I Can See You

by David Haynes

  Joe had gone out after dinner. He’d walked into the village for his nightly game of dominoes at the pub. He said he wouldn’t go, it being Chris’s birthday, but Chris had waved him away. His birthday was the last thing on his mind, besides he knew how much it meant to Joe. Chris had offered to take him but he’d refused the offer, stating proudly that he always walked and the day he couldn’t manage the three mile round-trip would be the same day they put him in the ground. Chris knew better than to argue and he was happy to be on his own for a few hours. Joe wouldn’t leave the pub until closing time, until he’d finished his second pint of Tribute and taken a few quid from the other old boys.

  He tapped the screen on his phone a few times and looked at the screensaver. It was a picture of him, Lou and Ollie on their last week here just over a year ago. Ollie was in the middle and he was holding a crab by its leg. It was the only time they had managed to catch anything during the whole week and that was because Joe had been with them.

  He smiled and put the phone in his pocket. It usually took him three or four days to get used to the silence but it seemed especially loud tonight. He got up from the kitchen table and walked past the stairs, into the small sitting room. There was a small television in the corner, which Joe had only bought to satisfy Ollie, plus a two-seater and an armchair. Neither chairs looked to have been used very much.

  He stood on the threshold and looked in. The last time they came, Ollie had moaned about the lack of channels on the box. Joe had clapped him on the back and told him he wouldn’t have much time for watching it so it didn’t matter. He was right too and Ollie hadn’t missed his daily ration of cartoons in the slightest. How could he? He was too busy learning how to surf and trying to catch crabs.

  It had been a great holiday but even then he could feel the year creeping up on him with unchallenged certainty. Lou had felt it too. Undoubtedly.

  Things had changed since then and not just the subtle mood change, thought process and general despondency which became part of his daily wake-up ritual. No, all of those things had joined together in a grim recipe and made a new human. It was someone he barely recognised. And something new was changing too. He hadn’t quite come to terms with it yet but there was going to be a change in how he felt about his dad.

  He was still his hero but as well as having a flaw, there was now a crack which ran down the length of his memory. It wasn’t very wide but Chris knew if he pulled back the edges and peered inside, he might see a fragment of his own reflection in there. He wasn’t prepared to look inside yet.

  He looked across the room toward the bookcase. It was dark but the moon shone brightly through the hazy coastal clouds. He could see the faint outline of three photo-frames on the shelf. He knew what was in them all. One was Joe and his Lizzy on their wedding day; one was Ollie, Lou and himself; and the other was a picture of Joe and Jack together. He stared at the dark square for a moment and in his mind’s eye, he could see the photograph clearly. Father and son together. Jack in his early twenties, back from university for a few weeks, and Joe beside him. They were both laughing about something, probably one of Joe’s bad jokes, and in the background was... What exactly was in the background? He couldn’t remember where the photograph had been taken because he’d only ever focused on the two men in the foreground.

  He stepped into the room and the faint but pleasant aroma of a real fire greeted him. The fire hadn’t been on since the winter but the smell never left the room. It permeated every stick of furniture and every carpet fibre.

  He pulled the frame down and held it in his hands.

  The two men were little more than shadows but Chris closed his eyes and ran his fingers over each of their forms in the hope it would make them come to life in his mind. The image was black and white but he knew his dad’s chestnut hair held none of the grey flecks it had later in life, like his own now did. Joe’s thick hair had been silver for as long as he’d known him. They both had dimples on either side of their thin-lipped mouths. Joe’s face was a little rounder than Jack’s but other than that, there was no disputing they were father and son.

  He traced their outlines, lingering a little longer on his father’s form before moving away from them. There was landscape of some sort in the background rather than a man-made structure, he recalled that much, but as for where it was...

  An electric shock, or what felt like one, charged up his finger and into his brain. It exploded in a blinding flash and in that moment she was there again. She was inside his head and her eyes were like the gateways to hell.

