Far Horizons: Tales of Sci-Fi, Fantasy and Horror. Issue #20 November 2015 | Page 75

the means.” Susan sounds confused, uncomfortable. “So I’m your last port of call?” My mother laughs nervously. “Desperation can make belief possible.” The chill warms a little. Susan’s shoulders, tense a moment ago, sag as she nestles into her chair. “It’s fine, Karen. This isn’t the first time I’ve been someone’s last port of call.” She gives a wry smile. “In fact, I can safely say it’s a pattern that pervades my life, both professionally and privately.” They both laugh and I breathe an ethereal sigh of relief. “I need your help, Karen.” Susan suddenly looks serious. My mother’s smile fades instantly, her lips pressing together in a thin, grim line. “I’ll help in whatever way I can, Susan.” “I need you to watch him. Write down the times he leaves the house, the times he returns.” My mother’s eyes widen. “Are you going to break in?” Susan grins. “My partner is a master of locks, Karen. We’re just going to have a look around. We won’t touch anything, won’t remove any evidence. If we find any evidence.” My mother frowns. I know that frown. She’s troubled, unconvinced. No, I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to go on an overnight camp with older boys. Suddenly, her shoulders slump, defeated by the weight they bear. “Do what you need to do. I want answers. Need them. I need to lay my daughter to rest.” “I thought you’d already had the funeral?” My mother nods. “Yes, we had the funeral, but my daughter is not at rest.” Here, caught in the void between life and death, I can only agree with her. *** Darren returns Susan’s call not long after we leave my mother’s house. I have to stop thinking about it as my house. I no longer live there. I’m a visitor, a drifting cloud that passes through, yet I cannot stay away. I need to stay close until it’s finished. Only in my mother’s peace shall I find my own. I follow Susan back to her apartment. It’s tastefully furnished, relentlessly modern. Organised, almost masculine. Splashes of red against black, white matte walls, tastefully placed black and white prints. I spend the next week flitting back and forth between the two women. In that time, there are numerous calls between Susan and Darren but I have yet to see him. My mother takes to the role of PI like she was born to it. She positions herself in the small park across the road from my killer’s house. Sometimes, he walks across to watch the children. My mother watches him watching, her eyes cold and hard as the marble on my grave. She scribbles stealthily in her notebook – times, little observations. One time he nods at her as he walks past, muttering a benign greeting. Somehow, she manages to nod back and keep walking, her fists clenched into tight balls. She takes care not to cross paths now. She keeps her distance, watching him like a hunter stalking deadly prey. I watch with her; watch my killer go about his daily life without a care that he extinguished mine. Two weeks pass before my mother and Susan meet again. My mother pushes her notebook across the dining room table. “Here are the dates and times you need. The bastard had the hide to nod at me and say good day.” 75