Ellipsis

by Nikki Dudley

  Thom doesn’t understand how Daniel could’ve felt this way. Why did he feel so alienated from his family? Why did he feel like he was losing his mind? If anything, this notebook supports the idea that Daniel had actually thrown himself in front of that train. Perhaps the note Thom found is an indirect admission from Daniel that he committed suicide.

  Thom wonders how he will even begin to tell Richard and Aunty Val.

  Thom flips through the notebook, catching glimpses of the same angry scrawl continuing throughout and sometimes, just pages filled with scribbles or others completely heavy with biro covering every inch. Then Thom sees something that makes him freeze. He has reached the last page and written in much clearer ink are the words: property of Thomas Downing.

  First, Thom throws the notebook at the house and it slams against the ground.

  Second, he sobs into his ink stained hands.

  Third, he looks at his hands and wonders when his hands and his brain disconnected and wrote these hopeless words…

  15 The Woman

  Ten minutes later and Thom is no closer to understanding the notebook and how his name, his real name appears in there. Is it possible that Daniel merely took a notebook belonging to Thom and wrote in it himself? Or had Daniel written it and for some reason, put Thom’s name in there on purpose? Otherwise the only other possibility is what he feared: that he wrote it himself.

  He thinks about the words in the notebook like belonging and losing people and alone and they swarm around his head. The words were a shock to read and Thom realises it isn’t so much because Daniel may have written them but because they sum up many of his feelings about his own life.

  Thom does feel alone, even when he is surrounded by others. Since Daniel’s death, he has taken his solitude to extremes and it has been easy to do so, because most people in his life barely notice him or can be bothered to hear how he really feels. And there have been times when he has wondered about Aunty Val, Richard and Daniel, and whether he is an unwanted extra. Other times, he has been sure they all love him.

  It dawns on Thom then, that he can think of a perfect time when he could have written these words. Immediately after his parents died, he suffered from complete shock and distress, not sleeping properly and often finding himself doing things without realising it. He lost grip on life for a while and slowly, Aunty Val and Richard mainly, recovered him. But what if during the time when he’d been so confused, effectively ‘losing his mind’, he wrote this? But it all sounded so adult, so informed – could his young self really have written this?

  It is possible, Thom decides. This would explain his name being written as Thomas Downing, his name given to him by his parents. He took Mansen after their death, when Aunty Val adopted him and as far as he knew, had tried to use it as soon as it was confirmed. The period between him losing his parents and the adoption wasn’t that long, as the authorities had deemed it necessary. It had been perhaps six months to a year at most. So that is the only period where Thom could have written those things, although his confusion and anger remained with him like an ulcer, obvious and sore, for much longer.

  Thom realises, the more he turns it round in his mind, it is possible he still thinks these things even now, he has diluted feelings to the same effect at times. He shouldn’t feel sorry for Daniel at all, he should feel sorry for himself.

  Thinking again of Daniel, Thom wonders if Daniel read this. Did he leave it in the lock up so that Thom would find out how he felt and perhaps to let him know he’d been depressed too? Is this another link to the suicide theory? Or did Daniel just want to upset Thom for some unknown reason?

  Thom wants to believe Daniel’s intentions were good. He can’t quite fathom the other possibility, it makes his head become groggy and makes vomit rise in his throat, like the day he found the note. He wonders whether he should’ve saved the vomiting, as he can’t think of a suitable way to respond to the notebook now. His only option seems to be to amputate a limb in disgust.

  In that moment, as Thom is grimacing about the prospect, he sees the arm peeping out from the side of the house. He wonders if Aunty Val or Richard are hiding there and are too ashamed to come out, having witnessed him crying. He gets to his feet quietly and tiptoes towards the side of the house. Yet as he gets a few yards away, the hand whips out of sight and Thom guesses the owner of it has begun to run.

