The Uncle

I grew up with my mom and younger sister Janet in the city of Birmingham, West England. The city was deprived and had a younger age demographic than most, so from childhood we were often exposed to crime, drugs and violence. However, I’m glad to say our unfortunate circumstances didn’t drag our spirits down.

My sister graduated last year with a degree in business, and I’m currently working as a journalist who has reported on several high profile cases. I make a decent five-figure per annum living, and bought my mom and sister a three bedroom house in London where we all now live and work. Little more than a decade ago we all resided in squalor and poverty – now we can easily afford shiny cars, nice clothes and fancy wines. Sometimes I drive back to Birmingham late at night, just to watch the crack heads wandering around the parking lot in the Tesco supermarket we shopped at years ago. It reminds me of where I could’ve ended up, and emphasises how far we’ve come – my journey to success hasn’t been an easy one, but thank god I made it.

I say that phrase a lot, but by ‘god’, I really mean my mom. She was a woman with some serious balls who was willing to sacrifice anything for her kids. As a single parent working in a grocery store, my mom worked night and day to provide for us, and raised us to become people who would eventually be able to stand on their own two feet. ‘The harder you work, the luckier you get,’ she used to remind us every day. She was a remarkable woman in many aspects, but I wish I could say she had all the answers.

My mom was very reluctant to talk about my dad. The first and last time I ever asked her about him happened as we were walking home from preschool. I remember her face turned pale and her expression very stiff, as if she had just heard a question she’d been dreading for years. She knelt down to face six-year-old me at eye level and firmly grasped my shoulders, her demeanour instantly snapping from her usual loving self to that of someone I didn’t recognise at all.

“Henry,” she said sternly but quietly, her eyes piercing through me, “He was someone I regret having in my life. Do not ask about him again.“

It was the first time she had ever talked to me like that, and it fucked me up. Perhaps more than it should have, but it was the first time I’d ever felt like she was keeping something from me, and things like that get to kids easily. On top of that, I somehow felt responsible for the fear and anger in her voice as she spoke, so I was extremely shaken and on the edge of tears for the rest of the walk home. I never asked her about my dad again. I was a quiet child who always worked with my head down, never poking my nose into other people’s business. However, my curiosity about his identity remained for decades, and as an adult it grew only stronger, no longer drowned out by fear. I had searched for the past five years on social media, asking relatives and random people I dug up from my mom’s past, all to no avail. I stopped thinking about it last year, when I thought it would be impossible to ever find him.

My mom, my sister and I share the same last name – ‘Westfield’. I recalled that we would sometimes receive letters addressed to a “Mrs Cross” at our Birmingham address. Mom said they must’ve belonged to the previous tenants and promptly took them away, to store them in case Mrs Cross ever came back to get them, I presumed. However I once saw one of these letters on mom’s desk, having been opened, which I thought was odd as it wasn’t in her nature at all to be nosy. You can imagine why all this came flooding back to me when I received a Facebook friend request from a guy named ‘Jamie Cross’. As someone in the public eye on a weekly basis, I got (and subsequently rejected) requests from randos all the time, but his last name instantly caught my attention.

I made the obvious connection, and even though there were a lot of people with the last name ‘Cross’, I still wasn’t ruling it out. I checked out his profile page, where he had posted several photos. The first thing I noticed about him was that when he smiled, the corners of his mouth curved up and inwards, in a similar way to mine. My heart started to race a little as I looked through older photos, his hair getting less grey and becoming browner, again, just like mine.

He lived in Ascot, a decently wealthy area, and looked like a normal guy who enjoyed wine, movies and hanging out with his other old chums. There were photos of him and his friends posing in front of his car, in bars playing pool and together at various events. I looked in detail at each one, trying to find any signs of him being a serial killer or something, but there were no obvious ones. The thoughts running through my mind trying to justify that he either was or wasn’t the man in question flickered to and fro intermittently, constantly questioning each other. However the breaking point came when I reached the final photo on his profile.

