Loving Danny

by Hilary Freeman

  ‘I’m going to turn the light on, OK?’

  ‘OK,’ he croaked.

  I paused before I pressed the light switch, nervous at the thought of what I might see. But nothing I had imagined could have prepared me for the sight that met my eyes. Danny was crouched on the carpet, his arms folded around his lowered head, his knees pulled into his chest. He was shaking like a young bird that has fallen from its mother’s nest. It made no sense to me, but his jeans were splattered with what appeared to be red paint, and there was a small pool of paint by his feet.

  Then I saw the kitchen knife, lying just a metre away from Danny, and I knew that it wasn’t paint; it was blood.

  Danny’s blood.

  I thought I was going to be sick. My first instinct was to flee from the room, to run outside and pretend that this had never happened, but I couldn’t move. I was cemented to the carpet, my legs numb and heavy, as if they were encased in a plaster cast. Seconds passed. I began to count: one . . . two . . . three . . .

  ‘Oh my God, Danny, what have you done?’ It was my voice, but it didn’t belong to me – the words seemed to come from someone else’s lips. The need to be practical had taken me over, it was driving me to action. I could feel the adrenaline coursing through my body, bringing my legs back to life and making my brain work in double time. Before I knew it I was at Danny’s side, my arms around his back. ‘Where are you hurt? Show me, Danny, show me.’

  He looked up at me, his eyes watery and vacant. He opened his mouth, as if he were about to speak, and then closed it again. Then he sat up and unfolded his arms, and I could see that his left arm was wrapped in a makeshift bandage. He pointed to it. ‘Here,’ he said in a flat voice. ‘Here.’

  ‘Can I look?’ I asked. He nodded. Afraid that I would hurt him, I unrolled the bandage as carefully as I could, praying that the bleeding had stopped. Part of the fabric had stuck to the wound and he winced as I pulled it away.

  There were three gashes on his arm, two of them just scratches, but the third a long, deep slice in his flesh. The whole of his forearm was covered in dark, congealed blood. I didn’t know anything about first aid, but I reasoned that if the bleeding had stopped it meant he didn’t need stitches. He began to sob, deep, throaty sobs that made it difficult to catch his breath.

  ‘I’m sorry, Omi, I’m so sorry,’ he whimpered.

  ‘It’s OK, Danny, it’s going to be OK,’ I said. ‘I’m here now.’

  I fetched the first-aid kit from the bathroom cabinet and cleaned his wounds with antiseptic, bandaging them up again as best I could. Danny let me tend to him in silence, sitting still on the floor until I had finished. All his strength had gone; he was limp, like a giant baby.

  When I had helped him change and put his clothes in the washing machine, I made him a cup of tea and told him to lie on the sofa and sip it slowly. I wished I’d made one for myself too. Now that the shock had passed I felt exhausted and my head was beginning to throb. I wanted to go to sleep, but I knew that I couldn’t. I sat quietly for a while, Danny’s head in my lap, trying to summon up the courage to talk about what had happened. The bloodstain on the bedroom carpet glared up at me through the open door and I knew that later I would have to get down on my hands and knees and scrub it away.

  ‘It wasn’t an accident, was it, Danny?’ I asked, eventually, stating the obvious. We were now sitting side by side on the sofa, not quite touching. The inch of space between us felt like a yard. He shrugged and nodded.

  ‘And the scars on your arm from before, they weren’t an accident either?’

  ‘No,’ he said, hanging his head. He wouldn’t meet my gaze.

  So my half-formed suspicions, my instincts had been right. And yet, having them confirmed brought me no comfort, no relief at all, only more questions.

  ‘I don’t understand, Danny. Please help me understand.’

  ‘It makes me feel better.’

  ‘How?’ I stroked his hair, as much to have something to do with my hands as to comfort him.

  ‘It’s hard to explain.’ He sighed. ‘It’s like – when everything’s getting to me, when I’m angry or upset – it makes the pain go away.’

  ‘But doesn’t it hurt?’

  ‘No . . . yes . . . it’s different. It hurts in a good way because I’m making it happen. It’s a buzz. And when the blood comes, it’s like a release, it’s like all my problems are draining away.’