  Thom chases past the house and into the front garden. He sees his target, a woman with dark curly hair and a skirt dragging behind her, fiddling with the gate. Thom dives towards her and grabs her around the stomach, pulling her to the floor. They make a collective groan as they tumble onto the grass that hasn’t been mowed since the funeral and has grown wild, tickling their bare skin. A piece of grass prods up Thom’s nostril, and he sneezes.

  The woman is limp underneath him and he wonders for a panicked moment if he has knocked her unconscious. Yet when Thom looks down, he sees her blue eyes watching him with unwavering interest and not the fear or guilt he expects. He moves away, scratching his stubble as he separates himself from the woman, suddenly conscious of it. She eases herself up casually, as though she is sunbathing on the beach, not having just tried to escape him.

  He is about to speak when she yanks at her elbow and frowns at a small cut that is slowly oozing blood. She makes a noise of disapproval and looks up at him. For a moment, he feels like a boyfriend who has forgotten to buy her an anniversary present and then remembers; she is the one that owes him an explanation.

  As Thom looks down he notices her skirt has ridden up around her legs and he sees her smooth thigh and above that, the edge of the red knickers she is wearing. Thom gulps on air and looks away again, pretending to check his knee for damage.

  “Thom”, he says after a moment, involuntarily, like a hiccup.

  She is quiet for a moment and then replies, “Sarah”. Thom thinks there is something strange about the way she says it, almost as if she has plucked it out of the air or it is a name she has always loved and has now chosen it for herself.

  Thom manages to smile at her, despite the awkwardness and the lack of explanation. They have only managed two words but Thom feels better. After about thirty seconds of more silence, she smiles back. The gesture has clearly been thoroughly considered, something she doesn’t want to give away easily. Therefore, Thom appreciates it.

  “Hello Sarah”, Thom says, checking to see if she flinches at the name. She does nothing, just continues to stare at him as though he is an alien object that has landed in her path. When he moves his hand towards her, she jumps back. Thom points at her elbow and she understands and offers it to him. His sleeve soaks up a little of her blood and he moves it away, thinking about how much they have already shared in such a short space of time.

  “Why were you crying?” Sarah asks, surprising Thom. He had no idea anyone saw him in the garden and he wonders what she must think of him. He hesitates for a moment, his gut spinning like a Catherine wheel, shooting off in all directions.

  “My cousin died”, he tells her, feeling his tongue struggling with the words. His saliva has turned to wallpaper paste.

  “I’m sorry”, she says automatically, emptily. Thom almost laughs; her voice is like a glacier splitting his body in half. Even stranger than her tone is that he likes it. He is sick of people cooing him like a baby. Sarah is bashing him over the head with a rock instead.

  “Please come in. We can wash that”. He gestures to her elbow.

  Flicking her curls out of her eyes, she nods and Thom pulls her up.

  16 Red Mug

  “How did he die?” I ask as Thom places a mug of tea in front of me. The mug is red and I am instantly intrigued by it. Thom pauses for a second in front of me, unsure what to do with his body, unable to let go of the mug handle. I reach over to lift the mug into my hold, desperate to feel the colour pulse into me but I miss and touch his hand instead. He looks up, almost blushing and then throws himself backwards onto the sofa. I grit my teeth. After all, it isn�
�t him I intended to touch; it is the colour.

  “Hit by a train”, he answers. He doesn’t say Daniel fell, or jumped or was pushed because he doesn’t know. Only I know the truth. In the papers it says the case is still open but there have been no developments. Apparently, they can’t find the footage from the station for that day. So I am still free for now. I am free and I wonder if I care either way.

  “Were you close?” I stare into my mug, without giving him any attention. I fear that looking too closely into his eyes might remind me of Daniel too much. They have the same colour eyes and the way Thom’s lips move when he speaks takes me back to that moment, when Daniel mouthed those words: right on time.

  “I’ve lived here since I was twelve”, he gestures to the room with his hands. “But, we weren’t especially close”, he admits, playing with his knuckle.