A young Jamie Cross stood next to my mother. He was tall and well built, more so than I was but he looked as if he could’ve been my fitter twin brother. He had thick brown hair and a long, straight nose like mine. I felt chills all over as I looked into his eyes, as if I was looking into a mirror. Mom was younger as well, but there was no mistake it was her – the lady in the picture had the same curly blonde hair she’d had in her youth, and the same cheeky raised eyebrow. They both stood smiling in a dimly lit room in front of a piano, his arm around her waist. The caption read ‘I miss you’.

I checked the upload date – the picture had been posted around ten years ago, much longer after they had separated, as I was her oldest child, and had never known who my father was. I looked for a tag in the upload, then remembered that my mother had no social media profiles I knew of - she contacted everyone she knew by text. But now there was no mistaking that this guy was one of my mom’s past lovers, and very possibly my real father.

I wondered why they separated. From the picture they seemed like decent people, both happy and in love. Of course, there are a lot of unsaid details behind the true circumstances in which a picture was taken, but I’d imagined that if I ever met my father, he’d probably be an abusive, fat, lazy old thug living in an inner-city slum somewhere – not a decent and normal looking rich guy living in Ascot. The fact that he was still thinking about her, years after she had completely removed all traces of him from her life, moved me a little. It was then that I began to suspect, against my will, that my mother might have been in the wrong.

After scrolling back and forth through the profile in shock and disbelief for around five minutes, at the fact that that he had just decided to friend request on a whim (as well as the frightening possibility that I might have cancelled the request with the tap of a finger as I had done so many other times), I decided to reach out and contact him to find out the truth. The things I’d seen on his profile destroyed every misconception I’d ever had about him, so there was no fear or hesitation as I typed.

“Hi there. Sorry to bother you but I noticed a picture on your profile which seems to contain my mother, whose name is Sarah Jillian Westfield. I never knew my real father and I’ve been looking for him for some time, and even suspecting he might be you. I would be very grateful if you could give me any details about his identity.”

The message was read almost instantly, and I could see that he was beginning to type. My heart raced uncontrollably as I gulped, trying to imagine what his reply would look like. What if he didn’t want to talk to me, or I’d messaged the wrong guy? I shuddered with embarrassment upon the thought.

“I sent you a friend request because I suspected the same thing. My wife Sarah was pregnant with my son when she left me for good in the 90’s. I’ve always thought about where they could have gone. Thank you for contacting me.”

I breathed a sigh of relief, and started typing again. There were so many questions I wanted to ask, but I felt it would be impolite to suddenly bombard him with them now over text.

“Wow, that’s amazing. If you’re not too busy, would you be willing to arrange a time meet up and discuss this more? I assure you, you won’t have to do much travelling as long as you give me a time and place.”

“Would you like to come and visit me in Ascot? I’m free all week.” The reply came.

“Sure, that would be fantastic.”

“Alright brilliant.”

He proceeded to give me his address, and I packed some overnight essentials into a suitcase in a hurry. I was ready in less than half an hour and hopped in my car, driving a little faster than I usually would be as I allowed the adrenaline to dissipate through my veins.

Ascot is famous for its horse races and fancy clothing. I had been a few times before, but I was still impressed by how posh everything was. There were a disproportionately large number of people dressed in formal suits and ladies in flowery hats – the whole town seemed like one massive wedding reception. The houses were huge, and it was much more spacious than London where I was used to, with a lot of green space everywhere. I drove through the town led by my phone GPS, admiring the scenery, until I eventually pulled up in disbelief in the late afternoon, right next to a shiny black Mercedes, at an enormous mansion house that looked at least two million pounds.

I got out of the car and stood back to admire the view for a minute, the sunset making a picturesque background, before walking up an imposing set of stairs to the door, guarded by two weird looking gargoyles on either side, and knocking three times. It opened, and I was greeted by Jamie Cross. He had thinning grey hair and a layer of rough grey stubble lined the lower third of his face. He was about my height, still over six foot, very tall for his age. His mouth was agape and he was dumbfounded with emotion, tears beginning to collect inside his bottom eyelid as he smiled.

“Ah, H-Henry! Nice to see you, do come in,” he stuttered, “you got any luggage?”

“Yeah, but I’m alright,” I replied, taking that as an invite to stay over. I quickly grabbed my suitcase from my car boot and dragged it into his big ass house.

“Come take a seat. You want a cup of coffee or tea or somethin’?”

“I’m fine,” I smiled.

