The Visitors(2)

The house is far too big for her now and must be rather a handful to manage. I thought she might sell up when Mr Barrett died; in fact, I’d already begun to fret who might come to live there if she moved on.

‘People react differently when a loved one dies, David,’ Mother remarked. ‘Some are compelled to escape the memories as soon as they can, while others can’t imagine ever leaving them behind.’

It seems Mrs Barrett has turned out to be one of those sorts of people who just stay put until it’s their turn to go.

I tap lightly on the glass but she doesn’t look up.

Over the last two years, I’ve done various odd jobs around the house for her, simple things like carrying heavy items upstairs or weeding the borders. I was just about able to manage that, despite the effort it took to leave my room. To her credit, Mrs Barrett has always been so very grateful.

When I started to feel a little better, I got my part-time job and finally plucked up the courage to take the bus every day. Sadly, I found it nigh-on impossible to visit Mrs Barrett several times a week like before, due to time constraints.

I make a mental note to pop next door again sometime soon. Yet as soon as the thought forms in my mind, my breathing turns shallow.

I expect it’s because I’ve had a difficult few weeks. There’s no particular reason for me feeling so unsettled, nothing specific I’m able to put my finger on, but then again, there rarely is. It’s just the usual stuff, emotions rising up inside and trying to spill out… just when I feel sure I’ve buried them good and deep.

Mother tries everything to bring me round.

Fancy a walk to the shops with me, David?

Would you mind just taking the bins out?

She means well, of course, but nothing she says can ever get through the impenetrable wall of fear that has installed itself in the forefront of my mind. Just when I think I’m over what happened, it seems to appear again, with a vengeance.

I cope OK with going to work, providing I’m able to follow all the necessary steps in the order I need to. It’s the unexpected and the out-of-the-ordinary that brings me out in a cold sweat, and that’s what I must strive to avoid.

This is why I know it’s so much better to stay home and adhere to my routine, rather than try and offer advice to Mr Brown about his mowing method.

To put things into perspective, I turned forty years old three months ago. I weigh just over fourteen stone and stand a shade above six foot tall.

That considered, it figures that it doesn’t look too good to others when you are a strapping man but are afraid of the dark. It doesn’t feel good when you dare not venture out alone at night.

I learned from my father’s fists quite young that real men don’t quake, don’t cry, don’t shake at the thought of leaving the house.

Real men aren’t kept awake in the early hours by a raft of terrible memories; they give themselves a shake and simply learn to get over whatever troubles them.

I try my best to keep busy. I try to keep the people around me safe, so they’ll never have to feel the fear. And most importantly, I try very hard to stay in the shadows and make sure that nobody else can spot my failings.

It’s a life of sorts, but I often wonder if I’ll ever move on from here. Living with my mother, doing the same thing day after day. I wonder if anything will ever change.

I don’t honestly see how it can.





Chapter Two





David





I don’t think anything of the banging noise downstairs until I get down and see that Brian Buckley is sitting in my armchair.

Brian is Mother’s friend. At least that’s what she likes to call him.

He calls out when I appear in the living room doorway.

‘Raise the flags, Pat. Dave’s out of his bedroom,’ he roars, in his broad Barnsley accent.

I ignore him and sit down on the sofa. It’s the seat nearest the window and, therefore, the furthest I can physically get away from Brian.

‘Here are your sandwiches, love,’ Mother says. I’m pleased to see she has given me crisps.

‘Thanks, Mum.’

I take the tray and check that the crisps aren’t touching the bread. I try to imagine that Brian isn’t here and take a sip of tea, placing it down on the coaster by my foot.

‘Now then.’ Brian’s mouth is full of masticated bread. ‘What’s happening in Dave’s world?’

‘He’s been working all morning, haven’t you, love?’ Mum chips in.

‘Working, eh?’ Brian chuckles to himself. ‘Working on what, exactly?’

I pop a crisp into my mouth and chew it thoughtfully without replying.

‘David?’ Mum gives me a nudge.

‘I’ve been collating information.’

‘Collating, you say?’ Brian shakes his head. ‘He needs a proper job, Pat. I’ve told you, I made a lot of contacts in the building trade. Could hardly fail to with forty-five years under my belt, out on site.’

Mother nods. ‘You were always such a hard worker, Brian.’

She’s known him since school. She was friends with his wife, Carol, before she died two years ago. Mother and I went to the funeral, and when the coffin finally glided through the curtains, Brian threw himself dramatically to the floor, sobbing into the dusty pews.