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There was a great deal of heaving, humping and grumbling from George’s father.
‘I’ll make it up in a moment,’ Sally called after them. ‘Get the linen and a duvet from the airing cupboard, would you, Georgie?’
She arrived back in the kitchen, intruding gently into Owen’s thoughts. ‘How are you doing, lovie? Need a top-up?’ She squeezed his shoulder, and seizing the brandy bottle, she waved it over the tumbler. ‘You sure I can’t get you something to eat?’
‘Yes, thanks. I’m not hungry.’
‘Oh, well, never you mind now. I’m sending Georgie out for fish and chips later. You can have something to eat then.’
If I’m still standing, Owen thought, taking another greedy swig of brandy. It was sliding down easily now. He rather liked it.
‘It’s upstairs, Mum,’ George spoke from behind him.
Mrs Halcyon… Sally looked over his head and smiled fondly at her son. ‘Thanks, lovie.’
A sensation twisted inside Owen’s chest, and he swigged the brandy, not recognising the feeling, but wanting to wash it away in alcohol, suspecting whatever the emotion was; it was not healthy.
The sickly scent of death invaded his nostrils. He took another mouthful of liquor, and the stench overwhelmed him again.
Of course.Something clicked in his head. He understood the stink was him, coming from his right arm. Every time he moved it; he was wafting the stench of his dead mother around the kitchen. He shuddered. Panic swept through him as he thought of the smell that had travelled with him in the lush interior of George’s dad’s car, and now hung around him like a miasma of death in this homely kitchen. He urgently needed to change his clothes and wash. Owen focused on Sally. She was still watching him, her beautiful green eyes large with concern.
‘May I have a bath, please?’ he asked. ‘I feel… I….’ he stopped, unable to tell her the reason he was so desperate to wash.
‘Of course you can. Come on. I’ll take you up.’ She took the empty glass from his hand and turned to her son. ‘Georgie, would you take Owen’s rucksack to the bedroom? After, I want you to go for some fish and chips.’
‘Can I drop into the pub to see Millie?’
‘No. Call her when you go to the chippie. Explain you’re needed here.’
Zombie-like, Owen followed George and Sally out of the kitchen and up the stairs. From the living room, he could hear the opening music ofEast Enders.His mother’s favourite television soap.
In the bathroom, he stood awkwardly, waiting and watching while Sally ran the water for him. She put some green herbal smelling bubble gel into it. ‘There,’ she said. ‘That’ll freshen the air for you.’
Did she know? Perhaps she could smell him. He touched the arm he’d used to support his mum’s body and remembered with self-disgust Sally had held him by it, too.
‘Throw your dirty clothes out in the hall. I’ll put them in the wash for you.’ She opened the bathroom cabinet and took out shaving stuff. ‘This is George’s,’ she said, waving it in front of him. ‘I’m sure he won’t mind you sharing. He doesn’t have much use for it yet.’ She flashed a smile and said, ‘Don’t tell him I said that. There are towels in the cupboard over there. Take what you need.’
‘Thanks.’
‘So,’ Sally hovered at the door, worried eyes travelling over him once more. ‘You all right now?’
‘Yes. Thank you.’
‘Good. Have a nice long soak. Relax if you can. Try to put what’s happened out of your mind for a while if you can.’
‘Yes. I will.’
‘Good.’ Sally turned as if to leave before hesitating and looking back at him. ‘It’s going to be tough for you these next few days, but remember, you are safe here. And we are all here for you. Whatever you want–whatever you need.’
‘Thank you.’ Overwhelmed by the kindness, Owen turned away and stared into the steaming bathwater, waiting until he heard the door close.
He slipped the bolt and, shaking uncontrollably, he stripped his clothes. Jeans, underpants, a vest and sweatshirt, all clean on this morning, fell to the tiled floor. Gathering them in his arms, he opened the door and tossed them onto the deserted landing before bolting the door again. He sighed and rested his head against the door frame. Alone at last. The only safe place for him. Time to get a grip. Try to make sense of his feelings, or lack of them. Time to smell normal again.
Owen lowered himself into the steaming hot water, gritting his teeth, accepting the pain, welcoming purification by scalding. He wouldn’t have minded if his epidermis had melted; he’d be content to dissolve completely. Everything gone. All past failings, all lost hope, everything washed away.
Settling in the water, getting used to the temperature, his skin reddened. He stared at the chrome taps at the far end, surrounded by an awesome assortment of soaps, shampoos and conditioners, body lotions, and moisturisers. So unlike the spartan bathroom in Aldershot. Even the bath was different, longer, deeper; old-fashioned in style, with a roll top and large enough for him to stretch out. He straightened and slid under the hot suds until the water washed over his face.
For the first time in his life, Owen wondered what it might be like to drown. Forcing himself to open his eyes, even though the water stung; he released the air from his lungs, watching as the bubbles rose glistening to the surface. He knew he had to take water into his lungs. That’s what should happen next if he were to drown. But he couldn’t do it. Would it have been different if the water had been cold? The need to breathe grew strong as he thought about the question, but still he held his lungs in stasis. A tightness formed around his chest. He must breathe soon. Could he do it now? Suck the hot water into his lungs. Would it hurt? How long would it take? Would he thrash around, his body fighting for its life when his brain wanted to end it? Who would find him?