  “I can see you!” Her voice was deafening.

  Chris opened his eyes and let go of the frame. It hit the floor with a dull thud. Even though his eyes were open, the image was burned onto his retinas and he could still see her floating in front of him.

  “No,” he whispered, breaking free of the paralysis that was rooting him to the spot. He rubbed his eyes, shook his head, and little by little she faded away.

  He took several deep breaths and looked down at the frame. It was just tiredness and stress playing games with him, he knew that, but it had been intense and he found himself not wanting to touch the photograph again.

  “Get a grip.” He spoke louder this time but it didn’t sound confident at all.

  He knelt down and looked at it. The moon lit the two men like a spotlight on stage. They looked so happy together. Joe had his arm around Jack’s shoulder and they were both grinning wildly. He couldn’t see the dimples on their cheeks but he knew they were there, the camera just hadn’t been good enough to pick them up.

  He’d been right about the background. There was nothing except fields behind them. The picture had probably been taken just behind the cottage by his mum. He might have to ask Joe about it tomorrow. He reached out and picked it up. He tutted at himself when there was no replay of what had just happened, stood up quickly and put the frame back before it could. As he reached forward to replace it, moonlight flashed across the picture, illuminating the edge of the photograph. Was that someone standing behind them? He brought it closer. It looked like someone...

  A loud bang on the window beside his head almost caused him to drop the frame again. He looked up and saw a shadow moving about outside. It moved around the side of the house and was followed by a loud bang on the back door. His heart rate had only just slowed down from the incident a couple of minutes ago and now it was racing again.

  “You in there?”

  He recognised the voice immediately and his heartbeat started to slow.

  “On my way!” he shouted out. As he lifted the frame to replace it again, he took one last look. There was nobody else in it, of course there wasn’t. There never had been, it was just a trick of the light. He shot an accusatory glance at the moon and put it back next to the photograph of Joe and Lizzy on their wedding day. He needed a decent night’s sleep but he got the feeling he might need the help of Joe’s Irish pal Mr Bushmills to help him with that tonight.

  *

  “Joe told me you were here.” Pat Bailey stood on the doorstep with a big, stupid grin on his face and a Co-op carrier bag in his fist. “I’ve bought your favourite.” He lifted the carrier bag and shook it to emphasise his point.

  Chris laughed, glad of the company. “Good to see you, Pat.” He stepped aside to let him in but Pat grabbed him by the shoulders.

  “You look more and more like your old man every time I clap eyes on you.” He stepped inside and put the bag on the table. Chris could smell the pub on his breath but he an idea that was how Pat smelled most days.

  “You here for long then?” Pat was already opening cupboard doors looking for glasses.

  “They’re in that one.” Chris pointed at one of the cupboards and opened the carrier bag. Inside was a box containing twelve bottles of Cornish Rattler.

  “We don’t have to drink it all.” Pat put two glasses on the table. “We can leave one for Joe.” He patted Chris on the back, opened the bottles, handed one to Chris and chinked
them together. “Cheers. Not sure why I got the glasses though.” He took a long drink straight from the bottle and sat down.

  “Come on then, what’s happening?” Pat asked.

  Pat had always been like this. He was a force of nature. He had also been his dad’s best friend when they were growing up and had been best man at his wedding. He had spent a lot of time in Joe’s cottage as a boy and Joe considered him part of the family; a son, his only son now. Pat had none of his own family and had never found a woman who was willing to put up with him, but that never seemed particularly high on his agenda.

  Chris took a sip. He hadn’t tasted cider for over a year and it had never been a favourite, but for some reason Pat thought it should be.

  “Not much,” he lied. “I’ve just come down to see Granddad for a few days. A bit of a break.”

  Pat nodded and drained the bottle. “Well, it’s your birthday today so drink up.” He wiped a grubby hand across his bearded chin and slid another bottle toward Chris.

  He caught the bottle but had barely started on the first. “What about you?”

