Ghosts in the Morning

Chapter 5



Uncle Peter wasn’t related to me, he wasn’t my real uncle. But I was expected to call him “‘Uncle”’ though, I was told to call all of my Mum’s boyfriends ‘Uncle’. I should always respect grown-ups, my Mum said.

I was ten years old when he first raped me. He told me not to tell my mother or he would kill her. And me, too. I was sure he would, too, he was a large, ugly, strong man, and quick to anger. There was a permanent aura of violence around him, like an evil smog. Sometimes at night, I would hear Uncle Peter and my Mum arguing, then there would be the sounds of blows, fists on flesh. Then the arguing would stop.

The first time he raped me was the worst. He hadn’t been living with us for long then, a few weeks I think, but it seemed like longer. Mum had had quite a few boyfriends since Dad left, but none had been serious, none had come close to moving in. A lot of them didn’t even stay the night.

Mum was asleep the first time he raped me. They had been out, had left me alone in front of the black and white television, while they went to the pub. Mum had wagged her finger at me as she went out – ‘now, don’t be staying up too late, Andrea, watching that box all night, and remember don’t open the door to any strangers. And don’t answer the phone. I know you’re big enough to be alright on your own, but some of the nosey bastards round here don’t see things the way we do, right?’.

As soon as I heard the key in the lock, I flicked the television off and went upstairs to read my book. Mum never let me read much, there was always some washing-up I had to do, or some cleaning. Besides, it was safer to go to my bed, I didn’t want to risk falling asleep on the sofa, it was best to be out of the way when they’d been drinking.

A few hours later, I had woken up with my book across my face. I heard my Mum and Uncle Peter shouting at each other in the kitchen, so I hurriedly turned off my bedside light. Then I heard Mum stomp upstairs, tripping over some of the stairs and cursing. Another ten minutes or so passed, then I heard Mum snoring. The walls were paper thin in that house.

Every house has its own set of creaks and groans that emanate at certain points of the night, sometimes it’s as if the house itself is rolling over to go to sleep. But when you have lived in the same place for a while, there are always certain noises that you know for sure aren’t just the house resting. One of our stairs – the third one from the top – was loose. Whenever you stepped on it, it would creak and then slap back down like a muffled clapboard. I always stretched my legs and missed out that step when I went up or down the stairs. It was habit. Even Mum had done it when she had stomped up the stairs earlier.

I heard the third step creak and then the dull slap as the wood fell back down. I closed my eyes tight, and felt the air shift. My nose twitched as it was hit with the pungent smell of alcohol, laced with tobacco. I tried to force my eyes to stay closed, tried to will my breathing to sound relaxed, to simulate sleep, but a creeping fear grasped my eyelids and slowly prised them open.

Uncle Peter was standing at the edge of my bed. ‘You alright, love, you had a good night in front of that telly?’

His body was swaying slightly, but his eyes remained still, staring at me. The hint of moonlight that sprinkled through the curtain made them yellow, matching the teeth that were visible in his ugly attempt at a smile.

Everything happened really fast and really slow then. I remember scrunching up my eyes as tight as I could, willing myself to unconsciousness, so I could pretend it was all a dream, but I couldn’t, it hurt too much. Like a freezing fire between my legs. He told me not to scream, but I couldn’t help it. His hand was over my mouth the whole time, though, so the scream stayed silent. His moustache was the worst, its bristles scraped my face, my neck, my back...

Afterwards, I didn’t cry much - I’m sure some tears fell, but mostly I remember hugging my knees to my chest and rocking back and forth, and wondering what my Mum would make of the blood on my sheets. I didn’t go to school the next day, I told Mum I didn’t feel well. I think she saw the sheets and assumed that my periods had started, so she gave me some sanitary towels and asked if school had explained about ‘that monthly stuff’. She hadn’t waited for an answer.

From then on I didn’t sleep very well. Uncle Peter would rape me at least once or twice a week. It was almost worse on the nights that he didn’t come to my room. Almost. I would lay wide awake all night, staring at my bedroom door, shaking with fear. I would clasp my hands together so tight, praying to God to make it stop. After a few nights I stopped that, and I have never prayed again. I wanted to tell my Mum, or someone, but I was too scared. Every single time before he did it, no matter how drunk he was, how slurred his words were, he would hiss the words again at me, the words he had said on the first night. ‘Don’t tell anyone, love, yeah, you know what will happen, don’t you? I’ll kill your mother. And then I’ll kill you.’ Sometimes as he said it, he would pinch the sides of my throat between his thick, gnarly fingers. He would stare at me as I struggled for breath, and a terrifying panic would overwhelm me. Spots of light would dart across my vision. When I was smaller, I used to think these flashes of light were fairies, glimpsed infrequently in our world, but I think then I understood they weren’t fairies at all, and I used to dread seeing them. There would be a strange smile across Uncle Peter’s face as I fought to breathe and I wondered if one day he would just forget to let go, and would kill me by accident.

