Ghosts in the Morning

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.

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. ‘F*ck’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 good 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.