The Silent Girls

Chapter Five

Sophie lay stiff and aching on the lumpy sofa listening to the ticking of the mantle clock and contemplating the oppressive atmosphere of the house. The tablets that Edie had given to her had taken the edge off, but her ribs still grated where Johnno’s fist had bruised them and every now and then her face pulsed with pain.

She hadn’t taken Edie’s advice and had a bath, everything hurt too much for that, but she had salvaged the flannel and had a quick lick round with that. It would have to do for now, she hated being dirty but a quick wash was all she’d been able manage. Waves of nausea lapped like the tide and she could feel the soup and bread rolling and washing in her stomach. Throwing up wasn’t an option. In her situation food could be hard to come by; you had to hang on to it no matter what.

An attempt to shift position winded her and made her grit her teeth, for the first time in an age she felt as if she wanted to cry. Not because of the pain, though it wasn’t helping, but because of Dolly. The woman was gone and Sophie hadn’t known. That was the trouble when you shifted about the place sofa surfing (and sometimes settling for doorways) – you couldn’t keep in touch and you couldn’t keep an eye on people who mattered. She wasn’t quite sure why Dolly had mattered, she’d been a funny old duck, but she’d been kind in her way and good for a few quid from time to time. Sophie pondered whether what she was feeling might be grief – she had spent so many years being angry it was hard to recognise other emotions, but this hollow, empty feeling seemed to fit what she understood of the concept. Unless it was more hunger. Sophie was equally familiar with that sensation.

The house felt weird without Dolly, and the inroads into the mess that the woman Edie had made seemed to Sophie like something important ran the risk of being eradicated. Sophie was kind of glad she was nomadic, it would take thirty seconds for someone to dump her rucksack in a bin – thirty seconds, job done, all Sophie Hedley’s worldly goods, all she stood for, eliminated in an instant. No one would experience grief, or even hunger, at her demise. In fact she would be surprised if anyone would even notice. Probably better that way, no legacy, no ripples, no homeless people spending the night on your uncomfortable sofa. What was with this sofa? It felt like she was lying on a sack of rocks, and it wasn’t just the bruised ribs that were making her feel it. She shoved a hand beneath her and felt around. Sure enough there was a lump in the foam. There was no way she was going to be able to sleep with that digging into her back, and she was a girl who could sleep anywhere – doorways, park benches, you name it.

With some effort she slid off, grunting as her ribs grated and sang with pain. A zip in the back of the cushion allowed access to the foam inside. The zip was stiff, had probably rarely been opened, and it took a moment of careful and gentle persuasion before the teeth parted and allowed her to slip in a hand and feel about for the object that had been causing so much discomfort. The foam was old, had started to disintegrate and left a grainy and unpleasant residue on her hands. The texture of it made her grimace as she groped about, her fingers finally finding the item that she sought. It felt like a book, a book that someone had wedged between the layers of ancient foam. Weird. She tugged at it, but it had been there a long time and resisted her efforts. The foam had become tacky and had adhered to the cover, Sophie tugged and worked her fingers under and around the book until finally it came free and she could pull it out. The light in the room was dim, the bulbs as old and weak as Dolly had been, and Sophie couldn’t really make out much from the pages of the notebook that had faded, foxed and stuck together in the passage of time. It seemed to be some kind of copybook, lists, money, boring stuff. She wasn’t much bothered about what the pages held, only that the bloody thing would no longer be preventing her from sleep. With irritation she wiped the cover on the carpet and threw the book into her backpack, then she wiped her hands down her jeans and reassembled the cushion. With mounting exhaustion she put it back, climbed onto the sofa and attempted to sleep.

Edie found her there the next day, curled up, hair tousled, mouth slack and with her T-shirt ridden up and revealing the ugly, mottled bruise that had bloomed on her torso overnight. As she observed the sleeping, broken girl, sorrow clutched at her heart. Lena’s disapproval had inclined her to think that she should ask the girl to leave, but this sight changed everything. Edie knew what it was to feel lonely, vulnerable and without hope. She had never been homeless but had sold her soul to keep a roof over her head and food in her belly. If being married to Simon hadn’t been a deal with the Devil, she didn’t know what was.

For a moment she contemplated taking the girl’s bag and washing the clothes that were inside, the whole thing stank and so did the girl, but who was she to intrude on the girl’s possessions? Instead she wandered through to the kitchen, filled the kettle and began to cook the bacon and eggs she had brought with her. As she fiddled with the food a plan began to form in her mind.