It was worse when he was really drunk, it would take longer. That’s when I was the most scared by the choking. He would squeeze until I began to scratch at his arms with my nails, trying to dig into those greasy, hairy arms. Then he’d stop squeezing and stroke my hair as he forced his brutish penis into me. For a while I thought about killing myself, or running away, but I didn’t know where to go, I knew I wouldn’t survive on my own. And I didn’t want to leave Mum with him, I was sure he would kill her.

But suddenly it all stopped. It stopped because Uncle Peter had a nasty accident. It was a few days after my twelfth birthday. Mum had gone out to see her sister to do some shopping or gossiping or both, I wasn’t sure. Maybe she just wanted to get out of the house. As she left and the front door slammed, I spotted a nasty glint in Uncle Peter’s eye. I had gone up to my bedroom and clenched my eyes shut.

He was at the top of the stairs. They were very steep stairs, they wouldn’t be allowed to build stairs like that in houses anymore. Not safe at all, they wouldn’t meet the health and safety regulations these days. Apparently, he lost his footing and tumbled awkwardly. It was me who called the police. They came really quick too, they did in those days, before they got bogged down in bureaucracy and paperwork. There were two of them and they arrived at the same time as the ambulance. The policewoman sat down next to me on our sofa – it was an orange, velour sofa, worn and threadbare – and she put her arm around me, and told me I was very brave, and that I had done really well to make the emergency call. When my mother came home, I heard the policeman speaking to her, even though his voice was very low. I had good hearing, I think it was honed through practice. The policeman told Mum that Uncle Peter had had a bad accident, ‘them are dangerous stairs, easy to trip, and sorry love, but I think he’d had a drink too, I really am sorry love, yes you best go to your daughter, love, she’s been really brave, must have been a real shock for the little’un ’, and then I heard one of the ambulance men whisper to the policeman that it looked like Uncle Peter’s head had caught the banisters, and his neck had been broken. ‘It would have been quick, he wouldn’t have felt a thing’, the ambulance man had said, but I remember thinking that that was unlikely, if you smash your head and break your neck, it has to hurt a lot, even if it is only for a split second.

I never told Mum about Uncle Peter and the abuse. I never told anyone. I didn’t see the point. It was too late. Uncle Peter took a piece of me that I could never get back, no matter how much talking was done, and he was dead. I didn’t want to bring it all up, it didn’t seem fair to Mum.

I have often wondered since if Mum knew what was going on or, at least, suspected what was happening, but I could never bring myself to ask her. And I just get worked up now if I think too much about it, I mean, I was just a young girl, I should have been able to count on my Mum, there’s no f*cking way on earth that should have happened, I was just a f*cking kid...

Mum died a few years later, there was only so much alcohol and cigarettes her body could take. I was sent to live with an Auntie that I had never even met; she was a sister of my long-absent dad that the social services tracked down, and supposedly she was happy to take me in. They never said anything about the whereabouts of my dad. Living with my Auntie didn’t last very long. She was too old and frail to look after me, especially as I was having some ‘adjustment issues’, as the social worker put it, so they put me in a care home.

I heard they tore down our old house a few months after Mum died. Not surprising really, those stairs were awfully dangerous.



***



I eagerly snatched up the newspaper. I had noticed something on one of the inside pages, as Graham had leafed idly through it over breakfast. Something about a cyclist. I had been impatient for Graham to finish reading, but he had taken his time. I had ground my teeth at the sound of his chewing, his bovine cheeks flapping over the noisy mulch of cereal. I had to dig my nails into my palms to stop my fingers from drumming on the table; he was possessive over the paper in the morning, as if it were his to read first by some inalienable right. He said I had plenty of time to read it the night before, but I never usually bothered to read it through. Occasionally I glanced at the back pages to see who had been born, or died or got married, but I found the stories on the front pages – the local news - depressing. Most of the time it was just politicians grandstanding about their latest projects, or claiming that another new rise in taxes was for our benefit, was for the good of the island. Jersey news was thankfully low key most of the time, there wasn’t too much crime. Sure, there had been the odd murder but this was still rare – usually, crimes consisted of a drugs bust, or some poor drunken mug getting a kicking from other drunken mugs.

