Loving Danny (19 page)

‘Can I look?’ I asked. He nodded. Afraid that I would hurt him, I unrolled the bandage as carefully as I could, praying that the bleeding had stopped. Part of the fabric had stuck to
the wound and he winced as I pulled it away.

There were three gashes on his arm, two of them just scratches, but the third a long, deep slice in his flesh. The whole of his forearm was covered in dark, congealed blood. I didn’t know
anything about first aid, but I reasoned that if the bleeding had stopped it meant he didn’t need stitches. He began to sob, deep, throaty sobs that made it difficult to catch his breath.

‘I’m sorry, Omi, I’m so sorry,’ he whimpered.

‘It’s OK, Danny, it’s going to be OK,’ I said. ‘I’m here now.’

I fetched the first-aid kit from the bathroom cabinet and cleaned his wounds with antiseptic, bandaging them up again as best I could. Danny let me tend to him in silence, sitting still on the
floor until I had finished. All his strength had gone; he was limp, like a giant baby.

When I had helped him change and put his clothes in the washing machine, I made him a cup of tea and told him to lie on the sofa and sip it slowly. I wished I’d made one for myself too.
Now that the shock had passed I felt exhausted and my head was beginning to throb. I wanted to go to sleep, but I knew that I couldn’t. I sat quietly for a while, Danny’s head in my
lap, trying to summon up the courage to talk about what had happened. The bloodstain on the bedroom carpet glared up at me through the open door and I knew that later I would have to get down on my
hands and knees and scrub it away.

‘It wasn’t an accident, was it, Danny?’ I asked, eventually, stating the obvious. We were now sitting side by side on the sofa, not quite touching. The inch of space between us
felt like a yard. He shrugged and nodded.

‘And the scars on your arm from before, they weren’t an accident either?’

‘No,’ he said, hanging his head. He wouldn’t meet my gaze.

So my half-formed suspicions, my instincts had been right. And yet, having them confirmed brought me no comfort, no relief at all, only more questions.

‘I don’t understand, Danny. Please help me understand.’

‘It makes me feel better.’

‘How?’ I stroked his hair, as much to have something to do with my hands as to comfort him.

‘It’s hard to explain.’ He sighed. ‘It’s like – when everything’s getting to me, when I’m angry or upset – it makes the pain go
away.’

‘But doesn’t it hurt?’

‘No . . . yes . . . it’s different. It hurts in a good way because I’m making it happen. It’s a buzz. And when the blood comes, it’s like a release, it’s like
all my problems are draining away.’

‘I don’t understand. Is it my fault, Danny? Did I make you do it?’

‘No,’ he said, his voice cracking with frustration. Still, he wouldn’t look at me. ‘No, Omi, it’s not you. You make everything better. When I’m around you I
don’t want to do it, I don’t need to do it. Today, things just got out of control. I’m sorry, I’m really, really sorry.’

‘It’s OK,’ I said, putting my arms around him. But it wasn’t OK.

‘I love you, Omi,’ he whispered. He allowed me to hug him, but his arms remained limply in his lap.

‘And I love you.’

Those three little words again. What did they mean, exactly? Speaking them required the same amount of breath, the same coordination of my lips and tongue as it had a thousand times before. They
still sounded the same, were spelled the same. And yet, the words were now sticky with Danny’s blood – imbued with a heaviness, a significance that they hadn’t possessed before.
What had I taken on by saying them? Only one thing was certain: I was in over my head. Way, way over my head.

B
y the next morning Danny was his usual self again. He didn’t want to talk about what had happened the day before – he seemed
embarrassed about it, ashamed even – and he made me promise not to tell anyone. I agreed, reluctantly. I couldn’t help feeling that
somebody
else should know. Fear, concern,
pity, love, insecurity and a thousand other emotions I couldn’t even name all swirled round and round in my head, swamping me like quicksand. I still couldn’t comprehend what he had
done; it made no sense. And if I didn’t understand, how could I help him?

He larked around all day, telling me stupid jokes and trying to engage me in play fights, wrestling me on the sofa and then tickling me until I begged him to stop. Yesterday, he had revealed his
weakest, most vulnerable side and now it was obvious to me that he was overcompensating, hoping that if he made me laugh I might forget what I had seen. But I couldn’t forget. Images of his
blood on the carpet kept flashing into my mind, each time jolting me with shock. I felt awkward around Danny, scared to say anything that might upset him and send him back over the edge again.

Mum had been ringing sporadically ever since I’d left home. She’d left pitiful-sounding messages on my voicemail, begging me to call her and sort things out. Guiltily, I had ignored
all but the first, to which I’d sent a text in reply:
DON’T WORRY ABOUT ME. I’LL CALL WHEN I’M READY
.

That day, after what had happened with Danny, I felt differently. I actually wanted to see her. I needed a hug from somebody who could make me feel loved and protected. So when Danny was in the
toilet, I texted her:
CALL ME IF U WANT 2 TALK
.

A few seconds later, my phone began to ring.

‘Naomi, I’m so glad to hear from you,’ Mum said breathlessly.

‘You all right, Mum?’

‘Yes, yes. And you?’

‘I’m fine,’ I lied.

‘I’d really like to see you, Naomi. Would you think about coming home this afternoon? I promise you Dad’s at work – it’ll be just the two of us.’

I considered the offer. On the one hand, I welcomed the idea of some space from Danny so I could get my head straight, but on the other, I was frightened of how he would react and what he might
do. I knew he saw my parents as a threat and I didn’t want to risk angering him. And then there was the question of whether it was safe to leave him alone. Would he trust me not to reveal his
secret? He had no cause to worry. Much as I needed to talk, I already knew I had no intention of betraying his confidence to Mum. I couldn’t bear the thought of her pitying Danny or thinking
of him as weak or ill.

