Ghosts in the Morning Page 5

  Anita had looked at me with a curious smile as we left. ‘Well well, Andy, not like you to be so feisty.’

  ‘Sorry, yes, I’m just...just tired of being treated like, oh, I don’t know, like dirt.’

  ‘Hey, Andy dear, there’s no need to be defensive, don’t try and justify yourself to me. I think it’s great. It’s about time too, if you ask me. Bastards like that think they can say what they like, good for you sticking up for yourself. Now, look, I’ll give you a ring in a few days, I’ll treat you to lunch next time.’ Anita had kissed me warmly on both cheeks.

  I had walked to the bus stop – I had left the car at home, I had guessed I would be drinking at lunchtime with Anita – and had felt a frisson of joy coursing through me, as I thought of the sheepish look on the tall rugby player’s face.

  I put my bag down in the hall and headed for the lounge. Daniel had no doubt gone out and left the television on. I sighed. He was getting lazier by the day.

  But Daniel hadn’t gone out. He was on the sofa with a young woman. Well, it seemed she was more of a girl really, but it was hard to tell. Daniel was lying on top of her, but thankfully clothed. His hand was worming around under her jumper. I thought of Uncle Peter and how he used to grip my barely budded breasts, pawing and scratching. He made one of my nipples bleed once.

  Daniel jumped up. ‘Mum, what are you doing here?’

  ‘I live here, Daniel.’ I said, coldly. I stared at the girl. She looked about fifteen. Young, innocent. She had four studs drilled into the upper edge of her right ear and another through her nose. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Er, I’m, er, I’m Jadie-Lee.’

  I sighed inwardly. What was it with people these days, why did they have to give their kids such stupid names? ‘How old are you, Jadie-Lee?’

  ‘I’m fif - ..I’m sixteen.’

  I turned to Daniel. ‘Daniel Halston, you are twenty years old. And this girl here, this Jadie-Lee, is fifteen. What do you think you are doing, are you some sort of paedophile?’ I was aware that I was shouting now, but I couldn’t help it, this wasn’t right.

  ‘But, Mum, we weren’t doing anything, we were...we were just – ’

  ‘Daniel, I am not stupid. You were not just doing nothing.’

  ‘Look, she’s nearly sixteen, she’s – ’

  I tried to force my voice down, but I was still shouting. ‘Shut up, Daniel. And go upstairs. No, Daniel, now. I need to speak to your...your friend. ’

  Daniel opened his mouth to argue but then saw the look on my face and closed it. He shuffled slowly upstairs.

  I looked at Jadie-Lee, who was tucking her blouse into her jeans. She was sniffing, maybe the stud in her nose was causing it, it couldn’t be comfortable having a thick nail through your nose. ‘Look, Jade...Jadie-Lee, I am going to call for a taxi for you, and you are going to go home. And, please, I want you to think about going for boys your own age in future. You’re only fifteen, for God’s sake. Please, Jadie-Lee, you should think a lot harder before letting men grope you, you’re just a kid.’ There was a slightly desperate pleading note in my voice but I couldn’t stop it.

  ‘You’re not my Mum,’ she said, and sniffed again.

  ‘No, I’m not your Mum. But you’re not even sixteen yet, so you should listen to someone who knows that...well, who knows that you have to be careful. You can’t trust people, you certainly can’t trust men.’

  ‘What, so you’re saying that I can’t trust Dan? He’s your son, are you saying you don’t even trust your own son?’ She sniffed again.

  ‘Do you want a tissue?’ I said. She shook her head, she still carried an air of defiance. ‘Yes, he’s my son, Jadie-Lee, and Daniel, yes, he’s okay, but...but, look, you just need to be careful. Men aren’t like us, they don’t think rationally, they can be...well, they’re different, you just need to be a bit careful, you have to watch out for...all I’m saying is, you need to look after yourself.’ I wanted to reach out to this slender girl, squeeze her tight, and protect her from all the bad things...

  ‘Yeah, whatever,’ she sniffed. ‘Anyway, I don’t need a taxi, I can walk, so I’ll see myself out, yeah.’

  The door slammed and she was gone, and I realised that I was crying and I had no idea when exactly the tears had started.