The door slammed as Graham left and I flicked to the page I’d spotted earlier. A short article, with the headline ‘Cyclist tragedy’.



The body of a cyclist was found on Wednesday morning in La Rue de Martie. The cyclist, who the police have said is a man in his late fifties, was found with fatal injuries near the wall along the northern end of the lane. The police have asked for witnesses to come forward. They have not yet disclosed any further details and a police spokesman refused to confirm whether the death was suspicious. The body was discovered by a farmer, who told the Jersey Daily that it looked like a tragic accident, stating that the road was pitch black at night, with a lethal ditch running alongside it. The cyclist has not yet been named.



I jumped as the phone rang.

‘Hello.’

‘Andy, it’s me, how are you?’

‘Oh, hi, um, oh, Anita, hello.. I’m fine, yes. You, er, well, er, I haven’t heard from you for ages, how are you, I mean, well, you’re back then, you’re back from...from - ’

‘Yes, I’m back. Just yesterday. From India, dear, I’m back from India. Well, I spent some time in Nepal as well, but India was simply divine. I really think I’m going to have to go and live there, you know, I really think it’s my spiritual home. It’s got this...this aura, do you know what I mean, Andy? The karma of the place just keeps me in balance. Well, anyway, listen, Andy, are you free for lunch? Today? It would be great to catch up and I could bore you with all of my photos.’

‘Er, well, um – ’

‘Perfect. How about ‘The Cork and Top’, say, twelve o’clock? We can grab a sandwich, and maybe a cheeky glass of wine. Right, see you then.’

So, lunch it was, Anita had decided. She always did.

Anita was my oldest friend, indeed, she was one of the only friends I had. I had never managed to make many friends over the years that the boys were at school. It was difficult; I couldn’t relate to the young mothers, who were barely women themselves, pregnant at fifteen and all geared up for a life funded by the Bank of Mum and Dad or perhaps by benefits. And I struggled to bond with the yummy mummies – sure, I had the money, sort of, but perhaps I lacked the class or the grace that was supposed to go with it, and a lack of care for my body certainly whittled away at the “yummy” part. The thing was, I always felt that they could see past my expensive four-wheel drive car, through the veneer - that delicate gossamer blanket that Graham’s money afforded – right through to the shy, care-home girl beneath.

Only Anita called me ‘Andy’, I wouldn’t have accepted it from anyone else. I met her in the care home that they put me in when I was thirteen. The Garter Home for Girls, named after its founder, Felicity Garter. There were photos of Miss Garter all over the walls of the home; she had a sour face and a cruel squint, but I guess looks couldn’t always be true because it seemed she set up the Home for altruistic reasons, so she can’t have been all bad.

I remembered the first time I met Anita. ‘What’s your name?’ she had asked. I had barely put my suitcase down – a few meagre belongings, clothes that had seen better days – and she was standing at the door of my room. It was a very small room with a single bed and one cupboard. Shoeboxes we called them.

‘Andrea,’ I said. My voice sounded small, I was a bit overwhelmed, and Anita looked a little scary. She had a mop of unruly, dark hair, like she’d been in a strong breeze, and was twirling a lock of it, with her head cocked to one side.

‘An-dre-a, hmmm,’ she said, drawing out the syllables. Her voice was lilting, a hint of accent, Liverpool, perhaps, but I couldn’t be sure, I wasn’t very good at recognising foreign accents. ‘So, Andy for short. Well, Andy, I’m Anita. You can call me Anita.’

‘Er, it’s Andrea, not Andy,’ I said meekly.

‘Okay, Andy, whatever. Come on, I’ll show you round, meet some of the other girls.’ She grabbed my arm. ‘Ah, hi Frankie, this is the new girl, arrived today. Andy, meet Frankie.’

‘Hi Frankie,’ I said.

‘Welcome to hell, Andy,’ said Frankie.

‘Er no, Frankie, no. This is An-dre-a, not Andy, she doesn’t like to be called Andy.’ There was a hint of steel in Anita’s voice and Frankie cowed back a step.

‘Oh, okay, sorry, I mean, Andrea.’

Later, Frankie told me her name was Francesca, but Anita insisted on calling her Frankie. She shortened all of the girls’ names, even those that couldn’t really be shortened. Elizabeth was ‘Lizzie’, Sandra was ‘Sandy’, Susan was ‘Susie’, and Clare strangely became ‘Clay’. Anita was a few years older than most of us, so nobody argued with her.