  “Same old. Still doing a bit from time to time but I’ve hung up the lobster pots. Sarah-Jane got sold to some idiot over in Penzance.” He rubbed his chin again. “But you know that bit.”

  Sarah-Jane had been Joe’s boat and it would have been passed on to Jack, had he been interested. Instead, Pat took it on when Jack moved away. Pat had asked Chris to buy it off him when he retired but Chris wanted nothing to do with it, so he’d been forced to sell it to someone else. This had been nearly two years ago but it was clearly something Pat thought worth mentioning again.

  “Give it up, Pat. Can you imagine me in a boat? Sarah-Jane would’ve been smashed to bits by now. It’s better off with someone who knows what they’re doing.” Chris left out the bit about how just looking at the sea scared the hell out of him.

  “You could’ve had it for your lad. I bet he’d love to go out.”

  “Oh well,” Chris replied. He wanted this conversation to be over and his response was purposefully bland. There was no way he would allow Ollie anywhere near a boat.

  They both lifted their bottles and took a drink. This time Chris finished his bottle and opened the next.

  “That’s more like it.” Pat laughed and started peeling the label off his bottle. “Your dad loved a scrumpy.” He pulled the label off completely and rolled it between his fingers. “And he could drink a bit too. In his younger days, he could drink me under the table.”

  Chris smiled. The more Pat drank, the more wistful he usually became and although the stories tended to be the same ones, they were safe. Pat opened one bottle after another in a continual stream. It was as impressive as it was depressing.

  “We got into some bother, your dad and me. It’s a wonder Joe’s got any hair left with all the grief we caused him. Jack had a grey Hillman Minx and the year before he went up to Exeter, we were kings. We went everywhere in that car, sometimes with a couple of other lads in the back and sometimes, if we were lucky, a couple of girls, but mostly just the two of us. I remember the summer just before he went off. We were both supposed to be helping Joe with his pots but I don’t remember a lot of work going on. I certainly don’t remember too many early starts. We did enough to pay for a tank of petrol, a couple of pints and a packet of Embassy between us. Then off we’d go, just driving around, up and down the coast, filling the car with smoke and meaningless bollocks. We were kings. We were invincible.”

  Pat stopped talking and Chris saw a flash of something pass over his face. Was it grief, pain or just old age? He was seventy-three years old, the same age his dad would have been.

  “Have you been up to see him yet?” Pat asked.

  “Not yet,” Chris replied. “I’ll go up tomorrow.” What had been left of his dad, when they found him, was buried in the cemetery just outside the village. He hadn’t gone the last time they were here but Lou had gone with Joe and put flowers down. He’d ask Joe to go with him tomorrow. He could visit Lizzy at the same time. He finished another bottle and put it down. The alcohol was speeding through his blood, making him feel tired.

  “Listen Pat, I’m...”

  Pat stood up and downed another bottle. He belched loudly and said, “I know, Joe told me not to keep you up.” He looked at his watch. “If I’m quick I can make it back for last orders.”

  Chris walked to the door and opened it. “Good to see you, Pat. Take care of yourself.”

  Pat stepped outside and turned. “He loved you. He really loved you.”

  Chris nodded and with that Pat walked away. He held his arm up and shouted over his shoulder as he disappeared into the darkness. “I’ll see you before you go, lad.”

  Chris shouted back. “Take it easy, Pat!”

  He closed the door and looked at the dozen empty bottles on the table. He’d had three so somehow Pat had managed to drink nine bottles. It looked like Pat’s drinking had gone to a different level. He very much doubted whether his dad could drink Pat under the table now. He doubted whether anyone in the village could.

  He cleared the bottles off the table and stared at the balled-up labels Pat had pulled off. He hadn’t seemed to get any pleasure from the cider, it was just one bottle after another until they were gone and then so was he. It was just coincidence that Chris had called time because Pat would have been leaving anyway. If the man wasn’t an alcoholic, he was as close as possible. There was no way his dad would have become like this. No way.