‘Hold on a sec, Mum,’ I said. ‘I’ll ring you back.’

I knocked on the bathroom door. ‘Danny – would you mind if I went out for a couple of hours? Mum’s just called. I just want to keep the peace, you know?’

‘Of course not,’ he said, perhaps too brightly. ‘I’ve had a great idea for a song. You go out and leave me to it.’

Allowing myself to be reassured, I called Mum back. ‘OK,’ I said. ‘I’ll come over. But just for an hour or so. I’m not staying.’

Mum was ever so formal when she opened the door to me – she greeted me almost like a stranger. Her jaw was clenched tight with nerves and her hands were sweaty and
fidgety.
She’s holding back because she’s scared of me
, I thought, and I hated myself for it. The longed-for hug didn’t materialise. I wanted to say, ‘It’s me,
Naomi
,’ but I knew that if I let my guard down everything would all come pouring out. I had to stay strong, for Danny’s sake.

When we were sitting together at the kitchen table Mum took a deep breath and began a conversation that she had evidently rehearsed several times in her head.

‘I understand what you’re going through – far more than you realise,’ she began.

‘What do you mean?’ I asked nonchalantly. I sat stiffly, my arms folded on the table in front of me. My body language spoke volumes. ‘Here we go,’ it said. ‘Another
lecture.’

‘Hear me out, Naomi. I understand, because I’ve been there myself. With someone a lot like Danny, actually. Before your dad.’

I studied her quizzically. As far as I was concerned, Mum and Dad had been together since the year dot, since the Big Bang. I had never considered that Mum might have had a life – and
relationships – before she met him.

‘Yeah, right.’ I managed a smirk. ‘What, at nursery school?’

But she wasn’t smiling. He expression was deadly serious.

‘Stay there, Naomi,’ she said. ‘I’m just going to get something.’

She went upstairs and it sounded like she was moving furniture around. When she returned, looking flustered, she was carrying something in her hands. It was an old cardboard box. She rummaged
around in it and pulled something out, which, after a moment’s hesitation, she placed on the table in front of me.

‘Look, Naomi.’

I looked. It was a photograph of two young people, their arms wrapped around each other. The image confused me. At first glance it appeared to be a picture of me, but I didn’t recognise
the guy or the hippie-style clothes I was wearing, and I knew I’d never grown my hair that long. It couldn’t be me. And yet, something about the girl’s smile was familiar.

I looked at Mum, then back at the photograph, and back at Mum again.

‘It’s you, isn’t it?’ I cried. I’d never seen Mum like this before – in all the photos she’d shown me she resembled a younger version of herself, with
short, sensible, mousy hair, glasses and frumpy clothes. This was a period of her life I knew nothing about.

She laughed. ‘Of course it’s me. I wasn’t born middle-aged, you know. Who else could it be?’

‘Actually, you look like a lot like me,’ I said. ‘In horrible, polyester seventies’ clothes. You look kind of cool, though,’ Seeing her now, it was hard to believe
that she had ever been young and pretty and – for the time – fashionable.

She laughed again. ‘I guess I do. I was about your age there – a year or two older, perhaps.’ Mum sighed. ‘Hunky guy, isn’t he? A bit of a dish?’

I hated it when Mum spoke like that; it was so embarrassing.

‘He’s not bad,’ I conceded. ‘If you take away the purple paisley flares. Nice eyes. Who is he?’

‘His name was – and still is, I presume – Dominic Clearey, and,’ she breathed deeply, ‘he was the love of my life.’

I was shocked. ‘What, more than Dad?’

‘No, don’t get me wrong, I love your Dad too. He’s a wonderful man. But Dominic was my first love – my soulmate, as you put it. He was “the one”.’

‘Why are you telling me this?’

‘Because I love you,’ she said. ‘And I think you need to hear it. I’ve never told anyone this before – not even your dad knows the full story. Please hear me
out.’

I nodded, still sceptical that anything she said would make a difference, but intrigued nonetheless.

And this, more or less, is the story she told me:

But Martha was a dreamer. She dreamed of love and of passion with dark strangers from faraway lands. She was tired of practising hard, of playing the same phrases over and over again until
her fingers ached. She longed for escape and adventure.

One night, at a concert, Martha met a man named Dominic Clearey. Half Irish, half Indian, he was the exotic, dark-eyed knight of her dreams. He swept her off her feet and made her feel that
she was beautiful and special. Nobody had ever complimented her on anything but her piano playing and for the first time, she felt alive.

Dominic introduced her to new types of music, which weren’t played in stuffy concert halls, and he took her to festivals all over the country in his camper van. The more time Martha
spent with Dominic, the less she practised the piano. The accolades stopped coming and the invitations to give recitals dwindled, but Martha didn’t care. All she wanted was to be with
Dominic.

When Dominic asked Martha to move in with him she did so without a moment’s thought. Her parents were horrified, but she ignored their advice. She dropped out of college, thinking that
she could return in the future, when she was ready.

It soon transpired that Dominic was not the knight in shining armour she had imagined. He didn’t want her to get a job, but criticised her housekeeping abilities, making her feel that
nothing she did was good enough. He went out with his friends nearly every night, rolling in drunk in the early hours. And then, one night, he didn’t come home at all. A few days later he
rang Martha to tell her that he’d met somebody else, somebody more beautiful and more interesting. He told her to pack her things and to leave his house.

Martha was devastated. She returned home to her parents and began practising the piano again. But it was too late. There was no longer a scholarship or a place for her at the Royal Academy;
younger and more prodigious talents had usurped her. So Martha put away her dreams of fame and of love, and trained as a teacher.