Honest (12 page)

The sky
flashed blue when the police came to take Dennis away. I remembered Peter on
the harbour wall three years ago, watching out for those blue lights, waiting
for me.

Chapter
Seventeen

Dad decided we
had to go away somewhere else for the weekend, seeing as Dennis was around, and
because I was ‘set on killing myself’. It was no use convincing him that I’d
been possessed by the ghost of Peter, and that he was intent on killing me.

We drove to
another cottage closer to Devon, an old building near the moors. Inside it had
been refurbished and modernised, much better than our place in Mevagissey. I
asked Dad why we hadn’t just gone home if he wanted to escape so much.

‘We aren’t
escaping,’ he said, getting our bags from the car boot. He fumbled with the
keys we’d picked up from the estate agents. ‘Two hundred quid this is costing
me! Two hundred quid, and you think it’s to escape, do you? Believe me, if we
could afford to go home, we would.’

Dad was a
school caretaker back in London, but his salary was halved over the summer
because he didn’t have the same rights as most of the other staff. He’d always
threatened to get the union involved, but dad being dad, he’d just shut up and
put up with it.

Now that the
recession was on, we couldn’t afford to stay away from Mevagissey forever. Even
after what’d happened, I could hardly say I regretted it. I liked being near
Peter, even if he was cruel to me now.

‘Then what’s
the point?’ I said, helping myself over the doorstep with my stick. Being away
from the house, things felt different, lighter somehow, like the hold it had
over us had lifted. Well, over me, at least. I didn’t like this new feeling. It
felt empty. ‘What do you think two days here will achieve?’

‘I want you to
rest and stop thinking about the past. Dennis shouldn’t be bothering us again,
and as for that David and his girlfriend upsetting you, you can spend the time
thinking about making some new friends.’ Dad left his bag by the stairs and
took mine into the living room.

I followed him
in. ‘Where are you going with that?’

‘You’ll sleep
down here on the sofa,’ he said. ‘I’ll make it up like a proper bed, don’t
worry, flower. Remember, we haven’t got your nifty stair lift here.’

‘Thank god,’ I
said. I watched dad pull the linen out of a separate bag and begin fitting the
sheet over the sofa cushions. I turned and observed the arch doorway, no actual
door attached but a through—way into the hall. Would dad be tapping on the
wall, or would he just walk right in at night?

That depended on
what he considered relaxing, I realised; depended on what this weekend
recuperation involved. I could only hope that a certain part of his routine
would be broken, but I doubted it.

‘What do you
intend for us to do here? There’s even less around than there is in
Mevagissey.’

‘That’s not
true,’ said dad, plumping up a pillow. ‘There’s a little town within walking
distance. It’s got a few shops, a tea room—’

‘Bloody hell.
You know, if I didn’t love being here so much, I’d wonder why the hell we’d
leave London for this.’

‘Do you?’ said
Dad, looking up at me. ‘Love coming to Cornwall?’

‘Well,’ I
said. ‘I used to. That means something.’

‘You mean
because of him,’ he said. He gave me a long look, and then carried on with the
sofa.

‘So what am I
supposed to be doing to occupy myself?’

Dad shrugged.
‘Anything you like. You could go shopping, if you like, or get your hair done?
You could get some of those magazines you like.’

I looked dad
up and down. ‘All of it,’ I said.

‘Eh? All of
it? Well Christ, that’s a bit expensive love,’ he said, laughing. His eyes were
glassy and blue as ever, and deep inside I could see his brain ticking over.
The tension between us was ever present now that Dennis had brought it all
flooding back. I realised deep down, Dad knew we weren’t a team anymore. It was
just a question of keeping me happy.

‘All right,’
he said. ‘Fine, fine. No, you’re right, you deserve to make yourself feel
pretty.’ He fished his debit card out of his pocket. We didn’t use credit cards
— couldn’t afford them. Every scrap of money we had was in dad’s debit card. I
already knew the PIN.

‘I’ll nip you
down there in the car,’ said Dad, taking the keys from his pocket. I shook my
head.

‘No, don’t
bother. You said it wasn’t far. I fancy the exercise.’

Dad looked all
but heartbroken, but he put his keys away. ‘My girl’s growing up,’ he said,
pressing his lips firmly together. He got back to arranging the sofa, but I
could see his mind was on me.

