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.”
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