  ‘I don’t understand. Is it my fault, Danny? Did I make you do it?’

  ‘No,’ he said, his voice cracking with frustration. Still, he wouldn’t look at me. ‘No, Omi, it’s not you. You make everything better. When I’m around you I don’t want to do it, I don’t need to do it. Today, things just got out of control. I’m sorry, I’m really, really sorry.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ I said, putting my arms around him. But it wasn’t OK.

  ‘I love you, Omi,’ he whispered. He allowed me to hug him, but his arms remained limply in his lap.

  ‘And I love you.’

  Those three little words again. What did they mean, exactly? Speaking them required the same amount of breath, the same coordination of my lips and tongue as it had a thousand times before. They still sounded the same, were spelled the same. And yet, the words were now sticky with Danny’s blood – imbued with a heaviness, a significance that they hadn’t possessed before. What had I taken on by saying them? Only one thing was certain: I was in over my head. Way, way over my head.

  Chapter 15

  By the next morning Danny was his usual self again. He didn’t want to talk about what had happened the day before – he seemed embarrassed about it, ashamed even – and he made me promise not to tell anyone. I agreed, reluctantly. I couldn’t help feeling that somebody else should know. Fear, concern, pity, love, insecurity and a thousand other emotions I couldn’t even name all swirled round and round in my head, swamping me like quicksand. I still couldn’t comprehend what he had done; it made no sense. And if I didn’t understand, how could I help him?

  He larked around all day, telling me stupid jokes and trying to engage me in play fights, wrestling me on the sofa and then tickling me until I begged him to stop. Yesterday, he had revealed his weakest, most vulnerable side and now it was obvious to me that he was overcompensating, hoping that if he made me laugh I might forget what I had seen. But I couldn’t forget. Images of his blood on the carpet kept flashing into my mind, each time jolting me with shock. I felt awkward around Danny, scared to say anything that might upset him and send him back over the edge again.

  Mum had been ringing sporadically ever since I’d left home. She’d left pitiful-sounding messages on my voicemail, begging me to call her and sort things out. Guiltily, I had ignored all but the first, to which I’d sent a text in reply: DON’T WORRY ABOUT ME. I’LL CALL WHEN I’M READY.

  That day, after what had happened with Danny, I felt differently. I actually wanted to see her. I needed a hug from somebody who could make me feel loved and protected. So when Danny was in the toilet, I texted her: CALL ME IF U WANT 2 TALK.

  A few seconds later, my phone began to ring.

  ‘Naomi, I’m so glad to hear from you,’ Mum said breathlessly.

  ‘You all right, Mum?’

  ‘Yes, yes. And you?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I lied.

  ‘I’d really like to see you, Naomi. Would you think about coming home this afternoon? I promise you Dad’s at work – it’ll be just the two of us.’

  I considered the offer. On the one hand, I welcomed the idea of some space from Danny so I could get my head straight, but on the other, I was frightened of how he would react and what he might do. I knew he saw my parents as a threat and I didn’t want to risk angering him. And then there was the question of whether it was safe to leave him alone. Would he trust me not to reveal his secret? He had no cause to worry. Much as I needed to talk, I already knew I had no intention of betraying his confidence to Mum. I couldn’t bear the thought of her pitying Danny or thinking of
him as weak or ill.

  ‘Hold on a sec, Mum,’ I said. ‘I’ll ring you back.’

  I knocked on the bathroom door. ‘Danny – would you mind if I went out for a couple of hours? Mum’s just called. I just want to keep the peace, you know?’

  ‘Of course not,’ he said, perhaps too brightly. ‘I’ve had a great idea for a song. You go out and leave me to it.’

  Allowing myself to be reassured, I called Mum back. ‘OK,’ I said. ‘I’ll come over. But just for an hour or so. I’m not staying.’

  Mum was ever so formal when she opened the door to me – she greeted me almost like a stranger. Her jaw was clenched tight with nerves and her hands were sweaty and fidgety. She’s holding back because she’s scared of me, I thought, and I hated myself for it. The longed-for hug didn’t materialise. I wanted to say, ‘It’s me, Naomi,’ but I knew that if I let my guard down everything would all come pouring out. I had to stay strong, for Danny’s sake.

