Convictions

by Julie Morrigan

  She cracked one eye open just a fraction to identify the source of the torture. Curtains. That was all, curtains that hadn’t been fully closed. Curtains, in fact, that had been carelessly yanked together in the early hours by someone not fully in control of her movements. Someone very drunk. Someone who by now would be feeling pretty damn miserable.

  The effort that would be required to stand up, walk to the window and fully close the curtains was currently beyond her. Instead, she grabbed a spare pillow and hugged it to her face.

  Next time she woke up, things weren’t quite so bad. She discovered that she was capable of sitting up and, having done so, reached out towards the large glass of clear liquid that sat on the bedside table. Her hand stopped short as she remembered and she slumped back against the headboard with a groan.

  It had been one hell of an interview, the first and undoubtedly only time when her ability to play pool, skin up and hold her drink might prove useful in winning her a job. If she hadn’t dumped so much vodka into the fake foliage, God knows what state she’d be in. Probably as bad as John Egan, her fellow interviewee, who had been carried to his room by Paul Scott and Colin Carson by ten o’clock. When, at around midnight, she’d been presented with a pint of vodka, light on the lemonade, she’d had just enough wit left to announce she was taking it to bed.

  Getting up, she tipped the vodka down the bathroom sink, rinsed the glass and filled it up with water from the tap. She was about to drink it when she spotted the mini bar. Remembering that the room was all expenses paid, she ambled over to it and broke the seal.

  Ten minutes later she had demolished both bottles of mineral water and the Toblerone she found in there, and was feeling much better. She rang room service after she’d showered and felt better still after coffee and toast.

  On her way out of the hotel she bumped into Kevin Hollister, a fellow ghost, one of that band of writers who see other people’s names on the fronts of the books they write.

  ‘Hey, Kevin, how’s things?’

  ‘Hi, Alex. You up for this one as well?’

  She nodded. ‘Interview yesterday. Just heading home.’

  ‘Took the chance for a lie-in, eh?’ It was past noon.

  Alex grinned. ‘Found I needed one. Brace yourself, Kev, you’re in for a hell of a ride.’

  Chapter 4

  First day

  Three weeks later, rested and relaxed after a week in the sun followed by another at home, Alex pulled her car to a halt outside a large, elegant country house, the driveway alone longer than the street she had been brought up in. Extensive lawns and gardens surrounded the old, honey-coloured stone structure. As she opened her car door to get out, the door of the house flew open and a Louis Vuitton suitcase sailed down the flight of steps that led to the entrance, skidding across the gravel at the bottom. It was followed by a second, and a squirming twenty-something in designer shades and a short dress, being firmly ejected from the house by a tall, skinny guy in jeans and a faded denim shirt. Alex stretched to get the kinks out of her spine after the long journey, then folded her arms and leaned back against her car to watch the show.

  ‘Just go, Sonia. Face it, it’s over. Time to move on, love, find yourself another meal ticket.’

  Sonia wrested her arm out of the man’s grasp and huffed, but she evidently knew when she was beaten. She threw her hands up. ‘All right, you win, but you’re making a big mistake. You’re gonna miss me. I give it a week tops and you’ll be on the phone begging me to come back to you.’ She flounced down the steps, collected her bags and dumped them into a BMW convertible with the top conveniently down. ‘That’s my prediction, honey, and you know I’m never wrong.’ She stopped and gave him a hard stare over the top of her Ray-Bans before climbing into the car. Seconds later, the wheels spun and the gravel flew as she exited via the long, curving drive.

  Johnny Burns ran his hands through his hair and stared after her.

  Alex strolled over towards him. ‘I seem to have come at a bad time,’ she said, by way of introduction.

  ‘No, she’s gone. That makes it a very good time.’ Johnny grinned. ‘Although I could have hoped you’d turn up ten minutes later. Come on in, I’ll put the kettle on.’

  He led the way to a spacious, sunny kitchen and Alex took a seat on a bench behind a large scrubbed pine table. As Johnny busied himself filling the kettle and getting the tea things together, Alex took in her surroundings. The room was huge and yet homely, a spacious cooking arena forming the stem of an ‘L’ with the dining area where she sat at right angles to it. She felt nerves starting to build, took hold of them and firmly squashed them down again. This was just a job. She’d write the book and he’d put his name on the front cover, it was business as usual.

  ‘So,’ she said, as Johnny put steaming mugs of tea on the table and sat down, ‘what was that all about?’ The question was as much to test the water as to find out the facts; if this was to work there was no room for him to be coy.

  Johnny opened his mouth to speak, blinked twice and then shut it again. He traced a line on the table, following the grain of the wood. Then he looked up and met her gaze, his eyes the same faded denim blue as his shirt. ‘That,’ he said, ‘was Sonia. What you saw was the tail end of an argument that lasted about three days. Christ, I can be an idiot sometimes. She chatted me up at a club in town a couple of months ago and moved in a fortnight later. I bought her the car she was driving and the clothes she was wearing.’ He shook his head. ‘What should have been a bit of fun turned into a sodding nightmare. She was a control freak. She tried to manipulate me and everyone around me and when people wouldn’t play ball, she got nasty. Despite that, there were times when she made me feel bloody great.’ He shot Alex a rueful little smile. ‘That’s why I let her get away with moving in and why it took me so long to throw her out.’

  ‘I see.’ Alex sipped her tea. She was pretty sure he was being straight with her; she just hoped he could be as open and honest about some of the things in his past that they would have to talk about.

  Three chairs stood opposite the long bench on which Alex sat. Johnny had taken the right hand one, opposite her. A large marmalade cat popped up on the middle chair, yawning and stretching. Johnny scratched the cat’s head while the animal lazily blinked large, gold-flecked green eyes.

  ‘Alex, meet Ginger Baker. Baker, this is Alex. She’s going to help me tell the sorry tale of my life so far.’ Unimpressed, the cat turned his back on them and lay down again.

  ***

  Alex spent that first afternoon getting to know Johnny Burns a little better and setting the ground rules for the job. Later in the day, reassured that they should be able to work together, Alex left Johnny’s house and headed for the village where she would be staying. She had gathered that Johnny, too, was comfortable with their arrangement, although she had thought some of the questions he had asked her decidedly odd.

  Further questions about her experience, achievements, musical knowledge and tastes, she had expected. They had enjoyed discussing bands and musicians they both liked and admired, and good-naturedly defending their choices when their tastes differed.

  She was taken aback, however, when Johnny assumed an expression that was an odd mix of earnest and embarrassed and started on a different tack. ‘Alex,’ he said, ‘have you ever used a Ouija board?’

  Alex shook her head and laughed, wondering where this was going. ‘No, curiously enough, I never have.’

  ‘Not even a makeshift one? You know, home-made letters and numbers, glass in the middle of the table?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Palm reading, tea leaves, spiritualism?’

  ‘No.’

  He ran a hand through his hair. ‘Tarot cards? Have you ever owned a deck or had your fortune told with them?’

  ‘No. I’ve got a couple of mates who are into that sort of thing, but I leave it well alone.’

  ‘Is that because you think it’s dangerous?’

  ‘No, it’s
because I think it’s bullshit.’ She sat back in her chair and folded her arms. ‘Johnny, what’s this all about?’

  ‘Ah … nothing, really.’ He smiled an apology, evaded her eyes. ‘I guess I’m just a bit superstitious about superstition.’

  She’d pushed him on it, but he wouldn’t elaborate, changed the subject back to music and drew her into a discussion about Jack White’s stripped-bare approach to playing and recording blues. Alex let it go; if there was more to it, it would surface in its own time.

  ###