Ghosts in the Morning Page 6

  Darren had been at the home for a month. He was an ugly kid, fifteen years old, with sunken eyes, and thin lips. He was lean, but strong, wiry and he always wore cap-sleeve T-shirts to show off the muscles in his arms. Elizabeth said that she’d heard that he’d been fostered out several times in the past, but it had never lasted. She said she’d heard that, on every occasion, it had been cut short, the foster parents hadn’t wanted to keep him.

  ‘So, skinny Andrea, are you gonna share that drink with us?’

  I sighed, trying to shake my head clear. I wanted to tell Darren to piss of, leave me alone. Then my heart started to beat faster. ‘Us’.

  Suddenly Kevin and Jonnie stepped into the doorway. The prickle of fear that had been niggling at the back of my mind pushed its way through the alcohol numbness and crawled down my back.

  ‘Oh, yes, very nice, yes, I like a nice bit of vodka, I do,’ Kevin smirked. There was a ripe spot on his chin; custardy white with a glowing red halo surrounding it, it looked like it was on the verge of bursting.

  ‘Well, skinny Andrea, it’s very nice of you to invite us to share your drink,’ Darren said, and squeezed down next to me. I could feel his hip bone jutting into mine. He grabbed the bottle of vodka and took a large swig. ‘Very nice indeed.’

  He passed the bottle to Kevin and then Jonnie who took it in turns to take large pulls from the bottle. Jonnie coughed and spat. ‘Fuck’s sake, Jonnie, don’t be a wuss,’ Kevin laughed. Darren took another sip and then stared right at me. ‘Very cosy in here, isn’t it,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Very nice and cosy and private indeed.’

  My heart was pounding hard now. ‘Er, I’ve got to go, I, um, we um, aren’t supposed to be in here, we’ll get in trouble, I’ve got to – ’

  ‘Sshhh, ssshhh,’ Darren said, putting a grimy finger across my lips. ‘Don’t worry, Jonnie will keep a look out for us, make sure no-one bothers us. Won’t you, Jonnie?’

  Jonnie looked disappointed, his shoulders sank. ‘I s’pose. But save some vodka for me, yeah.’ He shuffled through the doorway of the shed, and I tried to get up, to follow him out, I didn’t want to be in that shed any more.

  A firm hand grabbed my shoulder and pulled me back. ‘Now, now, skinny Andrea, where are you off to? I mean, we’ve had a little drink together, I think it’s time that we got a little better acquainted,’ Darren said. His hand remained on my shoulder but now his other hand snaked across my body and grabbed hold of my breast.

  I was properly scared now. ‘Don’t,’ I said, as firmly as I could, but my voice felt thick, the vodka had thickened my tongue. ‘Don’t. I have to go!’ I pushed his hands away roughly, catching him by surprise, and jumped to my feet.

  A blur, like lightning in my periphery, and Darren’s arm had shot out and clutched my wrist. I could see his biceps tensed and swollen, I could feel his wiry strength. ‘Now, now, skinny Andrea, not so fast. I mean, you can’t invite us in for a drink, and then just leave. I mean, that’s not very nice, not very friendly is it? I mean, especially not when we’re just getting romantic.’

  I tugged against his arm, but he was too strong. Tears sprung to my eyes, and the world around me began to blur and spin.

  I felt my legs pulled away from me, felt my head bang on the floor of the shed. I breathed the musty smell of wood, could taste old varnish, acrid, sour. My wrists were gripped tight and held above my head and there was an arm across my neck. Words drifted to my ears – ‘give us a hand here, Kevin, hold her arms there’ - then a rag, dirty, oily, greasy, was thrust into my mouth. There was a rough tug at my jeans, denim scraped my thighs, then a tearing sound as my panties were pulled down violently. Through the haze, I had tried to wrestle my arms but they were trapped hard, I had fought to kick my legs, but the weight upon them was too much, the feeling of paralysis. Then the blur of time slowed, and everything began to freeze. I closed my eyes, I didn’t want to see anymore, but I couldn’t shut out the slow-motion pictures. Through my closed eyelids I could see Darren’s leering face with its jutted cheekbones and then I felt a sharp stabbing pain on my leg, then I heard Darren say ‘shit, the bitch’s hole ain’t easy to find’, and then an excruciating pain of friction, like a burning inside me, and the friction began to scrape, slow at first, then faster, searing into me, and soon after I felt a hot wetness on my thigh. The grip on my wrists relaxed briefly, then a shuffling noise, and now it was Kevin’s turn, but I was numb and this time the stabbing was brief, this time the hot wetness was let go inside of me. ‘Hey, Jonnie, your turn,’, and then ‘Jonnie, you really are a wuss, either that or you’re gay,’ then my arms were finally let go, and the rag was pulled from my mouth.