“Okay then,” he sat down. We made a bit of small talk at first, about things like my trip from London, and how life was going for the both of us. He wasn’t married, but he had an abundance of friends and relatives – he owned his own brand of clothing and received a whopping six figure income every year, despite being retired. He enjoyed travelling, shopping and playing golf – normal stuff middle aged people liked. By the end of it, I was quite certain that this guy was my real dad. We had a lot in common, personality wise. He was friendly and easy to talk to, and the figures added up – he knew some details about my mom’s past, such as the year she first got pregnant – which was the year before I was born. It didn’t require a detective nor a paternity test to put two and two together.

I told him about my past, and he seemed genuinely proud of how far I had come, and said that he couldn’t have wished for a better son. We talked in his living room until midnight, both enthralled by each other’s pasts. Of course, much of the conversation was simple banter, as I tried to sustain it in hopes of finding a route into the topic I had come to discuss. Finally, after a brief pause as he watched the dark clouds gather in the sky through a balcony window, I took my opportunity.

“What happened between you and mom, if you don’t mind me asking? She hasn’t told me anything about you at all, and doesn’t seem to want to answer any questions. I’m not sure why. I’d like to know about it.”

His expression darkened as he sighed, the exposed moon creating new shadows upon his face, making no attempt to hide the anger and disappointment the question had conjured up.

“She left,” he said, his voice a few tones deeper. “You have a sister, don’t you?”

“Yeah. She grew up without a father as well. Mom raised us all on her own.”

He sighed again, and buried his face in his palms, rubbing it with exasperation.

“Oh Sarah, Sarah… We were married at twenty.” he said. “Your mother left me for another man, out of the blue, Henry. That’s the ugly truth behind it.”

“That’s what thought as well. I never actually dared to ask her about it. I don’t know anything about her love life – she didn’t invite friends around or anything, ever.”

He raised his eyebrows.

“Hate to break it to you now, but she’s your half-sister. I’m certainly not the dad. I’m guessing the man she left me for would probably have been the father of your sister.”

“I suspected that for some time as well.”

“Heard he left her in the end. Despicable man, it wasn’t her fault. She was a beautiful and kind young woman, but she was also impulsive and wasn’t always thinking straight. Well, I guess neither of us were – we were both only twenty-one when she first got pregnant. We had some arguments during the pregnancy, she met some guy at work in the grocery store she worked at and ran off with him to a new city I guess. She cut off all contact with me, her family, and everyone from her past. Didn’t even give me a chance to take a look at you. I haven’t been with another woman since, you know. Hurts me to think about it.”

I shook my head in disappointment. It felt wrong to judge my mother’s decisions, especially after all the hardship she had been through for us, however I couldn’t help but regret her decision. My dad was a sincere guy who was successful and cared about her. If she had stayed faithful, she would’ve saved herself and me a whole lot of misery.

“Anyway,” he coughed, “you’re probably tired as heck by now. Got work tomorrow?”

I looked up at the clock, my vision already blurry. 2.42 A.M. We had been talking for over seven hours.

“Yeah, but I’ll manage. I’ve been through some serious jet lag.” I paused.

He chuckled heartily.

“I’ll give you a tour of the house, feel free to come visit any time you want. Your pops needs some more company these days.”

I followed him around the house as I dragged my suitcase along the well-polished floors, and admired the impeccably polished cabinets. Even the basement was neat and sparkling, a stark contrast to my own. He kept some old photographs down there, and a few other things from his past, like a small digital camera, old leather bags and some dusty textbooks, all organised like in a study. Upstairs, there were five large bedrooms and two bathrooms, the walls adorned with paintings and prints, mostly of countryside scenery.

He asked me to choose a bedroom to stay in, and I picked one with a huge balcony window. It overlooked a large green space and I could spot some other houses in the distance, some of which still had their lights on. I imagined the view would be incredible in the daytime.

“Goodnight son,” smiled my dad.

“Goodnight. Thanks for letting me stay over.”

“Pshh, spare your old man the courtesy.”

I looked at him and smiled back.

“You know how glad I am to finally meet you dad? I’ve been looking for answers for the past decade. This is honestly a better ending than I ever could have imagined.”