‘So why are you here, Andy?’ Anita asked.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean why are you here? Here, in the glorious Garter Home for Girls. Or, as Frankie so accurately put it, hell.’

‘Er, well, I, um, guess I, well, I...’

‘Come now, Andy, don’t be shy, we’re not gonna judge you, we’re all friends here. Well-’ Anita winked at me – ‘we’re all outcasts here, anyway. Now, look, what I mean is, some are here ‘cos they got no parents, or ‘cos their parents don’t want them. And some are here ‘cos they’re just plain naughty. So, which are you?’

‘Um, well my Mum died and – ’

‘And your old man?’

‘You mean, my Dad, no, he, er, well, I never really knew him, he left when I was young.’

‘Bastards, aren’t they. Men, that is. My old man was a bastard. Used to get drunk and beat me Mum up. And me, too. Went too far one day though, beat my Mum a bit too hard, put her in a coma. She never came out of it. They locked my old man up, he’s still inside. Hope he rots in prison, the bastard.’ Anita looked sad for a moment, then it was gone. She was too tough for tears.

‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Let’s go and teach you how to play pool.’



***



Anita looked radiant, overpowering and completely at odds with the surroundings. She was wearing a voluminous purple pantsuit, topped with a golden coloured sari. Somehow she still managed to look glamorous and attractive, rather than just ridiculous. Centred between her bright turquoise eyes was a bright red dot. In the gloom of the pub, I thought it was a spot, perhaps a mosquito bite, but as she grabbed me and hugged me towards her I saw it was a bindi.

‘Oh, Andy, it’s so great to see you.’

‘Yes, you too, Anita, you too. You look great, you look different, your hair, you’ve lost weight, you...’

‘Yes, of course I look different, dear, I’ve been away for over a year and a half. Healthy, harmonious living, dear, it does wonders for your body. But you look a bit fat, dear, hope you don’t mind me saying.’

I shrugged. It didn’t matter if I did mind, Anita never pulled her punches. I liked that about her. And Anita did look well. She was always reinventing herself. A few years earlier it had been all about the fitness – spinning, aerobics, boxercise - and she’d gone all Jane Fonda, and now it seemed it was Bollywood.

‘So, tell me, Andy, how is married life?’ She turned to the barman. ‘Two glasses of Chardonnay, please. Yes, large ones. And have you got some menus for lunch, please?’ She looked back at me. ‘Of course, I presume you are still married, then? And Graham is still as dull as dishwater?’

‘He’s not that dull.’ She was right, Graham was dull, but I couldn’t help being defensive; if he were to be criticised, I would prefer it to be me who did it. ‘I know his job is dull, but that doesn’t mean he is.’

‘Okay, Andy, okay, keep your wig on. Now, what do you fancy? Shall we have a sandwich or shall we push the boat out and have a proper meal. Or, should I say, push your boat out – you don’t mind treating me, do you dear? Money’s a bit tight for a few days, I’m just waiting on one of David’s cheques to clear. The bastard has been slow paying me the last few months.’

‘David is still paying you?’ I said incredulously.

‘Of course, dear, of course he is. You know my motto – use them and abuse them. Or rather should I say “use them up and bleed them dry”.’

Or just kill them. The phrase popped into my head like lightning and I had to bite my lip hard to stop it forming on my lips. Anita furrowed her brow. ‘You okay, dear, you’ve got a bit of blood on the corner of your mouth there.’

‘Er, yeah, just bit my lip, I’ve got a bit of an ulcer I think-’

‘Poor eating and stress, dear, that’s why you’re getting ulcers. Stress of being married to that boring git, I reckon. I don’t know why you never listen to me, dear, you should divorce Graham, take him to the cleaners, like I did with David, and get some excitement in your life.’

‘Anita, I do not want to divorce Graham, we’re married, we’ve got three sons, we’re fine, I’m fine. ’ It didn’t sound convincing, even to me.

David was Anita’s ex-husband. Well, her second ex-husband. Her first husband had been tossed aside when his grandiose plans for property development had proved to have no substance, in fact no property. Anita had obtained a quickie divorce and six months after that she had married David, a mildly famous, mildly rich television star; he was the main character in a long-running detective series, one of those soporific dramas that old people enjoyed, where there was never any blood and the killer was usually the mild-mannered postman, or vicar. David played the genial lead detective, a no-nonsense sensible chap, unburdened with the usual TV detective traits of alcoholism and broken families. I had only ever seen glimpses of the show, but David seemed to be a reasonably good actor, not that the script ever asked for any major dramatic stretch as far as I was aware.