  I didn’t open my eyes as the voice bit into me. ‘Now, the way I see it, skinny Andrea, is that you were up for it. I mean, sharing vodka like that, giving us the come-on, what do you expect? You wanted it, yeah? Listen, you tell anyone, well – it’s your word against the three of us. I don’t reckon old Phillips will believe anything you say.’

  Mr. Phillips was the new head of the care home. Retired from the army, he had little time for the girls, saw them as a nuisance.

  ‘Come on boys, I fancy a game of pool,’ Darren said. Matter-of-fact, like nothing had happened.

  I pulled my jeans up. Once again I could hear the rustle of the breeze on the leaves as I sobbed silently.

  ***

  ‘Yeah, I can get it done for you today if you like. Cost a few quid, mind, I’d have to put two of the boys on it. And you’ll pay cash, yeah?’

  ‘Yes, cash. I told you that already.’

  ‘Alright, missus, keep your hair on, just checking. You don’t need a loan car, do you? Well, I hope you don’t, anyway, ‘cos we ain’t got one.’ The mechanic laughed to himself, then jabbed a thumb towards a younger guy. ‘Get on this one, Shane, will ya. Get Mark to give you a hand, if you need it.’

  I didn’t need a loan car, and it had looked like the kind of garage that didn’t provide that level of service. That was precisely why I had driven around until I had found it. I needed the type of garage that didn’t ask too many questions. I had told the mechanic that my husband had dented the bumper when he had been moving our car. ‘To let a neighbour out of his driveway. The problem is that my husband had had a few glasses of wine, and though he didn’t actually drive anywhere, well, you know...well, we can’t really claim on the insurance if you see what I mean, I’m sure they’d ask why we didn’t report it at the time.’ The mechanic had nodded, didn’t seem fazed by my story, had given a conspiratorial wink that made him look even uglier than he already was, and then asked if it would be a cash job.

  I had decided to get the bumper of the car fixed. It was the article in the newspaper about the cyclist, it had worried me a little, it seemed that somebody may have spotted the car. I was sure they didn’t have the number plate – they couldn’t have, the police would surely have been in touch by now – but it paid to be careful.

  ‘Right, I’ll be back at about five o’clock then,’ I said, but the mechanic ignored me, had already turned his back, leaving me staring at the wall. A calendar was pinned up there, lopsided, glossy nymphs thrusting their breasts forward, their lips pursed in a mock-sexual pout, seemingly desperate to be ogled by thousands of tradesmen. I didn’t like to think of myself as a complete prude, but I didn’t understand the point, and these girls always looked so young...

  I headed for the bus stop, then changed my mind. It was an unseasonably mild day, the sun casting a balmy glow, so I decided to walk. It would give me time to think, to plan the menu for the dinner party that I was being forced to host. The sun was low, its winter rays had no real power, and there was a light, chilled breeze, yet I had walked only a short way before I felt a light film of sweat over my body. I chided myself, feeling an angry frustration at my unfit condition. I had been such a slim teenager, a slender waist, and ribs you could see, but the rigours of bearing three children, the feared onset of middle-age, together with a total lack of exercise for a g
ood few years had changed all that. I could feel the rolls of fat wobbling on my stomach, and my thighs scraping together with each step.

  What could I cook? Something simple, easy to prepare, but something that gave the appearance of hours of delicate preparation. Graham had suggested that I cook Chateaubriand steak, but I always found that to be an awkward dinner party choice. People always liked their steak cooked differently – well-done, medium, rare, medium to well – and it just became a pain, too much fuss. Graham liked his steak very rare – blue – and if we were in company he would always made the same stupid joke; ‘blue, please - just wipe its arse and put it on the plate.’ He would follow this with a silly chuckle and sometimes it took all I had to stop me from sticking my fork in his eye.