  ***

  I pushed the button to turn on the cooker. Nothing. I gritted my teeth. I wanted to kick the blasted thing, to smash its ugly hob eyes that were glaring at me. Daniel had gone out in a strop, giving the door an extra hard slam to illustrate his annoyance. As if it was my fault that he was acting like a paedophile.

  I grabbed the phone book and scanned the yellow pages for home appliance repairs. I dialled the first name. ‘Sorry, there’s no-one here to take your call at the moment, so please leave a message after the tone.’ I rang off and dialled the next.

  ‘Alan Bonstead speaking.’

  ‘Hi, I have a problem with my cooker, I’m wondering if-’

  ‘Er, sorry, yeah, I’m stacked out at the moment, can you give us a call next week?’ I rang off without replying and slammed the phone on the worktop. I sighed and once again, I scrolled down the list of names in the phone book. I took a deep breath, then dialled again.

  ‘Colin’s Domestic Repairs.’ The voice had a harsh Scottish accent, and was curt to the point of rudeness.

  ‘Hello, I need someone to take a look at my cooker, it’s-’

  ‘I don’t fix cookers,’ the voice said.

  I dug my nails into my palms. ‘So what the fuck do you fix, then, I would have thought that cookers fall into the category of domestic repairs, no? Or do you not have a cooker in your house, does a cooker not count as a domestic appliance in Scotland, maybe you just cook your fucking haggis on a barbecue, then, you fucking arsehole!’

  I paused and heard a brief silence on the phone. Then the accent again, but softer and slower this time. ‘Eh, well, you are some fucking crazy bampot, right you are. A right fucking weirdo, you are missus, you need your head looking at, so you do.’ The phone clicked off.

  Fifteen minutes later, I tried again, my rage dulled by a large glass of wine, and this time I reached a repairman who promised he would be with me in twenty minutes.

  ‘Is simple,’ said the repairman , true to his word on his time of arrival. ‘Is just a fuse. But, lady, I think you need to change the element, soon, yes. It has not long, I think. You want me to change now also, I have parts in van.’

  ‘Er, yep, okay, fine.’ I shrugged at the repairman. He had told me he was from Poland. ‘I am Pieter, I am from Krakow, is beautiful city, have you ever been, lady. No? You should go, you would like, I think.’

  Graham wouldn’t have liked the fact that I was using a Polish repairman. He didn’t like immigrants, and his more vociferous outbursts appeared to be reserved for those that originated from Eastern Europe. He said they came to Jersey, took all of the jobs, and then still had the audacity to moan about the island. ‘You know what they say, if you don’t like it, there’s always a boat in the morning.’ I never really understood how Graham could moan about immigrants, I mean, his parents were from England originally. Personally, it didn’t bother me where someone was from, it always seemed to me that people worried about that sort of thing far too much.

  Pieter worked fast. A mere half hour later and he was done. ‘That is, please, eighty five pounds. You want that I send you a bill?’

  ‘No, no, I’ll get you a cheque now, that’ll be just as easy.’ I rummaged in the kitchen drawer and grabbed the chequebook for the joint account. I cursed quietly. There were no cheques left, just paying-in slips. ‘Hold on a moment.’

  Upstairs, I rooted around in Graham’s bedside drawer, and found the chequebook for his account. I stretched my fingers out and picked up a pen. I would write and sign the cheque in Graham’s handwriting. His handwriting was distinctive, with funny loops on the ‘l’s and the ‘t’s, but for me it was easy to copy. I had been doing it for years. Graham knew usually, it didn’t bot
her him too much. He was happy for me to take care of the domestic administration, it meant less paperwork for him at home. More time left for him to spend screwing Nikki, maybe.

  Pieter shook my hand as he left. ‘Thank you, lady, you need anything else to fix, washerdisher maybe, or even television, you call me, yes. Bye bye.’

  ***

  The local newspaper landed on the mat with a light flutter. I picked it up and headed for the lounge, clutching a glass of wine. The soft cream leather of the sofa murmured as I sat down. I leaned back and closed my eyes. An image rushed in- unwelcome -of the girl, Jadie-Lee, her studded nose being pushed into the leather with Daniel grinding atop her and I opened my eyes again quickly.

