by Nikki Dudley
Five minutes pass before she puts it down and gathers her hands together in front of her, looking up at him. “And what is this about?”
“You’ve never seen that before?” Thom snarls, shaken by her lack of concern.
Aunty Val shakes her head and says, “Why? Where did you get it?”
“That’s not important. What’s important is that it has my name in it”. Thom flicks open to the offending page and lets Aunty Val take a quick peek before slamming it shut. “How can that be explained?” Thom demands and wishes she will miraculously have an explanation that will calm him, which will make this whole wild set of events fade into the background and leave him to move on.
“I didn’t know you thought of yourself as a Downing, after all these years”. Aunty Val frowns, showing the first real sign of distress about the notebook but Thom can’t help thinking she has missed the vital point.
“I didn’t write that! Or… I don’t remember writing it”.
“What do you mean Thom?”
“I mean that I found this and I have no recollection of ever seeing it before or writing in it. Now, does that make sense to you?”
“Maybe you wrote it when you were younger”, Aunty Val says plainly. She makes him feel like he has a splinter but is making it out to be a six-inch knife wound.
“I did think of that but I just can’t remember doing this… at all”.
“You were very upset then. You hardly spoke for a month and saw a counsellor”. Aunty Val pats Thom’s hand, dismissively.
“A counsellor…” Thom thinks for a moment. “Oh yes… I did, didn’t I?”
“At least you remember that”. Aunty Val smiles gently, a parent figure trying to encourage a pathetic attempt by her child.
“But why don’t I remember this?” Thom slams his fist against the table and makes some of the coins jump in fright. Aunty Val doesn’t flinch though. He feels bad for acting angrily when he notices the tissue poking out of her sleeve, reminding him of how fragile she still is.
“Did you really feel those things?” Aunty Val ventures, “the drowning, the fear we didn’t love you, all of that...?”
“No”, Thom interjects, “well, I don’t think it was that bad”.
“We always loved you the same”, Aunty Val half pleads.
“I didn’t ask you about that”, Thom dismisses her and looks down to avoid seeing a tear carving its way down her cheek. Before Daniel’s death, he rarely saw her cry. Now, it is a daily event. He can’t handle it; it makes him want to run until his body twists in pain.
“Do you think someone else could have written it?” Thom mutters, still facing the table. There is a moment of definite silence from Aunty Val.
“Who do you mean?”
“I don’t know. Anyone. Someone else”. Thom focuses on her hand that is gripping the edge of the table.
“You’re scaring me Thom”, Aunty Val tells him. “You’ve been very quiet lately and now this. Has Daniel’s death brought up old feelings about your parents?”
“Oh great!” Thom shouts, standing up and sweeping the notebook and coins from the tabletop. There is a sound of clinking and thudding as they hit the floor. “It’s me who’s the crazy one?” Thom spits. “There’s all this shit lying around that I don’t understand and you don’t notice anything because all you do is sit around and wallow for fuck's sake!” Thom doesn’t take a breath. Aunty Val’s jaw has sagged, bringing out the wrinkles in her neck. Thom lowers himself onto the chair again. It has been years since he lost his temper this way.
“I know you’re upset so I know why you did that. I just ask that you give me the same respect”. Aunty Val holds back the tears and gets to her feet. Thom springs up to follow her but her turning to face him cuts him short.
“Please clean up those coins”, she says and strokes the side of his face. Thom grabs her hand and kisses it and she nods, knowing what he means. Thom feels comforted by her but at the same time, sees how her eyes flicker under his gaze.
Thom wonders what Aunty Val would say if he told her all the parts he knew, about the note and the lock up, and whether she would still call him crazy then. Thom also wonders why he doesn’t want to tell her, why he is keeping Daniel’s secret for him, when he isn’t even here to know about it.
18 Red Door
I try to return to my bedsit the evening after I meet Thom for the first time but, standing on the corner, I can make out Michael sitting in a car opposite the building. I am surprised he is wasting his time and partly touched by his presence. I wonder if Doctor Rosey is hovering too but decide she probably has better things to do.
There is no way I can sneak in. Michael has completely cut off my access to warmth and shelter. I have no choice but to make the streets my home for the night. I wrap the scarf tighter and walk in the opposite direction.
I think about Michael sitting in the car. Does it mean he cares about me? Or is he doing it for the good of society? After all, he considers me mentally unstable and probably dangerous. I’ll bet that Doctor’s been stirring up his fears too, putting detonators all over his mind.
It would be so easy to walk over to his car and ask him to help me. It would be so easy to let the doctors take me back to the hospital, keep the door closed 22 hours per day, make me swallow flavourless pills until I forget my identity and forget the sadness that hovers over it.
Yet, I am needed. Thom needs me. His family need me. They don’t realise what I can do for them. Take today for example, I made Thom forget for a moment, I made him come out of his pain and confront something completely different. This is why I know I’m meant to help that family, why I know I have something special to share with them.
Without you, I have to find somewhere to be. You understand don’t you, Mum? I’m not forgetting our family or you.