“I can say the same thing to you son, I’m proud of you. I’m real proud of you.” He paused. “How’s your mother been, all this time?”

“She’s been through a lot, but she’s well now.”

“I’m glad. She’s always been a fighter. You all live together, or…?”

“I got them a house in London. I live in my own flat nearby, and my sisters are in and out of university and work accommodation, so she’s sometimes just on her own.”

“Ah right. Well I don’t suppose you’ll be telling her about our little meet-up?”

“No, I don’t think she’d want to hear about it. Especially considering what she did. I’ll be keeping it between us, if that’s alright.”

“Yeah, of course, I’m probably the last thing she ever wants to see again,” he smirked. I said nothing, and he stood in silence for a few seconds, as if waiting for an empathetic reply. But that odd smirk somehow made me feel uneasy. It seemed a bit spiteful, and was out of character for him. “Well, you have a good sleep,” he continued, “call me if you need anything.”

“Night.”

He closed the door, and I unpacked my suitcase. There was a sink in the room right next to the balcony window which was rather convenient for my night routine. I closed the curtains, brushed my teeth and got changed, ready to sleep soundly until midday. I quickly fell asleep, too tired to think about anything that had happened that day.

A loud thud woke me up. I looked around but saw nothing unusual, and all I heard was the faint whistling of the wind. I turned on the lamp beside my bed. 3.50 A.M. Rubbing my forehead, I lay back down and began trying to fall asleep again, when I heard a faint knocking sound coming from the direction of the balcony window. I paused to listen closely again, thinking it was just a bird or some object outside being thrashed about by the wind. There was a very faint scraping noise that I heard in short bursts.

I continued to listen, even though I didn’t think the sounds were anything to be too concerned about for a while. But that changed when I heard the sound of breathing outside the window. Heavy croaky breathing like a death rattle, that could be heard even through the double glazed glass. Chills ran down my spine, as if someone had poured ice down the back of my shirt. I froze for a few seconds as my heart lurched, then I jumped out of my bed and turned on the light.

There was a small gap between the curtains, and I could see half of a hand pressed against the other side of the glass. I took a small step towards the glass to confirm whether my suspicions were correct, but jumped back again in terror when I saw an eye suddenly appear on the other side, a huge bloodshot eye almost bulging out of its socket. I could make out some features of its face, only illuminated by the light coming from the inside. The skin on its face was wrinkled and grey, and the left side of its head, the only side I could see through the gap, was bald apart from a few tufts of hair that looked like bits of stiff grey wire. The humanoid figure had a large and crooked nose, and no lips or skin around where its lips should have been, leaving all of its bare teeth exposed.

From its shadow through the curtains, I could see that it had an asymmetrical, hunched posture. It bobbed up and down as it looked into the room with one eye, as if it had difficulty maintaining balance. I saw the outline of a sharp object in its other hand, hidden behind the curtain.

I ran out of the room and screamed for my dad, who was still asleep in his room.

“Dad! Get up, NOW!”

“What is it?” He sat up in alarm and rubbed his eyes.

“Get out of the house and call the police, quickly. There’s this fucking mental dude on the balcony outside my room, no idea how he got there but I think he’s got a knife. Hurry up, he could break in any minute!”

His expression slowly turned from pure shock into grave concern.

“What did he look like?”

“Like a bloody serial killer! For fuck’s sake, I’ll tell you later, we need to get out of here.”

“Tell me what he looked like!”

I paused for a second. There was a strange sternness in his voice.

“I didn’t see much of him. He was partly bald, skinny, hunchback. Had really lumpy and saggy skin on one side of his face…”

He opened the wardrobe as I talked and fished out a baseball bat.

“Call the police and get a knife from the kitchen. Go out the back door. If you see that motherfucker, stab him until he’s dead. Don’t hesitate, or he’ll chew your fucking face off like some wild chimp. Got it?”

“You know him?”

“I’ll explain later. Now go!” He started walking towards my bedroom, bat gripped tightly in his right hand.

“For god’s sake, don’t go in there! What are you doing? Let the police deal with it! Dad!”

“Shut up and get out of the house!” He yelled. He continued edging closer to the room, looking around every second. I sprinted down to the kitchen and grabbed the largest knife I could find as I called the police.