Anita had caught David in their bedroom with a fellow actress from the show. Anita was supposed to be away for the weekend, visiting an animal sanctuary in Devon, but she had missed the flight. David hadn’t spotted Anita at the doorway of the bedroom at first, mainly because he was facing the wall on all fours as the actress was busy inserting a large dildo into his bottom.

Anita swore me to secrecy and said that David couldn’t risk the story going public – she had told me that he would be certain to lose his job, they couldn’t have that sort of scandal associated with that sort of show, and he wasn’t getting any younger, that show was his cash cow. If he lost that lucrative role, he would struggle to get another. But there was no way that Anita was going to stay with ‘that stupid pervert’ so an amicable divorce ensued and now Anita received a nice monthly cheque. ‘Hush money, bastard will keep paying it as well. He thinks I’ve got pictures on my mobile phone, but the truth is the crappy mobile that I had then didn’t even have a camera’.

Anita smiled pitifully at me. ‘You’re not fine, dear. You’re overweight and underhappy, I can see that. And I don’t like to see my friends unhappy. So, I think maybe you can be my project now I’m back.’

I snorted. ‘Anita, what do you mean, your project? I’m fine. Really.’

‘Hmmm,’ Anita said, my words bouncing from her shoulders. She turned back to the menu. ‘Now, let’s see, should I give the veggy curry a go, ummm, no, maybe not a good idea, not after the ones I had in India, it’s bound to be a disappointment. Did you know, Andy dear, you can actually buy cookies filled with hash in India? Legally! It’s fantastic. I went camel-trekking in Rajasthan after having one of those cookies. You could buy them at a little shack at the edge of the desert, just before you got on your camel. There was a menu and everything, you could choose how potent a cookie you wanted. Of course, dear, I’ve dabbled on occasion before, as you well know, so I went for a superstrong one. And they weren’t exaggerating, I tell you, Andy, that was some experience. Those sand-dunes certainly look a bit different when you’re stoned off your tits.’

I chuckled. ‘Aren’t you a bit old to be doing drugs?’

Anita pulled a fake stern face. ‘How dare you, Andy? FYI, I was not “doing” drugs, I was merely indulging in the local culture. It’s not my fault that the local culture encouraged me to get doolally in the desert.’ She took a swig of wine and giggled. ‘Mind you, I probably shouldn’t have gone for superstrong. I nearly fell off the bloody camel twice, and when we hit a sandstorm, I got a bit paranoid and thought the world was ending. I ended up screaming and hugging my guide.’

I laughed at the vision of an Indian guide being clutched tightly against Anita’s ample bosom, and we both sat for a moment enjoying a companionable silence. I had forgotten how much I had missed Anita. I pointed at her empty glass. ‘Another?’

‘Andy, dear, how long have you known me? Have you ever known me to refuse a glass of wine?’

It was a wonder to me how Anita stayed so slim. She had always liked to drink, even back when we were in the care-home. I remembered the very first time I tried alcohol, I was with Anita and Francesca on a balmy afternoon.

‘Right, you two, it’s high time you were introduced to the joys of alcohol,’ Anita had said with a large smile across her face. ‘For girls like us, it is not simply a pleasure, but is, in fact, a necessity.’

‘What do you mean, girls like us?’ asked Francesca. We were sitting in the old shed at the bottom of the garden. The shed was hidden from the main buildings by some thick, gnarly trees and the staff of the Home didn’t usually bother wandering around this part of the garden. There was an underground stream running nearby, meaning the grass was always damp, and I guessed they didn’t want to ruin their cheap loafers. The shed itself was usually locked and the gardener, who only came in a couple of days a week, was the only one with a key. Well, the only one except Anita.

‘I mean us, the forgotten ones. Waifs, strays, the abused. We’re the ones with no parents, nobody gives a toss about us. We’re orphans. Like Oliver Twist.’

‘But you’ve still got a dad.’

‘My Dad is as good as dead, Andy. And you don’t even know who your old man is. As for Frankie, well...no, offence, Frankie.’

‘No, s’alright, I know what you mean,’ Frankie shrugged. Her parents had been killed in a car crash when she was five years old, and with no extended family she had been in care ever since. ‘Still, not all the girls are the same as us. Susie’s parents come and visit her sometimes, she’s only in here temporarily.’

