Ghosts in the Morning (9 page)

‘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 i
mage 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
. N
o background noise
at all
.
Daniel had gone out in a huf
f. 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 Corbi
è
re 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 Corbi
è
re
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 Ma
rtie
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
. I
n 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 Ma
rtie
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 i
f 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 d
inner 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 w
e’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, s
o
,
how many are coming? What am I supposed to cook?’

‘
Um, t
here’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
...a
nd as for what
to cook
...well, why don’t you do steak? A piece of Chate
au
briand. 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 on
ce 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
. S
he 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 cat
s
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 l
ike most rebranding exercises, the
cosmetic
changes
were merely paper
over the
widening
cracks
that were happening
beneath.

T
he equilibrium in the
H
ome changed.
Obviously
the
H
ome
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, th
ere 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.