“Come back here retarded cunt! I’ll skin ya like a chicken! Don’t you dare come on my property!” I heard my dad screaming at the psycho freak as I ran back up the stairs to join him on the balcony. That guy was nowhere to be seen.

“Where’d he go?”

“Climbed down the side of the house like a fuckin’ spider and made a run for it,” spat my dad. We made our way downstairs as the police sirens came closer. They came and checked the house, then suggested we booked a hotel in case the guy came back, but my dad insisted he was fine, against my protest.

“Who the hell was that?” I asked, after the police left in the early hours of the morning.

“Hate to break it to you, but that was your uncle. My little bro. He was born a retarded kid, severely deformed and disabled, and has a tendency for violence. Tried to kill everyone he met up until his teens, when he was institutionalised. He escaped from the hospital he was being kept at, as I told the police officer. I’ve been on edge ever since I knew. Before he got shoved in there, he told me he’d come back to kill me as well someday. I told him I’d be ready for it.”

“But I wouldn’t! You didn’t think about telling me there was the possibility my crazy uncle would be coming back to just pop in and say hello?”

“Chill man,” he rolled his eyes. “He’s physically handicapped and really fucked up mentally. He’d probably forget which way round to hold a bloody knife if he had to stab you with it. It’ll take a few hours for them to catch him fumbling down the high street at worst.”

“How did he climb all the way up the side of the house then?”

“Okay, I lied, he didn’t climb down it, he basically plunged off the balcony, slid down the drainage pipe and landed on his arse with a plonk on the pavement below as soon as he saw me. As for how he got up there, I have no freaking clue but from what you told the police, he had a good hour after you went to sleep.”

I was in no mood to sleep for the rest of the night. We stayed up and watched TV in the living room until sunrise. I jumped at every tiny noise in the house, which rather worryingly, actually seemed to amuse my dad. We had breakfast and I packed my things, weary and disorientated from an hour of sleep.

“Dad,” I said sternly, as I met him in the reception. “Come and live with me for a while in London.”

“Oh forget it son, security’s tight as hell around here. The Queen and them royal people come every so often. Nothing’s gonna happen to me.”

“Until it does. Then you know I couldn’t forgive myself. Plus it’ll be a good travel – London is an exciting place. I’ll take you places, you won’t get bored. You can come back here after they find him, which I’m guessing won’t take too long.”

He thought about it for a while, as I nudged him in the direction of the door.

“Oh alright, you’ve convinced your old man. Guess it’s time for a goddamn trip anyway. Let’s hit the road.”

I smiled and helped him pack some toiletries. We sped back to London and tried to catch some more sleep for the rest of the day in the apartment. He stayed for the next few days and we watched movies after I came home from work. I took him out to some London restaurants and we had a good time.

I kept listening out for news about my crazy uncle, but for about three days, all I heard was that they were still searching for him. I began hearing noises around my house, like footsteps and scraping. It got worse when I noticed that my phone was unplugged one day as I always left it charging before I slept, and although I was pretty sure it was just because of my own forgetfulness at the time, I would scare myself silly, expecting a text from an unknown number at midnight saying ‘LOOK BEHIND YOU’ or some other cheesy horror movie shit. I even remember waking up to the same thud I’d heard in my dad’s house. I was pretty sure it was just paranoia settling in from the fact that they weren’t able to catch my uncle yet, but I still began to get very anxious, even going so far as to keep a knife within arm’s reach while I slept.

Sometimes while I showered, I would hear footsteps around the house, when I knew my dad was asleep. I once had a nightmare that while I was in there, naked and vulnerable with the water running down my eyes and obscuring my vision, the bathroom door opened and a blurry figure stood crooked and motionless in the doorway. I’m a grown man, this is not real, it’s all in my head, I told myself. My heart began to race as it suddenly came closer, lumbering across the bathroom towards the shower cubicle at the end, getting faster with each step. I wiped the glass and suddenly, my uncle’s disfigured face with those two rows of crooked yellow teeth was pressed against the glass, a pupil missing in one of his eyes and in the other, the same piercing bloodshot look I saw that night, as if he wanted to tear the flesh out of my neck. I woke up drenched in my own sweat, went to check on my dad who was sleeping soundly in the guest room next to mine, and made myself some coffee so I could last the rest of the night.