  When we were sitting together at the kitchen table Mum took a deep breath and began a conversation that she had evidently rehearsed several times in her head.

  ‘I understand what you’re going through – far more than you realise,’ she began.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I asked nonchalantly. I sat stiffly, my arms folded on the table in front of me. My body language spoke volumes. ‘Here we go,’ it said. ‘Another lecture.’

  ‘Hear me out, Naomi. I understand, because I’ve been there myself. With someone a lot like Danny, actually. Before your dad.’

  I studied her quizzically. As far as I was concerned, Mum and Dad had been together since the year dot, since the Big Bang. I had never considered that Mum might have had a life – and relationships – before she met him.

  ‘Yeah, right.’ I managed a smirk. ‘What, at nursery school?’

  But she wasn’t smiling. He expression was deadly serious.

  ‘Stay there, Naomi,’ she said. ‘I’m just going to get something.’

  She went upstairs and it sounded like she was moving furniture around. When she returned, looking flustered, she was carrying something in her hands. It was an old cardboard box. She rummaged around in it and pulled something out, which, after a moment’s hesitation, she placed on the table in front of me.

  ‘Look, Naomi.’

  I looked. It was a photograph of two young people, their arms wrapped around each other. The image confused me. At first glance it appeared to be a picture of me, but I didn’t recognise the guy or the hippie-style clothes I was wearing, and I knew I’d never grown my hair that long. It couldn’t be me. And yet, something about the girl’s smile was familiar.

  I looked at Mum, then back at the photograph, and back at Mum again.

  ‘It’s you, isn’t it?’ I cried. I’d never seen Mum like this before – in all the photos she’d shown me she resembled a younger version of herself, with short, sensible, mousy hair, glasses and frumpy clothes. This was a period of her life I knew nothing about.

  She laughed. ‘Of course it’s me. I wasn’t born middle-aged, you know. Who else could it be?’

  ‘Actually, you look like a lot like me,’ I said. ‘In horrible, polyester seventies’ clothes. You look kind of cool, though,’ Seeing her now, it was hard to believe that she had ever been young and pretty and – for the time – fashionable.

  She laughed again. ‘I guess I do. I was about your age there – a year or two older, perhaps.’ Mum sighed. ‘Hunky guy, isn’t he? A bit of a dish?’

  I hated it when Mum spoke like that; it was so embarrassing.

  ‘He’s not bad,’ I conceded. ‘If you take away the purple paisley flares. Nice eyes. Who is he?’

  ‘His name was – and still is, I presume – Dominic Clearey, and,’ she breathed deeply, ‘he was the love of my life.’

  I was shocked. ‘What, more than Dad?’

  ‘No, don’t get me wrong, I love your Dad too. He’s a wonderful man. But Dominic was my first love – my soulmate, as you put it. He was “the one”.’

  ‘Why are you telling me this?’

  ‘Because I love you,’ she said. ‘And I think you need to hear it. I’ve never told anyone this before – not even your dad knows the full story. Please hear me out.’

  I nodded, still sceptical that anything she said would make a difference, but intrigued nonetheless.

  And this, more or less, is the story she told me:

  Once upon a time there was a young girl named Martha Brookes who had an enormous musical talent. People came from far and wide to hear her play the piano and she was awarded with prizes and scholarships to the country’s top music schools. It was generally agreed that one day she would make her name as a world-renowned pianist. She practised hard, passed all her exams with flying colours and, at eighteen, took her place at the Royal Academy of Music.

  But Martha was a dreamer. She dreamed of love and of passion with dark strangers from faraway lands. She was tired of practising hard, of playing the same phrases over and over again until her fingers ached. She longed for escape and adventure.

  One night, at a concert, Martha met a man named Dominic Clearey. Half Irish, half Indian, he was the exotic, dark-eyed knight of her dreams. He swept her off her feet and made her feel that she was beautiful and special. Nobody had ever complimented her on anything but her piano playing and for the first time, she felt alive.

