Nowhere is Final: Damien (2021)

Chapter 3

"Who are you talking to?"

Damien glanced up at Robyn, who was stood by her desk, packing her bag. Morning light spilled in through the blinds, freshening the furniture in the flat, and glinting off Robyn's glasses as she turned to raise an amused eyebrow in his direction. His phone was in his grip, and he rested it on the table.

"Just one of Eliza's friends."

He'd spent the day before combing through any mutuals he'd had with her on social media. It'd been the first time in a while he'd really delved into his friends list, really. Most of them who did remember him from school hadn't heard from Eliza either, and those in Eliza's old circle of friends had quite frankly seemed surprised that he was still even alive. Only one had had any news on his sister, her best friend from primary school, Holly. She'd found the exchange so strange, she'd insisted on meeting with him to explain. And there was no way in hell he was passing up the opportunity to learn something new about his sister. To find out why she was speaking to school friends rather than him.

Which was why he was up early.

At least Eliza's friends had picked up. As much as it ground his gears that she would drop Holly a line and not her own family, all of them had been polite at worst and perfectly pleasant at best. His own friends were largely useless, too busy with their exciting lives in college and uni to do more than leave him on read. One or two of them had apparently visited him in hospital, when his brain had been so sludgy he couldn't remember anything, and whatever they'd seen had put them off him. Or so he guessed. None of them checked in with him, and he supposed that made it a rare sight for him to be texting over breakfast.

Robyn turned to him, leaning against the desk and being careful of her travel mug. "So that's today?" Her brown skin contrasted beautifully with the cream of her blouse, highlighted by the crisp morning light. It must be a day of meetings or something at work, he thought, as that blouse looked a little vulnerable to the oil he was accustomed to seeing under her nails in the evening. Her fingers were drumming an uneven, relaxed beat on the desk behind her.

He nodded, dimming the phone screen so the light wouldn't shake at his thoughts. "Yeah. If she's seen her then maybe she'll know how to contact her, y'know?" He started to spin the phone on the dining table, his fingers suddenly demanding that they exert some nervous energy. "Plus I'll actually get to the park today. I promise."

There was movement behind Robyn. He glanced – her travel mug was inching its way across the desk behind her, shuffling towards the edge. Ice flooded his veins.

STOP! He thought the word as hard as he could. The mug wobbled a little uncertainly, but halted.

"What?" Robyn whirled around in a heartbeat, hands already reaching for the bookcase. "What is it? Do I need to murder a spider?"

He forced a deep breath. Relief swamped him, heady and liberating. "No, no, I thought – I – my eyes must've played tricks for a sec."

Robyn breathed an exaggerated sigh. "Well, that's a relief, 'cause I don't like them either." She shot a grin at him, shoving her glasses back up her nose before turning back to the desk. She packed the travel mug away and then zipped the backpack up tight. "I'll see you this evening, then. Good luck." She slung the backpack on and walked over.

Damien raised his head to kiss her, closing his eyes for a moment. Her lips were soft against his. When she pulled away, readjusting the bag straps on her shoulders, he tried for a warm smile. "You enjoy work, hm?"

She rolled her eyes as she reached for her keys. "Sure. Later, you." And then she was trooping out, her boots clomping on the floorboards, and the flat door had slammed shut.

He breathed a small sigh of relief. That had been too close. Far too close. This sort of thing couldn't keep happening on the daily – eventually, Robyn wouldn't have a day of stressful work ahead to hurry off to, and she'd notice. She'd notice, and then she'd scream and send him right back home, where his parents would freak and he'd find himself explaining everything either at A&E or to the police. No, he needed to track Eliza down, and that meant figuring out what Holly had to say.

He flipped the phone around and checked it. He'd been messaging her to confirm that he had the place right – the little park down the street, as she didn't live far, and he knew his legs would take him there – and her reply must have glowed up the screen in the middle of the mug drama: Yes, see you later  👍 😁

He drummed tensely against the tabletop with his short nails, eyes darting over the freckles on the back of his hand. He needed to know what he wanted to say to Holly before he went. The walk would be tiring, and tiring often meant brain-scrambling. Going to take photographs was one thing, but going to remember information? He'd have to ask her if he could record the damn thing. Embarrassing, but necessary – concepts he was still growing used to. And he'd have to make a note of what he wanted to say before the conversation set him adrift.

He pushed himself to his feet, sliding his arm into his crutch. Amongst the tat on Robyn's desk were some packs of notepaper, and he fumbled for the nearest, trying to rip the top sheet off one-handed. It was covered in a thin drawing of dogs designed to blend behind biro. Plain or lined paper would have been easier on his eyes, he knew, but this was very Robyn. He shifted his grip on the wad of paper, trying to shove his thumb under the top piece to wrench it free.

Pain pricked at his finger, and he yanked it back. The top piece tore free with him. A small bead of blood sat on the pad of his index finger, a deep crimson in the morning light. Shit. A brilliant start already. He dropped the paper and stuck his finger in his mouth, the metallic taste bursting on his tongue, and he wheeled around to hobble to the kitchen on a leg that was already starting to gripe.

He trudged across the lino, crutch thudding alongside him, and stuck his hand into a cupboard for the plasters. Robyn kept them in a cute jar covered in more dogs – this time they ran along the bottom of the tin, chasing bees and frisbees, carefree. There were Labradors, Yorkies, Spaniels... He'd have loved to have introduced her to Avalanche. If anybody would love her as much as he and Eliza did, Robyn would. He pushed the lid off the tin and grabbed at the plasters, pulling one free. They, surprisingly, were not covered in cute canines. He ripped it free of the packaging and raised his finger to the light.

But the jabbing pain was gone. Damien frowned. Papercuts were usually more of a nuisance. He leant back against the counter and lifted his other hand off the crutch to try and give the finger a good squeeze, to find where the bead of blood would sprout from and inevitably smear all over the notepaper if he didn't catch it now.

None came.

He felt his frown deepen. He'd definitely seen the blood in the living room, tasted the coppery flavour when he'd shoved his finger in his mouth, and felt the small slicing pain. There was no way he'd imagined it. He raised his finger, to inspect it in the light streaming in through the blinds. He squinted, bringing it up to his nose, but all he could see was the uninterrupted swirls of his fingerprint. This was absurd.

A familiar sense of anxiety clamped at his insides, starting to squeeze them painfully. Damien forced himself to take a deep breath. It had to have been real. He'd seen and tasted it. The only alternative was that whatever hallucination had started up the day before, with objects jumping to life, was changing. Things on his body that he could feel and taste and sense were either changing or weren't as they seemed.

He screwed the plaster up and dumped it in the bin. It was time to get some answers before it got worse.