  “Why did you live here?” I am wondering aloud and after I ask, I think perhaps ‘normal’ people wouldn’t be so direct. Thom seems slightly stunned for a moment but quickly recovers; as though it is something he has programmed himself to do. I concentrate on separating the strands of my hair and examining them, waiting.

  “My parents died”.

  My head jerks up, my mouth involuntarily jarred open. “Oh God…” I moan; my features running downwards like a painting soaked with water. My stomach is jumping. I can’t believe what I have done to this man. He has experienced enough pain already. Yet I hadn’t thought of anything that day, I just killed Daniel, whether he planned it or not.

  Mum, how can I live with this?

  “Do you believe in God?” he asks softly. I wonder if he is going to tell me he is at peace, he understands that God has a plan and therefore, he is dealing with all these lost people.

  “No”, I say, no explanation.

  “Me neither”, he agrees abruptly. I wonder for a moment why he brought it up. Is it just because I mentioned the word ‘God’? Does he think I am a hypocrite for using the word when I have no belief in the concept?

  Thom takes a gulp of his tea, completely unaware of my paranoid musings and burns his tongue. “Shit”. He uselessly tries to cool his tongue with his hand and sucks in air. He doesn’t notice me moving until I’m beside him. I want to cuddle him, for his parents, for his cousin, for not cuddling Michael. Most of all, right now, I wish it was you. This is the first time I have wanted to perform this action for years and I have no idea why Thom is the person I want to do it with.

  I lift my arms and look at them as though they are not connected to me. Thom notices and forgets about his tongue for a moment, perhaps wondering if I am going to show him my wings or start a puppet show. His tongue still darts in and out of his mouth though, and I am suddenly drawn to it. I am looking at the lips that look so familiar and want to touch them, feel how soft they are.

  I lean towards him and he doesn’t move, curious perhaps. I wonder if he thinks I’m going to tell him a secret or blow on his tongue or spit in his face. His eyelashes flutter uncomfortably. I am a floodlight blinding him. Yet he doesn’t move, even when I press my lips against his. At first, it is a still kiss as though I’m trying to give him CPR but it deepens and my tongue flickers against his for a moment. It feels hot against mine and I wonder if his tongue is burning mine by proxy. His stubble scratches my lips and, as I kiss him, I think I am remembering something… a red bedspread, the stench of lavender clashing with disinfectant… then I forget.

  As I release his mouth from my hold, he uses his hand to stay upright on the sofa. Perhaps he fears he is in danger of simply falling to one side. I can see his lips trying to form words, his throat bulging with speech but he fails and only shakes his head. I start stretching out my curls, not focussing on him.

  “I think God is a comfort blanket for people”, Thom finally says. I have no idea why he is returning to the subject. It feels like the kiss hasn’t even happened.

  “It wouldn’t make you feel better about your cousin…?”

  “Daniel”, Thom reveals, not realising I already know, and adds, “no”.

  “Why not?”

  “Why did you do that?” he asks, almost aggressively and I wonder what is so offensive about my question.

  “What?”

  “Before… the kiss”, he croaks.

  “I don’t know”, I answer, honestly. I draw my legs up to my chest and rest my head on them.

  “I have a girlfriend”. Thom finally remembers.

  “Okay”, I say, surprised by how unaffected I feel.

  “Emma”, Thom emphasises.

  “Okay”, I agree, cold again. I suppose he thinks I should care but I don’t. I don’t have any real feelings for him, I just wanted to touch someone again. It doesn’t matter who he is.

  “Daniel…” Thom says, out of nowhere. “Sarah… You remind me of him, a bit”. Thom’s eyes are wide as though he isn’t the one who made the suggestion.

  “Really?” I smile faintly.

  “You surprise me”, Thom admits; his forehead growing more wrinkled with each word he says. I have no idea why he is telling me this.

  “In a good way?”

  “I hope so”, Thom whispers, his eyes focussed on something in his head. I wonder if he is thinking about what he was reading in the garden, the thing that made him cry. “I’ve only had nasty surprises from Daniel”.