At the same time, I can’t deny that spending time with them may give me the opportunity to find out more about Daniel. There are so many questions about him that need to be answered. I have made no progress in discovering what he meant when he said those words, before the train smashed him to pieces. In his destruction, all the answers shattered, like a plate thrown against a wall and scattering into dark undiscovered corners. You never find all the pieces when that happens. There is always a shard some place that the eye misses.
Overall, the only thing I know for certain is that I need to be with them. And without thinking, this is where my feet take me. I find myself staring at the house, which looks like an old woman, deflated and sagging. The door is painted red; something I have failed to notice, but the paint is peeling and flaking away in defeat. The curtains are half pulled in some windows and completely open in others. No one cares whether it is day or night. This house is in mourning too.
When I go in there again, I’ll open and shut those curtains for them.
The thought makes me smile as I take residence on the bench opposite them, wrapping my coat around my body. My ankles are exposed and soon become cold but I close my eyes. In the darkness, Daniel wakes up and I start to follow him.
19 Red Scarf
Thom walks down the stairs the next morning, a flash of red stopping him by the hall window. He squints at the figure curled up on the bench opposite the house and instantly starts to run. He fumbles with the door and races across the street, nearly tripping over the rough grass in the front garden.
He reaches the bench, gasping for breath. She is wearing a large overcoat that has fallen open, revealing her bare legs and a few inches of her stomach where her top has ridden up. The blood red scarf is around her neck and trails over the side of the bench, looking as deeply asleep as she is.
Thom kneels down beside her. He considers tucking her curls behind her ears but as soon as he reaches towards her, his arm feels heavy and he lets it drop. Instead, he rests his fingers on the wooden slats, a few inches from her.
“Sarah”, Thom whispers, too quietly at first, then louder a few more times. She begins to rock from side to side, a boat gen
tly nudged by the current. Then as he persists, she shoots up as though he has shot her in the spine.
“Sarah, it’s me”, Thom says, grabbing onto her wrist. She jolts again but exhales heavily when she sees him. After a few moments, she even smiles and Thom feels comforted and cold in the same instant.
Sarah folds her legs towards herself so Thom has space to sit. Thom watches Sarah grasp the scarf in her fist and pull it towards her.
“How are you?” she mumbles. Thom almost laughs at her mundane question.
“I’m fine. And you?” Thom humours her.
“Fine”, she answers, in a tone that is hard to doubt.
“What are you doing here?”
“I came to see you”. She looks at him sheepishly and quickly refocuses on the scarf, pulling at the loose threads at the bottom.
“You did?” Thom leans forward.
“Yes. I just enjoyed our chat yesterday so much”, she says in a voice so flat Thom gains nothing from it. She must mean it though, otherwise why would she put herself in a position where she could be humiliated? All of it is another puzzle. It seems she is just as empty as Daniel. So why does she fill him with so many emotions?
“I like your scarf”. Thom gestures. Her head snaps up instantly.
“You like red?” She turns towards him and presses her fingertips against his arm. He doesn’t answer straight away, enjoying even the minute pressure of her skin against his. He imagines he can feel her pulse beating with his own.
“I love red. It’s very bold”.
“It’s a passionate colour”, Sarah adds urgently.
“Yeah, I guess it is. We associate it with such strong emotions, contradictory ones at that: love and hate”, Thom agrees.
“And sex and blood”, Sarah tags on again and Thom sits back, unnerved by her words. She falls silent and leaves Thom thinking of how she is one of those people who cuts conversations in half, but is not bothered when social interaction is stopped short, like a film paused in the middle.
“You’re wearing the same clothes as yesterday”, Thom mentions.
“So?” She shrugs. It’s a good question, Thom reasons. Why should she have changed her clothes? But then he notices her elbow, still blotted with blood and the grass stains on her knees.
“Did you go home last night?”
“Of course”, she spits out air heavily.
“Where do you live?”
“Fennel Street”, Sarah answers sharply. Thom snakes his hand along the edge of the bench and touches her shoulder. She watches his hand vigilantly, as though it is not connected to Thom and may attack her.
“You look like you stayed here all night. You can tell me, if you did…” Thom squeezes her shoulder. Shaking his hand off, she brings her knees up to her chest.
“I don’t even know you”. Her words are muffled by her knees.
“That’s true but there must be a reason you’re here”. Thom puts his hand between them, his hand making a star against the wood.
“I did stay here last night”, she admits. One of her hands dances along the edge of the bench.
“Why?” Thom asks, trying to catch her gaze. He wants to get closer to her, understand why her honesty makes his blood rush in all directions, causing it to collide and explode like atoms splitting.
“I’m having trouble with my landlord”. She shrugs and he watches her hand, still doing gymnastics on the edge.
“We can’t have you sleeping on the street”, Thom tells her. He reaches forward and grabs her dancing hand, clasping it tight, afraid she might try to escape. Yet she squeezes his hand in return.
“You should stay with me – I mean, us”.
“I can’t. We don’t know each other”. Sarah gives Thom a coy smile.
“Stop saying that”. Thom pulls her to her feet, for the second time in two days.
“Just come inside and meet Aunty Val. She’ll fix you some tea”.
Thom feels her hand spasm momentarily but thinks it is only a reflex.