  He yawned. Joe didn’t need anyone waiting up for him and he was exhausted anyway. The cider might just have done the trick. He left the kitchen light on and walked upstairs to bed. Tomorrow he would go with Joe to put some flowers down and maybe have a walk around the village. The tourists would be long gone so it would be quiet.

  Things had changed today. He’d never held resentment for his mum, that was too strong an emotion to describe how he felt, but there had always been a feeling that she was in some way to blame for how distant his dad grew toward the end. She wasn’t to blame at all, he knew that now. It was quite the opposite. She had tried to help and support him.

  Nobody had told him about the note. Not because they wanted to keep it a secret but because they wanted him to hold onto his dad as a hero, and not someone for whom life was too much. Chris lay in the darkness and listened to a fox screeching in the distance. There was still so much he didn’t know about the man. Things he would probably never know now, but as painful as it had been to see the suicide note, it made a horrible sense. It completed a missing part of the jigsaw. The picture wasn’t just of his dad, it was also of himself.

  He closed his eyes and let sleep drag him away from his thoughts. He didn’t have the energy to think about it tonight. And he certainly didn’t have the strength to keep pushing the image of the woman away; the woman with eye sockets that led straight to hell. She was in his head now and for some reason she wanted to be involved.

  Chapter 7

  Chris had already started boiling water for the eggs when Joe got back from his walk. Joe looked startled when he walked through the door.

  “Morning.” He looked straight at the pan. He was very particular about the consistency of the yolk and Chris had no intention of disappointing him.

  He lowered the eggs into the water and started the timer on his mobile. “Five minutes, Granddad, and not a second more.”

  “Good lad.” Joe sat down at the table.

  Chris turned his attention away from the eggs. “I was thinking we could go up and see Dad this morning?”

  “You want to go up there?” He sounded surprised.

  “I think I need to. I think it’d be good for me,” Chris said. Joe’s expression was difficult to read. “Unless you’ve got something else on? We could go...”

  “No, no, that’s fine by me. I’ll pick some violets from the garden for Lizzy.”

  Chris popped the bread down in the toaster and poured the tea. Joe looked tired this morning but th
at wasn’t surprising since he was over ninety and had been out until way after Chris had fallen asleep. He had to hand it to the man, he was as fit as a fiddle. Joe added,“And tonight I’ll let you drive me up to The Queen’s. It’s curry night, my treat for your birthday. Two for a tenner.”

  “Sounds good.” He turned around. “Pat came round last night. He was half-cut by the time he got here.”

  Joe slurped his tea and sighed. “That lad likes his pop a bit too much. He’s a worry.”

  Chris took the eggs out of the water and put them into cups. “Well, he put nine bottles of Rattler away while he was here. He was like a factory.” He quickly buttered the toast and put the plates down on the table.

  Joe looked at his plate. “That better still be runny.” He picked up his spoon and knocked the head off the egg. “Not bad.”

  They ate their breakfast in silence. Chris looked up once or twice for a sign from Joe. It was only a boiled egg but it wasn’t as tasty as one of Joe’s.

  *

  Chris drove slowly up the lane toward the village. The telephone conversation with Ollie and Lou had been fraught. There was no animosity from Lou but she was clearly struggling. Ollie had wet the bed again and was upset about it, but he’d also been up two or three times in the night crying. Lou told him that on the second occasion, Ollie walked into their room screaming. He’d been in a trance or sleepwalking and when she’d finally managed to get through to him, he wouldn’t go back in his own bed for a long time.

  Chris felt terrible. He felt selfish and guilty but above all he felt like a failure. He said he was driving home immediately, and he’d meant it too, but Lou had told him that if he did she would take Ollie to her parents’ house. Was this how it had been between his mum and dad? He didn’t remember wetting the bed, but then again his dad had been there, sort of. He’d been in the house at least.