Page 141 of The Grosvenor's Ghost
“It’s not looking good,” Sullivan tells us. He says it so seriously, so definitely that my heart sinks because it’s the last thing anyone wants to hear.
“But it was her, weren’t it?” George presses, maybe more stressed than what I am. “It was her that leaked the picture?”
Sullivan sighs. “Yeah. The papers don’t post pictures like that anymore—but I mean, the bitch is like fucking Houdini. I’ve got eyes on her but she doesn’t stay in the same place for longer than two days.”
I shake my head, trying to understand all of it. “So, what? She’s here?”
George and Albie’s dad slumps forward, he seems agitated and yet he’s dealt with matters a lot more serious than this—but then again, this is pretty fucking serious. I try to water it down as much as I can but the seed is there and every so often, it blooms into the biggest, brightest flower—more like a weed than a flower but still, it’s not going anywhere no matter how much I try to push it out.
“She was,” Sullivan nods. “Now anymore, though. Fuck knows where she’s gone now.”
I stare at him. “Have you spoken to my dad?”
“Yeah, he’s all caught up.”
It’s surprising, maybe, that my dad knows but he had to. There was no way this was going to be so covered up if he didn’t know. I feel sick that it is so covered up. If this was anyone else, it wouldn’t be because not everyone has the same privilege or connections as me.
I know I’m a bad person, alright? The drugs, Phoebe, Astrid, this. It’s all bad but this being so covertly sorted out just makes it so much worse. But if everyone knew—if the public knew—it wouldn’t just be me in danger it would be my entire bloodline.
“I managed to pull a few records.” Sullivan pulls a folded up folder from his back pocket and hands it to me.
The twins read over my shoulders. George pulls back, frowns. “Fucking arson! She got charged with arson! Is she fucking mental or what?”
“Says here she was hospitalised,” Albie mutters. “Bardmoor Hospital, diagnosed as a borderline.”
“So she’s a nutter?” George splutters, can’t believe it.
Sullivan just nods, shrugs half arsed.
I’m not concentrating on any of that, though, I’m still reading over her name. I mean, her name is right there. Makes her real then, don’t it? Her picture stares back at me. A grainy, black and white portrait of her that’s probably on her passport. I think she’s sick—we all fucking do—but if we look at it from a wider perspective, I’m just as sick, maybe even sicker.
It hangs over me, as it would for anyone, and some nights I tell myself it isn’t true. It never happened. On other nights I think about tracking the family down, going to talk to them myself. It’s not just a burden for me, but for Phoebe as well. I had a go at her earlier for playing games but if it wasn’t for this, I’d be moving heaven and hell to be with her. I mean, Digby would’ve been out of the picture within the first week of me being back but I kind of left Phoebe with him because nothing Digby will do will be as bad as this,
Mostly, though, I do try to just block it out, shut the door on it and throw away the key. But that fucking key keeps resurfacing and haunting me. I can’t even get myself to say thewords because I just don’t want it to be true. I don’t want to have been the person to have done this. But I am.
Sullivan tells us more about her but I’m not listening. My eyes are still glued to her picture. I feel like I can’t breathe the longer I look but I also can’t pull my eyes away. Everything around me blurs out and I know I have to tell Phoebe—not to burden her but to be with her because believe me when I say it’s the only thing on this earth that I want.
“I need a minute,” I tell them and leave the room.
My legs feel heavy and even when I go outside to get some fresh air, it doesn’t help. It’s too hot, too stuffy. I feel stuck. Feel like I want to be anyone else in the world but me. You think you’ve put something to bed but then it wakes up and now you don’t know what to do.
I pull my t-shirt off over my head, press my hand to my chest to make sure my heart is still beating. It is. Feels faint, though. Isn’t it meant to be stronger? Like a proper thud, not just a light knocking. Fuck, I don’t know.
Right about now I’d go and rack up.
Should I?
I’m already a shitty person; what’s one line of cocaine?
Fuck it, maybe I should. Let Phoebe see how cursed I really fucking am. She says all of this stuff—she’d love me no matter what—but does she mean it? She says it hypothetically, we all do. We never mean it because we don’t ever think we’d be faced with the reality of our hypotheticals.
You know, actually, I don’t think drugs and fatal endings at a young age really is the curse poisoning my bloodline. I think it’s fucking things up when they get really good. Money, love, power, gold—we have it all but when it gets real—when it gets good—we let it go and then reel it right back in when we realise what we’ve lost.
It must be.
I think of my brother, Theo. Hate him for dying—always have done. Think that maybe if he hadn’t died this dreadful train of events wouldn’t have taken place. All his fault, ain’t it? Dick. Going and dying on us. I hate him, miss him, blame him—it’s easy when they’re dead.
“Fucking hell, Arth!”
