by Thomas Brown
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 wood-en 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 gently 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 th
ey’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 dark 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.
22 Swelling Blood
It is the fourth time I have stood in Daniel’s empty room, including the time I snuck in during his wake. I have been staying at the Mansen’s house for four days now, steadily becoming a fixture, whilst Daniel wilts with each passing day. Or does he?
The family and I are still transfixed on him. He is like that book, The Catcher in the Rye, because after you’ve read it cover to cover, you’re not really sure what happened when someone asks you years later. And it seems neither the family nor me are really sure what happened with Daniel. Was it our stupidity, or was Daniel a genius who left behind an unsolvable puzzle? Or was he simply an ordinary man who wanted to die?
I sit on the bed. As I think about what his death has done to me, I realise it has awoken me again. For several years before his death, there are entire weeks and months I cannot recall. I have no idea of the length between my leaving the hospital and meeting him in the street. Even the days when I stalked Daniel seem a blurred series of photos, merging into one continuous film.
Yet since the moment I watched him fall, every sense has been on alert. I have smelt the sadness radiating from the house, touched the vibrancy of red, heard the guilt slinking after the family like a venomous snake, and watched depression grow from stubble to a beard on Thom’s face. And I’d tasted him. I’d tasted Thom’s guilt and confusion like heavy wallpaper paste gluing his tongue down, causing his words to huddle at the back of his mouth in a sticky trap.
I want to open Thom up. I want to cut his words free and examine his feelings; their colours, their textures, the way they fit together and interlock.
The door flings open then.
“What the hell are you doing in here?” Thom whispers loudly and checks behind him as he closes the door. “Aunty Val wouldn’t like this at all”, he adds.
I stand up and touch his arm. I notice that whenever I touch him, he stares at my offending body part with either disbelief or reluctant intrigue. “I’m sorry. I was just curious”, I say gently. His lips are taut like they are two sizes too small for his face. Although, he tries to smile and appear casual by placing his hands in his jeans pockets, shuffling from one foot to the other.
“It’s okay”, he mutters, not convinced.
“I’ll get out of here”, I reassure him. He nods but as I start towards the door, his hand shoots out.
“I’m sorry… if, I frightened you”. He squeezes my arm with one hand and then raises the other to grab hold of my other arm. He is holding me like I am a person who needs shaking.
“I just wouldn’t want you to touch his things”. Thom’s voice breaks. “It’s too soon to be touching… his things, his… life”.
“Have you looked in any of the cupboards or drawers, Thom?” I ask, without thinking, regretting it as soon as I see his face. In an instant, his wet sadness is wiped off and replaced with frown lines.
“Why would you say that?” he asks, his grip tightening. He seems more distressed than he should be. He is biting his lips and already he has punctured them, a dot of blood marking his front tooth. “Why would you say that?” he repeats; both his words and his grip harder.
“I’m sorry. I just wondered”. I shrug and try to pull away but a second later; he releases me anyway.
Thom walks over to the chest of drawers by the window. He looks over at me, a child asking for permission or seeing how far they can go without being told off, a person testing another’s love for them by putting themselves in a dangerous situation. And all I can do is say nothing and wait for the inevitable.
Thom opens a drawer. He lets out a small yelp and for a moment, I hope that he has found something; a severed hand, a blood stained shirt, a weapon. Yet, when I look over his shoulder, there is nothing. Only the wood that the drawer is made of.
Thom catches my eye again. He has started to shake, a tree battered and relenting in a violent wind. He keeps my gaze as he places his hand on another drawer handle and slowly eases it open, a drawn out yawn and finally, he turns towards it.
Another yelp.
I know what he is feeling now. His heart is probably racing faster, his mind filled with the colour of that wood. Worse for him, he probably knows exactly what should be in that particular drawer and all of them. Whereas, I only expected something, anything…
Like a sense of déjà vu, he begins flinging everything open. He finishes the chest of drawers in five seconds, moving onto
the drawers beside Daniel’s bed, and flinging open the wardrobe. All empty. Gaping holes in everyday life, empty shells that are now devoid of function, life departed from the body it once filled.
There are no words for Thom. He is screaming like a baby who cannot understand anything yet. He is pushing the chest of drawers over and pulling the curtains down. He is punching the mirror on the front of the wardrobe and kicking the door in until it cracks in half, like broken ribs.
I watch the destruction of the empty room. I watch the blood swelling out of his knuckles and forget the whiteness of the room. The red is beautiful and I’m surrounded by it, a calm sea lapping against my brain, until I realise the lapping of the sea coincides with my pulse.
I remember. Thom. He is sobbing on the floor and smearing the carpet with blood, like a child finger painting. He picks up the slithers of glass and throws them at the wall but they only chime quietly and fall to the floor.
I dive towards him and take his hands by the wrists. I press them into my chest and don’t let go. His blood soaks into my chest and I feel like he has taken a knife and slit my chest open.
I am alive. Mum, I am so alive. And Daniel is still dead.
23 Mrs Tray
The empty room tears a hole in Thom, literally with his slashed hands and, in another sense, perhaps intellectually. Either way, he has to mend this hole somehow. The only way he thinks this might be achieved is by getting some clarification, on anything he can. So he contacts the solicitors the next morning and after a bit of negotiating, he feels his hand moving in the shape of letters and when he replaces the phone receiver, he has an address.