I was convinced all of that was just in my head, so I should just let it run its course until they catch the fucker and I could finally forget about it for good. That changed one day at work, when I decided to take a photo of a ridiculous email a viewer had sent me, just so I could send it to people and have a laugh about it with a colleague later. I hadn’t used my phone camera in some time, so when I opened my gallery to take a look at the picture I’d just taken, I was surprised to see a google images screenshot that I didn’t remember taking.

I zoomed in to take a closer look. There were images of small digital cameras in the shot, most of them for sale on various eshopping websites, that reminded me of the one I saw in my dad’s basement. I wondered why I was searching for digital cameras, until I spotted the contents of the google search bar.

“HELPM E”

After a few seconds of growing panic, I opened the image details menu. The screenshot had been taken at 3.45 A.M. on the day I’d stayed over at my dad’s house. That night, I’d woken up at 3.50 A.M.

Suddenly, I dreaded the worst. I couldn’t think straight at the time, but I had a terrible feeling and an inexplicable urge to find that camera, like it would give me closure of some sort. I told my boss I had a family emergency, and promptly excused myself from work, then drove back to my apartment.

“You’re home early.” My dad was on the couch watching an episode of ‘Friends’.

“I uh, oops. Left my laptop charger at home and it’s run out. Silly me.”

“Ah.”

I went to my dad’s room as quietly as possible and started looking through his drawers, trouser and coat pockets and his suitcase. It took me a while, but I managed to find his house keys in the front compartment of the suitcase. I shoved the keys in my pocket and prepared to leave, when I heard footsteps coming closer. The bedroom door opened without warning. My dad looked at me with a puzzled expression, and I let go of the suitcase.

“You won’t find no charger in there.”

“I had to look under the bed. Stuff gets stuck down there sometimes.” I laughed nervously as I scrambled around some more. I didn’t know why I couldn’t tell him the truth. It just didn’t feel right, and I wanted to see for myself. “Well looks like I’m gonna have to borrow from someone else. I’m going back to work now, I’ll see you later. Look after yourself pops.”

I stood up to leave, but he didn’t move from the doorway. He raised an eyebrow and for a second I thought he wasn’t going to let me go, but he nodded and moved.

“Come home soon.”

“You take care.”

I ran down the few flights of stairs and jumped into my car again, ready for the hour long drive back to Ascot. As my apartment window gradually shifted out of my field of vision, I spotted my dad in the corner, unzipping the front compartment of his suitcase. All I could think was ‘shit’, as my stomach sank.

Upon my arrival, I received a call from my mom. I sat in my car and took it, hoping it would calm me down a little, until I remembered that my mom never called me during work hours unless she thought it was an emergency.

“Hey mom, how are yo-“

“Henry,” she interrupted, her voice cold and tense. I remembered her using the same tone almost three decades ago. “I need you to be honest with me. Have you had any contact with a man named Daniel Cross? Does the name ring any bells at all?”

“…no. Why?” I gulped.

“Alright. Sorry to bother you at work.”

“Wait, what happened?”

“I’ll call you back after work-“

“No, mom. Tell me now. I’m not at work.”

“Well where are you now?”

“Just tell me what’s going on.”

I heard her voice shudder a little. After much hesitation and question dodging, she finally spilled the beans.

“I was a victim of stalking. My stalker was a man named Daniel Cross, your uncle actually. He tried to get in touch with me countless times after I moved away from your father Jamie. l…” She began to sob as she spoke, making an effort to control herself.

“I’m sorry Henry, I… I’m scared. I started getting texts from him again a few days ago, after I’d changed my number countless times. He said I was a whore, and he knew where I lived. He said he would kill me. I didn’t know what to do, I saw him in the streets yesterday while you were at work. I couldn’t believe it after all these years… but I saw him. I ran back home before he could see me and locked the doors, but the messages keep coming Henry! I can’t take this anymore…”

“Oh my fucking god, it’s been how many years and you decide to tell me this NOW?”

“I didn’t want you to be a part of this, none of you!”

