No, hun, I know it wasn’t your fault, but she’s grieving, and grief can twist people’s minds. She’s just a kid—you need to remember that.”

  I sensed that Josie did not want to elaborate.

  “Anyway, if it is a game then she’ll grow tired of it if you just ignore the whole thing. Just keep showing her plenty of TLC.”

  I walked back into the house and poured a coffee. I had a choice. Did I leave Jenny’s message for her to alter in her own time? But then she might think I hadn’t noticed it.

  S H E I S M I N E

  It was an aggressive statement—a kind of hands off—but what the hell was she trying to tell me. Who was she pretending to be? Elizabeth?

  She is mine.

  I slouched back in front of the TV and turned on the BBC’s twenty-four-hour news channel. A political analyst with a face like a squashed tomato was assessing the chancellor’s tax reforms and the possibility of an early election. I killed the sound and turned on the hi-fi.

  It was Frank Sinatra at his best, digitally re-mastered and sounding as timeless as ever. I closed my eyes and let the music wash over me, feeling totally helpless and way out of my depth. I imagined that I was drowning, allowing the water to fill my lungs as I surrendered my soul to the ocean.

  There was nothing I could do but wait until my daughter had worked this thing out, and if there was any counselling to be done then it would be down to the professionals.

  Chapter Five

  Josie called two days later to ask after Jenny, but there was nothing to report. Her mood had changed little, and our exchanges had remained courteous but brief. I’d replaced the bulb that had blown and rearranged the letters on the fridge door; the alphabet had been restored. Jenny ventured down a couple of times to pour herself a glass of milk, looking as pale as the liquid she emptied into Hanna’s plastic beaker. Jenny hadn’t given the letters a second glance.

  I’d left her only to take in some fresh air, returning to a home that was becoming a prison to my daughter. I longed to know what was troubling her, but each time I’d looked in on her, I’d seen something in her eyes that told me to keep my distance.

  Josie was trying to sound upbeat. “Lou wants to know if you two fancy coming over for a meal.”

  I cupped the handset, keeping my voice to little more than a whisper. “I’m not sure. I can’t get Jenny out of her bedroom—I’d have to literally drag her over the doorstep.”

  “It’s worth asking. Don’t worry if she’s not up for it, hun, we’ll understand.”

  Josie was, in her own words, a lapsed Catholic, while Lou was brought up as an Anglican and had spent his boyhood singing in the choir. They were what my father affectionately referred to as God’s prodigal children. But before we had said our goodbyes, Josie had promised to reacquaint herself with the Almighty and pray for me.

  That afternoon, I answered the door to find one of my neighbours standing on the step. She greeted me as if she was relieved to discover that I hadn’t thrown myself under a train.

  “Hi, Mr. Adams. Good to see you! Just called to see how things are going.”

  Caroline Unsworth. I hadn’t seen her for some time but recalled that she worked for the Samaritans. She had a ruddy, farmer’s wife kind of complexion, with a mop of almost stylishly unkempt hair. I invited her in.

  “I hope you don’t mind me calling,” she said, hovering over a chair, waiting for the invitation to sit. “I always think this can be quite a difficult time…people think you are starting to move on…”

  Jenny appeared suddenly at the door. She stared at Caroline and then at me. “What’s going on? Did you invite her?”

  If Caroline Unsworth had become accustomed to dealing with raw human emotion then Jenny had caught her off guard. My daughter glared at me, her eyes red-rimmed and almost manic. Caroline’s jaw dropped. She, too, was staring at me. How have you allowed this to happen?

  “Mrs. Unsworth just dropped by…to see how we were doing.”

  “Well, I’m fine,” Jenny hissed. “If I wanted to call your lot, I would have done it by now, so you two can talk all you want. I’m going back upstairs!”

  “Jenny!” There was an authority in my voice that I barely recognised. “We have a visitor! Don’t be so ignorant!”

  My daughter stared at me. What was that I saw in those eyes? Hatred? No. It was confusion. Confusion and fear.

  Caroline smiled warmly at her as Jenny slumped into a chair without a word.

  “Now, who’s for a coffee?” I asked and left before either had a chance to reply.

  My heart was thumping hard as I strained to hear what was going on in the other room. The sound of a boiling kettle all but drowned the beginning of a stilted conversation.

  “So how have you been, Jenny?”

  “Fine
.”

  “You don’t look fine…”

  Silence.

  “Jenny?”

  “Well, I am fine…”

  I hadn’t wanted my daughter to give Caroline an easy ride. I wanted this rather pleasant professional counsellor to understand that Jenny’s problems couldn’t be resolved with a few well-chosen words, so I waited a while.

  When I walked back into the room, Caroline was sitting on her own.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, looking up wearily. “But it was no use… She’s not ready.”

  I handed her a mug of steaming black coffee with no sugar. “I was advised to give her some space,” I said, feeling vindicated by my daughter’s exit.

  Caroline smiled and sipped her coffee as I recounted the tale of my daughter’s reclusive behaviour—the phone call from Kelly’s mother, the nightmares and the terror I’d seen in her eyes. She nodded, listening attentively. I felt as if I was telling her an old story—a story she’d heard a million times over—that was, until I started telling her about the messages on the fridge door.

  F I N D M E

  H Y P O C R I T E

  S H E I S M I N E

  Caroline looked perplexed. “And she really doesn’t remember anything about it?”

  “Well, if she does, she’s good at acting dumb.”

  “It sounds as if she’s imagining that her mother is talking to her. Maybe that’s who the messages are supposed to be from.”

  “Then why is she asking me to find her? And why is she calling me a hypocrite?”

  Caroline thought for a moment. “Has Jenny been trying to contact her mother?”

  “She wanted to. That’s all I know.”

  “That might explain the find me message“

  “And the hypocrite thing?”

  Caroline smiled sweetly. “That would be between you and your daughter.”

  ***

  I managed another two chapters of Bob Dylan that night, before drifting into some kind of semi-consciousness that was as close to sleep as I could hope for. Maybe it was an inner sense that left me so restless, because at ten minutes past two, I was wakened by the sound of breaking glass.