  No, sod Graham, I wasn’t cooking steak. Maybe I’d do some fish – sea bass, perhaps, that was easy to cook, and it was easy to make it appear exotic with a few of the right herbs and a dash of lemon juice.

  Chapter 7

  We all stood in the lounge, clutching champagne flutes, smiling politely and generally looking awkward. Piers, Graham’s boss, cleared his throat, about to speak, but he was beaten to it by David, one of the audit partners from London.

  ‘It’s a lovely house you have here, Graham, very nice indeed, I do like the way you’ve utilised the space. I recall reading once that the placement of mirrors is very important when you’re trying to give the illusion of a larger room.’ I saw Graham smile through gritted teeth, at the rude slight. ‘I’m sure I right in assuming your good wife is responsible for the interior decor? After all, women are usually much better at that sort of thing, aren’t they?’ boomed David. He had a very loud voice.

  ‘Yes, yes, they are, hah hah,’ Graham said, adding a forced chuckle. He glanced at me and wobbled his glass, his signal to me that we needed another bottle of champagne. That would be the third one. Good. It meant I there was plenty of room for error in my cooking, none of this lot would be able to taste a bloody thing.

  I grabbed a sweating bottle, topped my own glass up and took a large swig before heading back into the lounge. Graham came towards me, glass outstretched. He seemed to be drinking faster than usual and I knew it was because he felt uncomfortable. I knew, too, that part of the reason for his discomfort was that he was embarrassed by me. Against the other women in the room, I stood out like a sore thumb. A sore very fat thumb. I looked like a giant marshmallow in a bed of pencils.

  Piers’ wife - Lindy - was young, attractive and very slim, with large, high breasts. Glossy and blonde – on the surface at least - she was a schoolboy’s wet dream, but I couldn’t help thinking that against her sylph-like silhouette, her breasts seemed out of place. Too big and forthright, like freshly-launched torpedoes, I knew it had to be a boob job.

  The London visitors had also brought their other halves. They appeared to be girlfriends rather than wives - there were no wedding rings. Like Lindy, they too were slim with over-large tits, creamy lumps of cleavage spilling from the scooped necklines of their dresses.

  I topped David’s glass up, and he nodded at me with a brief smile, but said nothing. I turned to Matthew, the other London partner. ‘Was your flight over okay, Matthew, not too bumpy I hope? We’ve got a fairly short runway at Jersey airport, it can be a rough landing sometimes, ’ I said, easing more champagne into his glass.

  ‘I’d rather Matt, please, not Matthew,’ he said in a voice that was used to telling people what to do. The result of a posh public school perhaps, or maybe just plain arrogance.

  ‘Oh, okay, sorry,’ I said.

  ‘Shit,’ cried Matt suddenly.

  I looked down. I had overfilled the glass and champagne was now dripping over Matt’s hand. The cuff of his suit also looked very wet.

  ‘Oh no, I’m so sorry, I’ll get a cloth or a towel, I’m so sorry,’ I said.

  ‘That’s okay, honestly, it’s okay, I’ll just go to the loo and sort it. Look, don’t worry about it, accidents happen, I suppose.’ He was trying to sound cheery, trying to underplay it like it didn’t matter, but I could sense the barely-controlled anger beneath the surface. His face had gone red, like the birdwatcher who fell from the rocks at Corbière.

  I could feel Graham’s eyes boring into me. I glared back at him, saw the disgust in his eyes, and I willed him to say something. I knew he wouldn’t, he had seen something in my eyes, he could sense that I was up for a fight. He couldn’t afford a scene now.

  An awkward silence fell over the room, then we heard the toilet door slam. Matt stepped back into the room, still looking a little angry. I took a deep breath. ‘Okay, if you’d all like to make your way into the dining room, please, I think the starters should be ready.’ I ushered the seven of them towards the dining table.

  ‘Er, who’s sitting where?’ Graham said, looking expectantly at me.

  ‘Um, put me on this end, so it’s easier for me to serve,’ I said. ‘I’ll leave you to sort out the rest.’ I headed for the kitchen, leaving Graham looking slightly flustered.

  A large frying pan was gently sizzling on the range cooker, and I poked one of the scallops nestling within. It felt as if it had gone beyond the point of becoming springy. I cursed and turned the heat off. Scallops needed only the barest amount of time to cook, too long and they became chewy, and it looked like they would be slightly overdone.

