Inside, I fumble around trying to find the light switch, tripping over my rucksack as I run my palms across the glossy woodchip walls. When I eventually locate it the dim glow that ensues brings a knot to my stomach. I’d forgotten: my mother always abhorred bright lights. Light was not to be trusted. It revealed too much. And so my mother had installed low-wattage bulbs throughout the house and retreated to the shadows.
I walk down the hallway, thinking how the first eighteen years of my life had been spent in near-darkness, terrified of what lay hidden in the corners. I go from room to room, flicking switches, my heart sinking as each dull bulb splutters impotently to life.
I stop at the kitchen. It looks different. Paul and Sally have obviously set to work getting the house ready to sell. The dark red walls of my childhood have been painted magnolia and the lino replaced with an insipid beige carpet. But it’s all good, I tell myself as I step inside. However boring it may be, beige is what I need right now; its dull neutrality will keep me from hurtling down the hole of memory.
I walk into the pantry and see that Paul has stocked up ahead of my visit. There are new packs of coffee and tea, a fresh loaf of white bread, tins of soup and baked beans. Opening the fridge, I see full-fat milk, butter and eggs and a packet of smoked bacon: things I haven’t eaten for years. Still, I’ll be grateful for them in the morning.
I see he’s also left a couple of bottles of white wine. I take one out and pour myself a large glass. I know I shouldn’t. After all, until the events of the last couple of months, I barely touched alcohol. I vowed never to turn out like my father and Sally. But since Aleppo, a drink seems to be the only thing that will settle my nerves.
That and my sleeping pills.
I pat my pocket and pull out a pack. I swallow two with the rest of the wine and make my way upstairs, praying that they will work fast.
But as I reach the landing I stop. My throat tightens, and I stand for a moment looking at the closed door of my mother’s bedroom. It’s still there. An ancient foot-shaped gash in the wood panel. I find I am trembling. It’s like being back there, thirty years of distance gone in a flash. Why on earth did she never replace it?
I will myself not to go in, to wait until morning when my brain will be ready, but it’s no use, my hands are already pushing at the door. I breathe in sharply. My father’s anger permeates the space and it feels like any moment now he is going to come charging at me, ask me what the hell I think I’m doing snooping around like this. But all is silent as I step into the gloom.
Nothing has changed. I stand incredulous, looking at the collection of dusty furniture. The same mahogany chest of drawers; the same heavy velvet curtains; the same horrid brown wallpaper with spiky dandelions threaded through it. I see my mother’s head hitting the wall over and over again, my father’s hand holding her hair while he smashed her into the golden flowers. The room smells of damp fabric and cheap air freshener. Paul has obviously tried his best to spruce it up but my mother’s blood is all over this room. Even if the visible marks are gone I can still smell it in the air: a musty scent of fear.
I close the door and step out on to the landing. A framed picture of the Sacred Heart looms ominously in front of me. The bearded Jesus holds his hand out towards me, a blazing heart pulsating in his chest. I hated this picture as a child, couldn’t bear to look at it. For me it symbolized everything that was wrong with my family: blind faith in the face of violence and adversity; submission to a greater good. ‘Blessed Jesus pray for us,’ I read aloud as I stand in front of the faded picture. Underneath those words in spindly blue handwriting my mother has written the names of her children – two living, one dead – her husband and, finally, always last, herself.
‘What good did you ever do us?’ I shout and my voice echoes through the empty house.
I glare at the beatific man in the frame. What kind of God takes a child’s life away? I read my little brother’s name again and wonder for a moment what it must have felt like to drown, to gasp and flounder and call out for a mother who never came. I think of another child who didn’t make it and I close my eyes, trying to keep the images at bay. Enough, I tell myself, and with a sweep of my hand turn the picture over to face the wall.
I am delirious with sleep as I open the door to Sally’s old room. Someone – most likely Paul – has made the bed with freshly laundered sheets and there is a large fluffy towel neatly folded on the chest of drawers. The thought of a long hot bath is tempting, but I know it is not a good idea with strong sleeping pills in my system. Still, a shower might help.