  I took a large swig of wine and reached for the paper. I breathed deeply, and savoured the silence. No background noise at all. Daniel had gone out in a huff. I scratched my cheek pensively, heard the scrape of my rough nails down my dry skin. I knew it wasn’t easy for Daniel; he wanted his independence, he didn’t want to be living with his parents, but he was stuck. He couldn’t afford to move out, get a place of his own. Not with the price of property rental in Jersey. He didn’t even have a proper full-time job. He worked as an apprentice plumber, but his boss employed him on an hour-by-hour basis, and those hours were becoming increasingly infrequent. I had suggested to Graham that we should help him out in some way, but Graham had been adamant. ‘I don’t mind not charging him rent for living at home, I’ll let him off the board, but I’m not paying for him to live in some bachelor pad. He has to learn to stand on his own two feet.’

  I flicked to the back pages then stopped. Something on the front page had caught my eye. I turned the newspaper over.

  TRAGEDY AT CORBIERE

  A man has died in what is believed to be a tragic accident near Corbière lighthouse. The man has been identified as Ronald Silber, a holidaymaker from Birmingham. Mr. Silber, a keen ornithologist, was in the island alone, and it is believed that he fell from the rocks on the west side of Corbière during the recent bout of stormy weather. His body was found by a local fisherman who spotted Mr. Silber’s hire car parked on the hill nearby. Next of kin have been informed.

  I shook my head. ‘I don’t know, these bloody tourists really need to be careful on the coast, they’re always underestimating our tides, and those rocks can be awfully dangerous,’ I muttered to myself and then began to giggle. I forced myself to stop, it was not right to laugh at another’s tragic misfortune. Then I noticed another article, much smaller, tucked at the corner of the page.

  Witnesses sought

  The cyclist whose body was found in La Rue de Martie on Wednesday morning has been identified as John Rosslet. The police have not yet disclosed the details of Mr. Rosslet’s death, but they are urging any witnesses to come forward. In particular, they wish to speak to the driver of a dark four-by-four type vehicle that was seen in the vicinity of La Rue de Martie on Tuesday night at approximately 9 p.m.

  Mr. Rosslet was a widower and is survived by a son.

  ‘What’s for dinner?’ Graham’s voice jolted me harshly from my thoughts.

  ‘Oh, ummm, well, I’m not too hungry, I was out for lunch. And I’ve only just had the cooker fixed, it was broken. A man came to fix, but it was, well, it wasn’t that long ago, I didn’t have time to prepare anything. But if you want, I can do you a baked potato or some soup or – ’

  ‘Great, a bloody baked potato,’ Graham grunted. ‘Don’t worry about it, I’ll order a takeaway, I quite fancy an Indian. Oh, and while I remember, we’re having a dinner party. On Friday.’

  ‘What do you mean, a dinner party? Whose?’ I said. Anxious. I hated going to dinner parties all that small talk made me squirm.

  ‘No, Andrea, we are having a dinner party. As in we are hosting it. Not my idea, to be honest. Just that we’ve got two of the head honchos coming over from London and Piers suggested we have dinner here.’

  Piers was the managing partner in Graham’s audit firm. Young, pompous and arrogant.

  ‘Why aren’t you just going out for dinner instead? Even better, why doesn’t Piers host it?’

  ‘He said it would be...well, his words were that it would be more relaxed, more informal, to have it here. He said it would make a nice change, and he’s fed up of eating out.’

  ‘Well he would be fed up if he’s eating out.’ I giggled.

  ‘Eh? Have you had too much wine again, Andrea? Anyway, he’s having some work done at his place – a new kitchen – hence he’s been eating at restaurants for the last two weeks. And also therefore can’t host it at his place. Look, I don’t fancy the idea myself, to be honest, but I’ve been put in a bit of a spot. Piers didn’t really give me the opportunity to say no. You know what’s he like.’

  ‘Yes, I do. He’s a rude, arrogant twat.’

  ‘Steady on, Andrea, he’s not that bad, and he is my boss, after all.’

  ‘Well, he can hardly hear me now, can he? Anyway, so, how many are coming? What am I supposed to cook?’

  ‘Um, there’ll be eight of us in total. That’s including me and you. The aforementioned head honchos are bringing their other halves – apparently they want to do a bit of sightseeing in Jersey - and Piers will bring Lindy obviously...and as for what to cook...well, why don’t you do steak? A piece of Chateaubriand. Maybe a few salmon fillets in case any of the women are vegetarians. You’ll work it out, I’m sure.’