‘Don’t be daft, Frankie, temporary my fanny. There’s no way Susie’s parents are ever getting her back. You’ve seen the cigarette scars on the back of her legs, Social Services are wise to it now, she ain’t going home with those bastards ever. Look, no-one lives in this shithole by choice, and certainly not if they’ve got relatives who give a toss. I mean, it’s not a lot of fun being picked on by your mates at school just ‘cos you live here, is it? And when we’re not getting bullied at school, we’re here getting perved at by that lezzy Miss Wallen. Or, even worse, Mick.’

Miss Wallen was the secretary of the care home, a frumpy, tweed-clad woman who smelt a little of cabbage. She had been at the home for years but not as long as Mick the caretaker. It was rumoured that he had been at the home since it was opened over thirty years earlier. He had a glass eye, but the other was bulging and all-seeing. He didn’t touch, as far as we knew at the time, but he certainly did look.

Frankie frowned. ‘But you’re not at school, Anita.’

‘I’ve only just finished school, Frankie. Anyway, you get the point I’m making.’

‘Yeah, you’re right about this place,’ I said. ‘And, don’t forget, the food is really shite as well.’

Anita laughed. ‘Yes, Andy, it is, maybe that’s the worst part. And that is why –’ Anita drew her hand from deep within the back of the shed – ‘booze was invented. To take us away from all this.’

‘Are you sure we should...I’ve never... mean what if we get caught?’ Frankie looked worried. She was a frail, nervous girl, not as tough as most of the girls in the home. Anita was protective of Frankie, some sort of maternal instinct perhaps. Anita could be tough, but she wasn’t a bully, and she didn’t tolerate others being bullied.

‘Look, Frankie, you know those dreams you get sometimes, like the ones we all get. Okay, okay, I know they’re not all exactly the same, but none of us sleep too sound, do we? Sometimes, I wake up and find I’m hunched under the covers, sweating, convinced that my old man’s coming to beat me up. So vivid sometimes I can almost feel his knuckles on my cheek. You too, Andy, I know you’ve got some demons that visit you in the dark hours, I hear you scream out loud at night. No, no, Andy, there’s no need to look embarrassed, there’s no shame in it, it’s just one of those things that happens to girls like us. Anyway, the thing I’m trying to say is that booze helps with that, it helps put those dreams on hold for a while.’

‘But your old man used to drink, Anita, look what it can do to people.’

‘That wasn’t the drink, Frankie, that was just the fact that my old man was a bastard, drink or no drink. Besides, it’s only bad for you if you drink too much every day. Yes, okay, you’ve got to be a bit careful, you don’t want to become an alcoholic, but now and again is okay. Everyone drinks a bit – I’ve even heard Miss Wallen likes a sherry or two. ’

Frankie nodded. ‘Yeah, I heard Clare drinks whisky. And she does drugs sometimes. Lizzie told me.’

Anita’s voice suddenly grew stern. ‘I don’t care what Clay does. And you should stay away from her, don’t be mixing with her, she’s trouble. I know we’ve all been through a few tough times but Clay is different. Got that dead look in her eyes, I’ve seen it before. Hardcore, so stay away from her, do you understand me?’

‘Okay,’ Frankie and I had chorused.

Anita reached behind a box filled with rusty tools and pulled out a bottle of vodka. ‘Good. Now come on, let’s get pissed.’



***



A muffled sound was coming from the lounge, it sounded like the television on low. I eased the door closed – I didn’t want to hear the sound of the slam, my head had begun to pound from the wine I’d had at lunch with Anita.

I was angry too. There had been a comment as we had left the bar. There had been two young men, standing at the bar, they looked like rugby players, meaty hands clutching their pint glasses. They had looked at Anita and then at me and one had muttered ‘don’t fancy yours much, bit of a chunky one, be like shagging a bouncy castle’. They thought I hadn’t heard, but there was no fat in my ears. Before...well, before recent events, I would have done nothing, said nothing. Before, I would have left the pub quickly, would have been desperate to leave before the redness and the heat suffused my face, my body.

Things were different now, somehow I was different. I turned and glared at them, and said ‘did you say something?’ and the one who’d made the comment – the tallest one – shook his head and suddenly found something interesting to stare at in his glass, he couldn’t meet my eyes, scared perhaps of the rage I was feeling.

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 f*ck 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 f*cking haggis on a barbecue, then, you f*cking 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 f*cking crazy bampot, right you are. A right f*cking 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 bother 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.