I went in my
wheelchair just because it was fastest. It was a cool, breezy sort of day, but
the sunshine lit up the countryside and made it resemble something off the back
of a cornflakes box. When I thought of the cottage, I thought of the gloom and
the damp; the rattling front door and the bath tub I couldn’t get clean in.

Here we had a
power–shower and a new tub, but I knew just from sticking my head round the
door that I didn’t like it. It wasn’t the same.

I liked the
darkness, the dusty bay window, the view over the grey, muddy harbour and the
towering cliffs beyond. How could I think of all that and dislike it, really,
when in every nook and cranny I felt Peter’s eyes peering out, watching me?

Dad wouldn’t
understand it in that sense, but I knew he liked the cottage too. Why else pick
the same house after the trial? Why pick the same town, even, when there were
plenty of neighbouring seaside towns?

It was because
none of the past really mattered. That was our cottage, and it was our town,
full–stop.

The sooner
David and Lauren realised that, the easier it’d be for both of them. I wasn’t
leaving. In fact, I wondered: why leave after summer at all? Dad could find
permanent work, and I could stay and potter around the cottage, keep an eye on
David, and, yes...stay close to Peter, whatever Peter was now. A ghost. A
poltergeist.

My imagination.

I thought
about it while I wheeled myself down the footpath beside the road leading into
town, where I spied a row of shops up ahead. When I got closer, it dawned on me
that it wasn’t what I was expecting — this
was
the town. In London we
had proper high street shops, even in the rough area me and dad came from, but
here there was nothing.

I passed by a
travel centre, a pharmacy and a second–hand bookshop. There were a couple of
charity shops, an off–licence and a small bakery, but the last shop was one I’d
been hoping for. Tucked away in a narrow old building with crumbling white
paint and a very 80s–looking photo in the window, was a hairdressers.

There was an
awkward step before the door, so I rapped on the window and disturbed the
receptionist — a teenage girl of about thirteen— and the hairdresser pulling
pins out of an old woman’s curls.

‘Oh Abbie,
open that door,’ said the hairdresser, the only one in the tiny studio. The
girl was petite and skinny with braces, and she rushed around the desk to open
the door for me. She held it open and gave the hairdresser an awkward glance.

‘You can see
I’m busy! You help her.’ She rolled her eyes at me. ‘God; daughters.’

‘Right,’ I
said, smiling stiffly. The girl squeezed by my wheelchair and took the handles
while I guided her, tipping myself back by the wheels. Luckily I wasn’t very
big myself, probably not much bigger than the little teen, but she still
struggled, almost letting us both topple backwards.

Seeing it, the
hairdresser left the old woman and floated over in a long black cardigan, her
plum–coloured hair piled atop her head with a stiff gold grip. ‘For Christ’s
sake, Abbie!’ she scolded, gripping the front of my chair and pulling me up
over the step. Heat flooded my neck and face as she hauled me into the tiny
shop, and by the time we were inside all three of us were panting.

‘Right, phew!
I’ll just comb this lady through and I’ll be right with you. Abbie, sort this
young woman out will you?’ she returned to the old woman, who was nibbling absent—mindedly
on a rich tea biscuit with a black cape around her shoulders.

Abbie took her
place behind the counter while I rolled forward, looking about at the dated
decor: loud pink walls and orange seat covers. Apart from being plain hideous,
none of it matched the quaint building and chocolate box setting outside.

The girl
pulled a large book out from under the counter and filed down the entries with
her index finger.

‘Did you book
an appointment?’ she asked meekly, her braces glinting under the halogen
lights.

‘No,’ I said.
‘We’re just staying over the weekend.’

‘Who’s ‘we’
then? Having a weekend away with your boyfriend?’ the hairdresser laughed,
still pulling pins from the old woman’s hair. ‘Oh to be young. Not you, Abbie,
you’re nowhere near old enough.’

I blushed.
‘Well, actually...yes, I’m here with my boyfriend. We’re staying in a lovely
cottage.’ I thought of the sorts of phrases I’d read in
Marie Claire
or
Red
.
‘We just fancied a bit of a getaway,’ I said, smiling to myself.

‘Oh, how
lovely,’ said the hairdresser, now combing through the old woman’s hair with
her painted fingernails. ‘What’s his name then?’

‘Um.’ I could
hardly say Peter; couldn’t bring myself to do that. I was hardly going to say
Terry
either. ‘David,’ I said eventually.