  ‘Oh well, at the rate they’re drinking they’ll never notice,’ I mused aloud. ‘Besides, it’ll be fine once I’ve plated up.’ I took a sip of wine. ‘Plated up, oooh, get me. Right little Nigella I’m turning into,’ I mumbled, then started to giggle. Using that sort of slang, I reckoned I was starting to sound like a TV chef, maybe I needed to cut down on the number of cookery programmes I watched.

  I was a good cook, if I put my mind to it, if I wasn’t feeling lazy. I wasn’t when Graham and I got married, not in the early years. I had never had any experience of cooking when I was young; there had been no hours of fun spent watching my mother home baking. Or cook at all, for that matter, all of our meals came out of a tin or packet. Supermarket own brands. And at the home, all of our meals were prepared for us in the canteen – the ‘daily slop’ as Anita called it. But over the years a mixture of boredom and those ubiquitous cookery programmes had led to experimentation and then to a discovery that I did indeed have some latent creative culinary skills. I wished I’d had a daughter, we could have had some fun in the kitchen together; chopping vegetables, rolling pastry, mixing eggs and flour and sugar and laughing as the mixture spilled over the side, smiling as she dipped her little fingers cheekily into a bowl of melting chocolate - hell, maybe we could have baked cookies like they do on all those American movies...

  My sons weren’t interested in cooking. Not even Simon, in fact especially not Simon. He didn’t want to do anything that could be construed in any way as ‘girly’. As if to prove that he was not what I knew he was. It didn’t help that Graham thought I was talking rubbish, that I was just being stupid. Not that I’d ever said anything to Simon, of course. The fact was that Simon was gay but he didn’t yet realise it. Well, he probably suspected, deep down, but I don’t think he wanted to believe it, he didn’t want to accept it. I knew it, though. It was difficult to define the reasons for my certainty. There had been clues from a young age - he was more relaxed with girls, and some of his mannerisms were innately effeminate – but it was more than that. I just knew, a mother always knows these things.

  I put four scallops onto each of the rectangular plates, and wondered when it was decided that round plates were no longer trendy. Another sip of wine, and then I reached for the olive oil. A special Tuscan one - Graham ordered it online from a website with the tagline ‘designed for shoppers with a discerning taste.’ Or as I said to Graham when I saw the prices – ‘designed for mugs who are happy to be ripped off’. Graham hadn’t found my comment funny.

  I drizzled the oil over the scallops in a zigzag pattern, then swirled a dribble of balsamic vinegar at the corner of each plate. F
inally, I squeezed a few drops of lemon juice over the shellfish and then garnished each of the plates with a handful of rocket, half a lemon and a few succulent baby tomatoes. I took another sip of wine and looked at the price on the side of the packet of rocket and rolled my eyes. Rocket grew wild in Jersey in abundance – Graham said he saw loads of it on the golf course – yet it seemed all they had to do was pop it in a see-through bag and it turned into green gold. Just as well it didn’t say ‘organic’ on the packet, or that would have doubled the price.

  ‘Andrea, is the starter ready or what? Our guests have been waiting for bloody ages,’ Graham said, suddenly appearing at the kitchen doorway. He was angry, but his voice was low. He had gone a bit red, perhaps it was the champagne or maybe it was due to the challenge of trying to convey his burning anger with a whisper.

  I glanced at the kitchen clock. I must have been lost in thought for a few minutes. I stared at Graham, sadistically enjoying his discomfort. He was clenching and unclenching his fists and I could see a vein pulsing in his neck. I waited another few cruel seconds and then said, ‘Yes, okay, sorry, yes, it’s coming.’ I motioned towards the worktop. ‘Here, you can take some plates in with you.’

  ‘Ooh, this looks lovely, Angela,’ trilled Debbie, David’s girlfriend.

  ‘It’s Andrea, not Angela,’ I said, but Debbie wasn’t listening. She had turned to Katherine, Matt’s girlfriend. ‘I never used to like fish at all, but last year David took me to this wonderful sushi restaurant – it’s got one of those Michelin stars and everything, and now I just can’t get enough of it. Very low in calories too, so it’s good for the waistline. Keep those naughty pounds at bay,’ Debbie said, tapping her washboard stomach. It sounded hollow, obviously not eating much at all helped keep those ‘naughty’ pounds at bay. A giggle bubbled in my mouth and I disguised it with a cough.