“Well let me tell you something mom, I already am. I found dad, and I spoke to him. I know the truth - he told me what you did. I don’t know what you’re on about, but he said you left him for some other guy at work. Forgive me if I’m sounding harsh, but no wonder you didn’t have the guts to face it and tell us the truth. I would have at least appreciated if you didn’t put the blame on him and told me you regretted him being a part of your life as if it was his fault. Mom?”

“You… spoke to your father?” Her voice was dead serious. She spoke with a flat tone.

“Yeah, I did. You said his name was Jamie, right?”

“That is his name, but…”

“Well I met him about a few days ago. He lives in Ascot in a frickin’ mansion house and owns a Mercedes. He’s a decent guy who hasn’t been with another woman since you left him, and didn’t even give him a chance to see his own son.”

“Oh no no nononono… god no,” her voice trembled, as if she’d just had a wave of realisation.

“Mom? What’s going on?”

“You…” she choked, “you didn’t talk to your father that day.”

“What?”

“Your father had a learning disability. On top of that, he was in an accident that burned off nearly all the skin on his body. I don’t even know if he’s alive or dead. Even if he was still alive, there’s no way he could hold a conversation, and living in a mansion in Ascot is hardly a possibility for him.”

“Are you being fucking serious?”

“I am being really fucking serious.”

Then something hit me. The day I’d woken up to an unplugged phone, which I initially thought was my own doing, I was surprised to find my contacts list open. I knew everyone’s numbers well and usually dialled them straight into the keypad to save time, and rarely used the contacts list, unless it was for birthdays or addresses.

“Mom, get out of the house right now. Call Janet and ask her to meet you in a public place, then get out of London. It’s possible he knows where you live, so doesn’t matter where it is, just go somewhere far. I’ll call you back again later, and meet you wherever you’re going.”

“H-Henry?”

“Just do what I say!” I yelled.

“You met with him?” she asked.

“Do what I say and I’ll explain later!” I hung up.

I darted out of my car and entered the house with the key, then sprinted down to the basement where I grabbed the digital camera and made it back into my car. The camera had batteries, and I was very surprised that it actually started up. I began looking through the pictures that had been taken.

At first, they were just images of people playing golf and random scenic shots. But then, I spotted a twenty-second long video with a terrifying thumbnail. There was a man, gagged and bound to a chair, his face bloodied. I assumed he had been beaten beyond recognition, and recognised the background as one of the corners of the basement I found the camera in. Preparing myself for the worst, I pressed the play button.

The man tied to the chair mumbled like he was on drugs, as his head drooped to one side.

“Don’t… hurt… don’t hurt… her…” I thought I heard him say. His speech was incredibly slurred. Even though his hair hung low down the front of his face, I could see that his eyes were very swollen and barely open.

“She’s mine retard, and don’t you worry. I’ll fuck her until her brains come out after I’m done with you.”

The man in the chair began to cry, as the camera panned away and a hand came into view, grabbing a familiar looking baseball bat. The abuser struck the man in the head with unforgiving force, and he screamed. They proceeded to apply the same blunt force trauma to his ribs, legs and arms and I winced as the screams erupted, tears falling from my eyes. A chair leg snapped, and the chair fell, causing the man to hit his head again on the hard stone floor. The violence stopped for a second as the camera zoomed into his face, pressed against the ground, drenched in blood and sweat. He whimpered quietly. Suddenly, I heard a loud splash, drowned out by static as some fluid was poured over his body.

“No, no no no…” I whispered. “No…”

I heard the sound of a match being struck, followed by the crackle of a flame.

“Fuck you,” said the voice behind the camera.

I didn’t even see him throw the match. Without warning, the man in the chair burst into flames and the screams made me throw up right onto my steering wheel. I could hear the burning, and smell the charring of human flesh. The flames roared and I felt the intense heat on my own face, tearing away at my skin. The video ended, and I lay with my head against my seat back, shaking uncontrollably with shock at what I had just witnessed. Arms weak and hands trembling, I pressed the ‘next’ button. There was an image of a young woman with curly blonde hair, stripped naked and tied up in the back seat of a car. I shook my head in horror. This was not happening. This was not real. Before I could play the video, a ‘low battery’ warning popped up on the screen for half a second, then it went all black.