  Dominic introduced her to new types of music, which weren’t played in stuffy concert halls, and he took her to festivals all over the country in his camper van. The more time Martha spent with Dominic, the less she practised the piano. The accolades stopped coming and the invitations to give recitals dwindled, but Martha didn’t care. All she wanted was to be with Dominic.

  When Dominic asked Martha to move in with him she did so without a moment’s thought. Her parents were horrified, but she ignored their advice. She dropped out of college, thinking that she could return in the future, when she was ready.

  It soon transpired that Dominic was not the knight in shining armour she had imagined. He didn’t want her to get a job, but criticised her housekeeping abilities, making her feel that nothing she did was good enough. He went out with his friends nearly every night, rolling in drunk in the early hours. And then, one night, he didn’t come home at all. A few days later he rang Martha to tell her that he’d met somebody else, somebody more beautiful and more interesting. He told her to pack her things and to leave his house.

  Martha was devastated. She returned home to her parents and began practising the piano again. But it was too late. There was no longer a scholarship or a place for her at the Royal Academy; younger and more prodigious talents had usurped her. So Martha put away her dreams of fame and of love, and trained as a teacher.

  A few years later, she met David Waterman, the man who turned out to be her real white knight. He wasn’t as passionate or exciting, but he was kind, hard-working and stable and all he wanted was to make Martha happy. Slowly, she let go of her feelings for Dominic and fell in love with David. Eventually, she married him, bore him two children and now, as everyone knows, they are living happily ever after.

  When Mum had finished telling me her story she looked at the photograph again, smiled sadly, and then put it away in the box.

  ‘Do you see, Naomi? Do you see?’ she asked. ‘I thought Dominic was the only man for me, but in the end he didn’t make me happy. If I hadn’t met him I could have achieved so much more . . .’ She paused, sighing deeply. ‘And, even if things with Dominic had worked out, then I wouldn’t have met your dad and I’d never have had you and Emily.’

  ‘I’m sorry about what happened to you, but what has this got to do with me and Danny?’ I asked. I wasn’t stupid; I knew exactly why she had told me her cautionary tale, and that she wanted me to understand that she had once been young and idealistic, just like me – but I wasn’t ready to accept it. So I played dumb.

  ‘Oh, Naomi, can’t you see? I just don’t want you to make the same mistakes I did.’
<
br />   ‘I’m me,’ I said. ‘And Danny’s Danny. He’s not Dominic. Just because you had a bad experience doesn’t mean I will. I love Danny and I know he loves me.’

  I may have sounded confident, but it was just an act. Underneath, I was a quivering wreck, desperate to tell her how worried I was about Danny, that he hurt himself and that I didn’t know how to help him. I wanted to admit that being with him was no picnic, and that she might even be right about him. But I couldn’t. I’d promised to keep Danny’s secret. How could I betray him now? How could I let him down when he needed me most? I needed to be strong, for both of us.

  ‘I know what I’m doing, Mum,’ I said. ‘I’m old enough to live my own life.’ I almost added, ‘and make my own mistakes,’ but I didn’t want to contemplate that possibility.

  ‘You’re right,’ said Mum. ‘You’re old enough to make your own decisions. But please think about what I’ve said. Take your time, but think about it.’

  ‘All right,’ I agreed. I owed her that, at least. ‘I’ll give you a call in a couple of days.’

  Chapter 16

  I thought about what Mum had told me all the way back to Danny’s. Her account really did seem like a fable or a fairy tale to me – a story with a moral, about someone I had never known. It was ironic, really. I had gone home to see Mum because I needed security and familiarity, and instead, I had found out that there was so much about her that I didn’t know, that I only knew a little bit of her. She had lived a whole, other life in which Dad, Emily and I had played no part. Mum looked the same, spoke in the same voice, smelled of the same rose-tinged perfume, yet she had somehow changed. It unnerved me to realise that even the people you are closest to have secrets – memories, thoughts and dreams that they keep locked away from the world. It made me wonder if it was ever possible to know anyone completely. Even Danny. Could there be more secrets to uncover? The idea made me shudder.