  I am afraid I have ruined this man. Although when I think about it, I remember Daniel’s hint that he planned for me to push him in front of that train. Has he left similar puzzles behind for his family, particularly Thom? Am I meant to confess to save him from this torment?

  For a moment, I nearly say the words. I nearly tell Thom, his lip trembling like he is standing in the snow, it was me. IT WAS ME! I am the murderer who took him away from you. Then I think the word ‘murderer’ is too strong and that can’t possibly be what I am. I just need to look after them. They need me. Someone needs me.

  “You’ll be okay”, I finally tell him and he stares at me hopefully, like when I was a child and you told me the gerbil wasn’t dead, he was just sleeping. And I wanted to believe you so much.

  17 The Red Stain

  When Thom waves to Sarah as she gets to the corner, he is practically in the garden a millisecond later. Yet before the notebook, he shrinks. He takes steps towards it but appears to be moving further away. It looks like a person who has jumped from a building; pages bent and twisted at awkward angles, opened with the words bare like a person’s body ripped open on impact.

  He kneels beside it, a parishioner atoning his sins, a man humbled by greatness. He touches the pages, feels the ink impressions that are harsh and definite and tries to press them flat. Yet, he can’t force them to retreat; they are as strong as the day they were written.

  Thom sags against the back of the house and drags the notebook onto his lap. He smooths down the pages and closes it. Even the cover isn’t familiar to him. It is brown mock leather with a circular pattern moulded onto the front cover. It has a red stain on the back, which means nothing really, as it could’ve come from the lock up where it had been buried underneath a shelf of rubbish.

  Why did he know nothing about this?

  Thom can’t read the words again, not now anyway. He just holds the notebook in his lap and traces the pattern with his fingers until he becomes aware, an indeterminate time later, that someone is in the kitchen. He grabs onto the window sill and hauls himself up, peering in through the net curtains.

  He sees Aunty Val. She is at the kitchen table, carefully counting and stacking her penny collection into even piles. Thom can already see when she will finish, the piles of coins in straight piles across the table and an odds pile in the far corner. Then she will sweep them into her hand one by one and replace them in the jar. Counting the pennies calms her and she keeps them around as a form of comfort. Thom can remember only two times the pennies were counted and taken to the bank. Once, when Daniel decided to go to university and another when Richard wanted a moped.

  The onl
y other times Thom remembers using them is when the three of them used to play bingo together. They’d separate all the coins into even piles (or as close to); each put some in the middle and then drew cards from the deck. Thom always loved to be the caller, it made him feel grown up and responsible. Daniel hardly ever called “bingo!”, even if he had the cards. He never wanted to attract attention but he still played – why? – nobody knows.

  Thom is almost happy for a moment but the notebook grows cold against his hand, stinging him back to reality. His fingers tense around its body. It is a small snake that has slithered through his fingers and frozen in his hold.

  Thom turns the doorknob and flings the door open. As the door flies open, it smashes against the table and the coins shudder, the piles jutting out of shape like vertebrae knocked out of position. Several of the piles spray over and mix with the piles next to them. Thom feels like an artist who has ruined the paints by mixing all the colours together.

  “Sorry”, he whispers, placing the notebook on the table and pushing it towards her with one finger. It presses against the pennies and moves them in unison like one of those machines at the arcade, where you try to get your two-pence to push some money off and create a chain reaction.

  Aunty Val is silent. She is still staring at her fallen pennies. They are parts of her castle, falling down around her. Her mouth is twitching at one side and her hands are flat on the table, as though she is awaiting instructions. So Thom delivers one: “Read it”.

  Aunty Val plants her hands on top of the notebook and plucks it from the demolition, not causing a single penny to move a fraction. Her collectedness makes Thom envy her. Although, he wonders if she can retain it after sampling the contents. Thom waits as she opens the notebook to the first page with writing on, and her eyes begin to scan the words.