Pure rage and disgust replaced my fear in an instant. I cleaned my steering wheel with my shirt sleeve and started my engine. It all made sense now. I finally knew the truth, and the police would too. My phone buzzed.

“Meet us at Hammersmith train station. We’re safe.”

“I’ll be there asap,” I texted back.

“I’m sorry, this mess is all my fault. I didn’t consider your safety at all.”

My mom shook her head.

“No, I think I owe you the truth.”

“I understand why you don’t want to talk about it. I saw the video.”

I saw tears well up in her eyes, but she kept talking.

“He asked to meet me in the town centre. He said he was sorry, and wanted to put things right. It was a bar we both knew, so I agreed. Then he drugged and raped me in the backseat of his car. I fought with everything I had and managed to escape. You might remember me coming home a little later that night…” she sighed.

“Your father was a nice guy. He had meningitis as a kid which gave him brain damage in certain parts, so he couldn’t speak or hear very well, and he couldn’t control the right side of his face so it looked like he was having a permanent stroke. He did badly in exams and found it harder to learn new things. But other than that he was a normal kid. The other kids at school called him a retard, and he never once spoke back. He was quite tall and handsome just like his older brother, but very shy. Couldn’t help but feel sorry for him.”

“I’d never talked to him much in high school, but I instantly recognised him on my first day at work. He was bagging groceries in the aisle next to mine, and somehow managed to wink at me with his right eye, which I thought was quite an achievement.”

She giggled like a teenager.

“We saw each other every day. He was always nice to me, unlike the boyfriends I had in the past, and I liked spending time with him. He didn’t talk much, but we played a lot of games together and watched TV. We started dating for about a year and a half when he asked me to marry him one day. I accepted, and changed my name to Mrs Cross on my bills and stuff, but we didn’t have enough money for a ceremony. My parents didn’t like him, and told me to get rid of him as soon as possible.”

“We lived at my place, because he said his brother didn’t like him, and to be honest, I didn’t like his brother. They had inherited a huge mansion house and a lump sum from their rich grandmother who passed away when they were both teenagers. His brother Daniel took the money and house for himself, and Jamie didn’t know what to do about it. He slept on the streets for a while, until I said he could stay at mine. Daniel saw us together outside the store once, and approached us. I could tell that as soon as he laid eyes on me, he was obsessed. He kept asking me to go over to his house and take pictures with him. Probably not because I was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, but because he was in disbelief that his weakling of a brother could get laid before him. I was nice to him at first, but he tried to get me to sleep with him. When I refused, that’s when the stalking started. He would somehow find my number and text me threatening messages asking why I didn’t like him, asking why I chose a retard instead of him, and I repeatedly blocked his various numbers.”

“I was five months pregnant when Jamie disappeared. Daniel texted me and told me that he died in a car accident that burned almost all his skin off. I almost believed him, until he sent me gruesome pictures and told me that I’d be next if I didn’t get with him. I had enough, and I ran away to the only place where I could afford rent and be far away from him. I didn’t report it to the police – I was scared he would kill me. I was young, with a baby on the way, and I just wanted to get away from it all.”

I sighed.

“I don’t blame you. He’s behind bars now, so it’s all over.”

“It’s been a hell of a long time.”

“It sure has. You ready?” I put my left hand on her shoulder, while I grasped the blue ward curtain with my right. The nurse flashed an encouraging smile. Various machines beeped quietly in the distance. She closed her eyes and nodded.

I pulled the curtain open, revealing a skeletal man who lay motionless on the bed. There were bandages across his face, exposing only his left eye, which flickered open as we approached him. My mom couldn’t hold in her tears, and she started bawling.

“How did they find him?” I asked the nurse.

“In a poor but stable condition. They found him collapsed at a bus station, in the first stages of hypothermia. From his previous hospital records, he has quite a bit of brain damage from various causes. He still recognises famous faces and remembers stuff like the year and his own birthday, and some numbers and words, but he can’t read basic sentences. He’s deaf in both ears and can’t speak at all.”

I knelt down beside my father, and took a second to admire his single functioning eye. It was slightly bloodshot, bright green and watery like my own eyes, and I could see my reflection in his iris. I smiled and mouthed the words ‘I love you’.

He replied with a nod.