  Graham looked at me and wrinkled his nose. It used to be cute when he did that, like an inquisitive squirrel. I used to find it endearing. Now, he just looked like a snob who’d stood in something nasty. He sounded like one too, with his mock-posh voice saying things like ‘the aforementioned head honchos.’

  ‘And Andrea, please try not to drink too much. These are very senior partners from London.’

  He turned and headed out of the lounge, his fat nose titled towards the ceiling. I stuck my middle finger up at his retreating back.

  Chapter 6

  Uncle Peter wasn’t the only man to rape me. It happened once more, at the care home.

  I was fifteen. The care home had changed dramatically in the previous twelve months. Sandra and Elizabeth were still there but Anita had left. She was older and ready to be kicked out into the big, wide world. She got a job in the local Woolworths and moved out into a little bedsit in the town. I used to go in to the shop and see her on Saturdays; she would give me the nod when it was safe to stick a bag of sweets or a bar of chocolate under my jacket, but she got a boyfriend so we lost touch for a while.

  Francesca had been moved to another care home - something to do with being closer to grandparents, but the details were vague. Susie had bewilderingly gone back to her parents, the authorities obviously oblivious to the further physical and psychological damage that she would suffer. The system didn’t really care, it was just one less mouth to be fed and cared for from a tight budget, and there were a limited number of spaces in the care home. Clare – Clay – had been moved to a different kind of institution – there were initially some rumours of a mutilated cat being found in the grounds, but these dissipated when somebody mentioned that Clay had been found in the showers with blood pouring from her wrists. We weren’t sure if it was true, but we knew Clay had gone.

  But by far the biggest change was to the home itself. It was no longer the Garter Home for Girls. A decision had been taken to allow boys into the home, making it a mixed care home. Like most decisions taken for purely monetary reasons, it was a disaster. It was like putting the proverbial cats amongst the pigeons. Mean cats, too. The Home was re-branded as Elmtree Way – the powers-that-be dropping Felicity Garter’s name like a soiled nappy, in their eagerness to modernise. And like most rebranding exercises, the cosmetic changes were merely paper over the widening cracks that were happening beneath.

  The equilibrium in the Home changed. Obviously the Home had had its fair share of bullying and nastiness before the boys came, but there had always been an unwritten rule, a sort of honour among the
‘naughty’ girls. Things had never gone too far. But the appearance of boys in the care home changed all of this. The boys were bigger, more aggressive and pumped full of teenage testosterone. And, of course, from their point of view, there were girls to impress, they were keen to show off their strength, their muscles, their dominance. Underneath all of the bravado, they were the same as us – young, scared, and scarred – but they were never going to let that show. The fights became more brutal, the cruelty more pronounced. And, inevitably, when rough, violent, abused teenage boys are put into a captive home with pubescent girls, bad things will happen...

  I was in the shed and I was drunk. Anita had given me the key to the shed – ‘Andy, this key is for you alone, use it when you need somewhere to come when you need to get away from all the crap, when you need time to yourself, yeah, everyone needs their own space sometimes’ – and, like Anita, I had always kept a secret stash of vodka in there. Sometimes, as Anita had said, it helped to stop the thoughts, the memories...

  The vodka had burnt then soothed. I had given up bothering to mix it with orange juice, I knew if I held the first few sips down, I’d be fine. A soporific warmth spread through my body and I felt my muscles relax. A few more sips, and the world slowed down, I could hear the breeze rustling the leaves. Another sip. Peace. My eyes grew heavy.

  Then a louder rustle. Close, not leaves this time.

  The voice slammed into my head, harsh, grating, the peaceful moment was gone in an instant. ‘Well, looky here, what’s this? Skinny Andrea’s got herself a little hideaway. Very nice, very nice, indeed.’ Darren was standing at the doorway to the shed. ‘Oh, and what’s this? It looks like she’s got herself a little bottle of vodka too.’

  I squinted my eyes to focus, as anxiety flared briefly. Darren appeared to be alone. He was a bully but like most bullies, he was far worse when he had back-up. This usually came in the form of Kevin and Jonnie, two scrawny, pimply kids who thought they were tough when they were with Darren.