20 The Mother
I watch her from the hallway as Thom talks in a whisper, explaining my presence. She glances towards the hall a few times and fiddles with her hair and her cardigan, obviously more annoyed she doesn’t have time to fix herself up rather than the fact that Thom wants to invite a complete stranger into her house.
Yet, Thom doesn’t think we are strangers. He likes me. He told me we do know each other. And he’s right. We should be together. We should all be in this house, supporting each other, finding answers about Daniel.
I don’t feel prepared as she walks towards me. I see everything I have observed from afar zoomed in: the cracked texture of her soggy tissue, the separate strands of her wiry hair scooped into a clumsy ponytail, the wideness of her pupils and the crowd of emotions leaving her eyelashes clumped together in a wet huddle.
“Hello Sarah”. She offers me her hand, without hesitation. I take it and her touch is like a blowtorch slicing through my body. I stumble for a second and press against the wall, avoiding her face. If I look into her face…
“Are you okay honey?” the mother asks. She is looking at me like I am her own child or a beloved pet she is about to get put down. My vision finally stabilises and I’m forced to stare into her eyes. It is although I fear she will instantly know my secrets, but she does not. Apart from being full of water and emotion, her eyes are soft, making my feet steady again.
“This is Aunty Val”. Thom smiles, unaware of the turmoil I have just recovered from. This moment is the happiest I have seen him and perhaps the happiest I will ever see him.
“It’s nice…” I splutter, “to meet you”. I realise I am still clutching onto her hand. She is a scaffolding for me but I am aware that I have to let go. Her hand drops to her side and I wonder why she seems fascinated by me, staring and smiling like a cheesy billboard.
“Shall we go into the living room?” Thom suggests. We all go inside and sit down together. Val brings us tea and custard creams. As Val mixes in my two spoons of sugar, I remember you. I smell the perfume you used to wear and how it lingered beside me when you had to go back to the kitchen, having always forgotten to bring the milk.
21 Curls
Her curls are like ribbons of dark chocolate, only blacker. Thom follows them around the room and when they’re not there, he imagines their circular pattern curling into the edge of his view like paper burning, dissolving as quickly as it is seen. Everything seems to look like them too – the shadow of the curtain rings against the light, the winding grain of the coffee table, even the shapes he makes in the sky when he joins the stars together...
Thom doesn’t know why he can’t stop thinking of those curls. Even the few seconds when he manages not to, his thoughts turn to the edge of her red underwear he glimpsed beneath her skirt the day they first met. Then, he gladly returns to the curls before he can begin to blush or think of Emma.
Thom hasn’t spoken to Emma in days, maybe even over a week... It’s been eight missed calls, that’s all he knows. He sits in the kitchen and watches the phone dance around the table until it either stops or plummets to the floor. He would almost feel relieved if it smashed apart but it has remained strong, unlike him. That’s why he doesn’t answer her. He can’t think of anything new to say. He could easily listen to her small talk and pretend to care or he could say “Yep. Still grieving here”. And then what? Would that satisfy her? And for how long?
Emma is far away; a distant planet that he knows exists but has no interest in exploring at present. Knowing she exists is enough. Yet if it’s enough for their relationship, he can’t tell.
In a similar vein, Sarah has become almost a fixture over the last few days. Sometimes he doesn’t notice her at all, only her curls, as though they are a completely separate entity. Perhaps his fascination with her curls is only a distraction from his fascination with her. But he can’t think about that right now either. Thom has to admit though, she has been a comfort. Sometimes he has been sitting in the da
rk without realising it and suddenly the room is flooded with light. Sarah isn’t there but he hears her soft footsteps disappearing from the scene. Thom has ignored his body’s needs at times too and Sarah has carefully deposited food near his door just as his hunger seems to have reached its peak.
Sarah seems to know Thom better than even he does. Yet she keeps her distance. The door to the living room where she sleeps is usually closed with little sound inside, and when she does appear, she helps Aunty Val with the washing or sits on the sofa with her legs pulled up to her chest. She looks like a fugitive, always afraid to be discovered. And maybe she is. He doesn’t even know her; he just wishes he did.
Richard has barely spoken to Sarah. He tells Thom “I’m not sure”.
“Sure about what?” Thom asks and Richard just shakes his head. He is acting like a dog who always barks and growls at someone, with reason or without, no one can ever ask the dog for its opinion. And Richard won’t give Thom one. He can’t mistrust Sarah on such a vague impression from Richard. Although, it’s not like Richard to have a vague dislike for someone, without some foundation at least.
Thom is no closer to Daniel. He often puts out all the objects he found in the lock up on the floor and rearranges them, hoping they will suddenly fit together and unlock something. Yet they don’t. He has re-read the note a million times, until the paper looks a hundred years old, but still it has revealed nothing more than the words written on it. He hasn’t even looked up Mrs Tray yet, the mysterious beneficiary. He will do that soon.
Every morning he wakes up and feels like the world is a rhino sitting on his chest and he loses his determination all over again. It takes him hours to breathe easily again, to function. But tomorrow, he will make some progress. He knows Daniel must make sense to someone and every puzzle must have a resolution. Thom can’t believe that reason will betray him on this one.