‘Well, how
long have you two been together then? — Abbie, did you ask what the lady
wants?’ she snapped.

Abbie
flinched, having gone off in a daydream. I could imagine how bored she must be,
standing about all day, sweeping up the odd bit of hair. ‘Um—’ she began.

‘How long did
you say you’d been together?’ said the hairdresser, shouting over the old
woman’s head.

‘What? Oh,
years, ages. Since I was thirteen.’

‘Oh thirteen!
Cripes, that’s Abbie’s age. I couldn’t imagine letting her have a boyfriend
yet, oh no. Not for a good few years.’

I gave Abbie a
sympathetic look. ‘That’s a shame,’ I said. I thought of all the girly
magazines she must be reading, going on about boyfriends almost as much as they
did in
Cosmo
.

‘Oh she’s not
worried. Look at her, she looks barely older than ten, bless her. Abbie, did
you ask the lady what she would
like
?’

‘I’m trying,’
she complained, toying with a length of straightened hair. She was wearing a
pair of black skinny jeans, a white vest top and a red plaid shirt left open;
very similar to Lauren’s style.

‘I was hoping
I could get my hair dyed,’ I said. ‘I want to go more blonde.’

‘Right, fine,’
said the hairdresser. ‘Well my name’s Linda, anyway. Did I already tell you
that? No? Well this is my shop, and — Abbie, have you written the lady in the
book?’

Abbie picked
up the pen, rolling her eyes just briefly. ‘What’s your name?’ she asked,
looking apologetic under her thick eyelashes.

‘El—’ I began,
then thought the better of it. ‘My name’s Lauren,’ I said.

Linda tore the
cape off the old lady and helped her out of the chair, her long cardigan
fanning out under the arms like bat wings. ‘So when you say you want to go more
blonde, are we talking something like highlights?’

‘No, no,’ I
said, thinking of Lauren’s bleached hair and the way David stared at it and
touched it and played with it between his fingers. ‘I’m tired of the dirty
colour I’ve got now; it’s hardly blonde at all, is it? I want to go platinum
blonde all over. Use a whole bottle of bleach if you have to.’

‘Right,’ said
Linda, raising her eyebrows. ‘Well that’ll take some doing, a couple of hours
most probably, you know, or else we’ll burn your head off!’ she laughed, still
taking the old woman by the arm towards the counter. Abbie took her money while
Linda looked me up and down, leaning against the desk.

‘Is it for a
bit of a confidence boost, hm? Perk yourself up a bit?’

I gritted my
teeth. I wanted to rant on about how being in a wheelchair wasn’t the end of
the world, and that I
could
walk, I just hadn’t brought my stick, but
then I’d have to explain my recent accident on the stairs and I couldn’t go
into all that. Instead I just smiled, meekly like Abbie, and said, ‘Yeah, sort
of. Plus David likes blondes.’

‘Ooh, well,’
said Linda, taking me by the shoulders and squeezing them, even giving me a
little shake. ‘We’ll make sure your nice fellow isn’t disappointed!’

It
did
take two hours and it
did
burn a lot, but I’d fished out a few past
issues of
Cosmo
and
OK!
from the pile atop the hairdresser’s
station, so that kept me occupied. Abbie rinsed my hair and Linda blow-dried it.

 It looked
better than I’d hoped, all clean and white and shining like a Barbie–doll.
Somehow it worked well with my pale skin, better than the muddy blonde it’d
been before. Abbie fetched me a drink of water while Linda styled and asked
endless questions about David, which I answered with ease, mentioning his car,
his job on the harbour, his terrible tastes in music.

All the while
Linda nodded eagerly and tugged at my hair with the brush, so fiercely in fact
that when Abbie approached with the water it was knocked right out of her hand
and all over me.

‘Oh Christ,
Abbie! Look what you’ve done! Oh, fetch that poor girl a towel. I’m so sorry,’
she said, turning off the hair dryer.

The water
soaked through to the skin and spoiled my T–shirt, though luckily I’d worn a
vest underneath. I tugged it off over my head while Linda fetched a plastic bag
for me to plop it in.

Her eyes
darted between my wheelchair and my bare shoulders, her eyes practically
bulging. I knew what she was thinking. If being a cripple wasn’t humiliating
enough, being a drenched one was worse.

When her
daughter returned and handed me a towel she said, ‘Abbie, take your shirt off.
Come on, quick about it!’