Ghosts in the Morning

Chapter 2



‘How was badminton?’

‘It was alright. A bit quiet,’ Graham grunted.

Graham wasn’t a morning person. Before ten o’clock in the morning, he was grumpy. It couldn’t be much fun for his staff, though maybe he was different at work. Maybe he put on a facade, I’m sure he would for Nikki, at least.

He chomped his cereal as he flicked the pages of yesterday’s local newspaper. I could see moon-like flecks of milk on his chin, nestling amongst a few straggles of wiry hair that he had evidently missed on his morning shave. The slurp and chew of over-sugared flakes of corn echoed in my head, and I clenched my fingers, digging my bitten nails into my palms. I wanted to pick the bowl up and smash it in his face.

‘Can I have another coffee?’

I stared at him, my eyes boring into his bald head. He obviously felt it unnecessary to say ‘please’. His manners had deteriorated in recent years – perhaps he felt that I was just his wife, undeserving of common courtesy. I sighed, and took his cup. I could have refused, could have said ‘piss off and make your own’, but It was easier to make it myself. The coffee machine was my pride and joy – Italian, expensive – and I didn’t like Graham touching it. His fingers were too fat, too impatient, and I didn’t want him to break the machine. Like he had the last one.

‘Daniel still in bed, is he? Shouldn’t he be up by now, he’ll be late for work.’ Graham said, without looking up from the paper.

‘No, he hasn’t got to go in today. His boss is a bit quiet at the moment, I don’t think that he’s got much work on at the moment,’ I replied, but Graham wasn’t listening, he’d switched off after the word ‘no’. I may as well have been a wall. I spoke to the wall sometimes – during one-sided conversations with Graham I would say ‘yes, that’s a great idea, thank you wall’ or ‘no wall, that’s fine, no thanks’ – but my mocking sarcasm usually went unheard. It made me feel better, though.

‘Bloody hell, can you believe the brass neck of these bloody Ministers. We’re in the middle of a bloody recession – and it is a recession, no matter what they call it – and they go swanning off a business trip to Singapore. Like that’s going to help. Bloody idiots.’

‘I’ve never been to Singapore. I remember reading once that you get fined for eating chewing gum there, is that right?’

‘Eh, what?’ Graham snapped, without looking up.

‘Oh, nothing.’

Graham tossed the paper onto the kitchen table and went into the hall to pick up his briefcase. ‘Bye then’, he called, then he was gone, the door slamming. The hinges needed looking at, I had told Graham, but that was months ago. I would do it myself, but he never let me touch his tools. He even pathetically had a combination lock on the tool cupboard in the garage. I wondered if he kept a stash of girlie magazines in there.

Years ago, Graham used to kiss me on the lips before he went to work. A proper smooch, lips moist and a hint of passion. Love, even. As time passed, this changed to a dry kiss on the cheek. Now, this too had changed. Now, it was a shouted goodbye, or sometimes nothing at all, just the slam of a door that needed fixing. Did all marriages get to this point eventually? Honeymoon love morphing into the sort of care felt for a sibling, then a gradual, inexorable fading away, leaving a mild tolerance that bordered on the fringes of outright dislike. Maybe we were too scared, too set in our ways, to change things, so we accepted the way of things, we accepted a life we would have dreaded when we were young and idealistic. If familiarity breeds contempt, were all marriages destined for that contempt?

A saucer dropped to the floor. An unforgiving floor - natural stone flooring, top quality, Graham had insisted on it, despite it costing twice as much as the tiles I had chosen - so the saucer smashed. I sat down and glanced at the clock on the microwave. It was far too early for a glass of wine but still...

The man that I killed had been cycling. His bike had lights but they were small, ineffective, pinpricks in the curtain of the night. The lane was narrow, unlit, there were no street lights in the island’s smaller lanes. The man had all that silly cycling clothing on, but it must have been designed for the daytime as the clothes were black. Or perhaps a very dark grey, but there only a very faint white trim. I didn’t see all of that at first. I just felt a slight bump as my bumper clipped his back wheel. I braked hard and quick, but only after my bumper had clipped him. It didn’t take too long to stop, I hadn’t been travelling that fast. I didn’t like to speed, I thought of myself as a very careful driver, and besides, I was wary of being breathalysed. Not that I’d had that much to drink, but you never knew...

The bike had wobbled violently in front of me, then kissed the verge. It tumbled forward and I saw the man tumble forward with it, a blur, like a smudge on a photo. He flipped and somersaulted into the old stone wall at the side of the road. It was a low wall, a bit ramshackle, but attractive in a rustic way, full of age and character. There was a field behind the wall, a farm maybe, or maybe just countryside, a rambler’s paradise. The man was unlucky, the wall was low enough for him to have gone right over, landed in soft grass maybe, but he didn’t. Instead, he struck the wall. It looked awkward, nasty. I got out of the car.

The man’s leg was at a funny angle and his cycling helmet had flown off. It lay next to the wall where some of its stones had been dislodged, probably as a result of his fall. I could see the torn strap of the helmet. I looked down at the man. He wasn’t moving. I stared at his face and he stared back at me, with his eyes wide open and unblinking. A glassy stare, and for a moment it unnerved me. I remember shivering nervously, but I shrugged it off. He couldn’t hurt me. There was blood trickling down his forehead, pooling on his eyebrows, spilling into those open eyes. I saw that the man was completely bald, but he had very bushy eyebrows. His mouth was stretched, gaping in a silent scream, and the headlights of my car reflected the glints of mercury fillings. There seemed to be quite a few of them, maybe he should have chosen white fillings, or brushed more often, or eaten less sugar.

I shivered again. Winter was coming and I should have put on a coat, or at least a thicker cardigan. I looked around me. The lane was silent, a slight rustle of branches in a gathering breeze.

And then I got back in the car and drove home.



***



‘Mum, is there any bacon? Can you do me a bacon sandwich?’

I stared at Daniel and cupped a hand to my ear.

‘Please.’

‘Thank you, Daniel. Anyway, what did your last slave die of?’

‘Disobedience, Mum.’

I smiled at our old joke and took some bacon rashers out of the fridge. I had nothing else to do, anyway. ‘So, let me guess, Daniel. You’ve got another hangover, is that right?’

‘No, actually, it’s not. I had a few drinks around at Paul’s, it was only a few beers or so. I’m just hungry, that’s all.’ Daniel’s tone was snappy, it always was when he had a hangover.

‘Look, you want to keep an eye on your drinking in the week, take it a bit easy. You can’t be drinking every n – ’

‘Oh give it a rest, Mum. Look, forget the bacon sandwich, I’m going out, I’m not going to stay here while you nag me.’

The door slammed again. It really did need looking at. I went back in the kitchen and opened the fridge. The bottle of Chardonnay stared back at me from the shelf. Well, one glass wouldn’t hurt. I looked at the rashers sitting raw in the frying pan, and I thought of the man, and how his head had looked; shards of red and white oozing down his head, down his face. A spark of nervous excitement skittered across my shoulders, and I wondered if he had a wife, children perhaps. No, maybe not children, I mean, they say that too much cycling isn’t good for men’s fertility. I guess those stupid, skinny little bike seats aren’t too good for the testicles. I started giggling to myself and then found I couldn’t stop, until tears were pouring down my cheeks.