The smell of cooking must have woken the girl as she came sidling into the kitchen, yawning and shuffling and rubbing the back of her neck. ‘I smell bacon, is there coffee? I could murder coffee,’ she said blearily as she slumped into a chair next to the faded Formica table.

‘There is coffee.’ Edie said, pouring boiling water into a mug of instant. ‘It’s not great but it’s wet and it’s warm. Oh, and I’ve sorted you some clean clothes out – some of mine, I’ll wash yours if you like.’

Sophie took the drink and frowned. ‘Why are you being so nice to me? Food, shelter, clothes, offers of washing, what’s the catch?’

Edie paused, the grill pan in one oven-gloved hand, a piece of bacon dangling from a fork in the other, and examined the girl’s look of suspicion. She wasn’t sure she liked a world where kindness and compassion had to be explained and justified.

‘No catch, but an offer. You need a place to stay, I need some help. This place won’t clear itself and I can’t face it on my own. I don’t know how long it will take, but you can stay here and help me until I hand over the keys. I’ll feed you and sort out a bed for you to sleep in, I’ll even buy you a bar of soap and some shampoo…’ she added as she passed a plate of food across the table.

Sophie scowled at the perceived insult and took the food, inhaling the aroma and letting the nectar of it relax her features. ‘No skin off my nose.’ she said, shrugging and dipping a folded slice of bread into her egg. ‘As long as you’ve got rubber gloves, I’m not touching anything without gloves. This place is minging!’

Edie looked at the grim state of the girl and smiled as pots and kettles came to mind. She sat down in front of her own breakfast. ‘OK, and yes, I have gloves. I figured you could start by clearing one of the bedrooms. I’m going out in a bit to buy some bedding so at least we’ll have something clean and dry to sleep on.’

Sophie paused, a chunk of sausage poised precariously on her fork stopped in mid-air, interrupted on its journey to her already full mouth. ‘You said “we”, I thought you was staying next door?’

‘I was, but I don’t want to outstay my welcome. You can clear and clean the little room and sleep in there, I’ll take the sofa.’

Sophie shrugged and shoved the sausage into her mouth. She chewed twice and swallowed. To Edie, watching Sophie eat was much like watching a snake consume its prey whole; inconceivable and uncomfortable.

‘S’your funeral, that bastard thing is like an instrument of torture – I’ve slept on more comfortable benches than that sofa. Why don’t you have one of the other bedrooms?’

It was a good question. ‘I’ll show you in a minute and you’ll see why.’

Sophie looked around Dolly’s bedroom in horror, the hanks of hair seemed to have become even more disturbed than Edie could remember. They hung around the room like cobwebs and single strands hovered, wafting like fine tentacles as they floated in the draught from the hallway.

‘Christ! If Miss Havisham had made it to her wedding night, I reckon this is what the room would’ve looked like.’ Sophie said, making to step into the room more fully, then thinking better of it.

‘I didn’t have you down as a literature lover.’

Sophie scowled at her. ‘I might be temporarily indisposed, but I’m not thick. I read.’ She prodded at a pile of abandoned clothing with her foot. ‘Bloody hell, where d’you start?’

‘Here.’ Edie said, leading her across the landing and into Beattie’s small, cell like room. ‘It’s not so messy, but it is damp and the wardrobe needs clearing and there is a bit of junk that could do with sorting. It might be worth stripping that bed and giving the mattress a good airing, I’ll buy a cover for it later, I’m not sure what state it’s in. Once it’s cleared you can sleep in here.’

Sophie looked around the small room, a look of considered approval on her face. ‘Ta,’ was all she said, though she accompanied it with a nod of satisfaction. ‘So what do you want me to do with the stuff?’

‘Anything that is obviously rubbish, just throw. Her clothes can go in bags for the textile recycling, I can’t imagine any charity shop wanting them and I can’t for a minute think that there would be much call for fancy dress where crimplene and nylon are concerned. My grandmother wasn’t exactly a natty dresser. Anything you think might be important – photos, document and the like – put in a box and I’ll go through them later.’

Sophie nodded. ‘Righto boss. Ummm, I don’t suppose you’ve got any more of those painkillers have you? I hurt my ribs and they’re playing me up like a bastard.’

Edie fished in her pocket for the ibuprofen she had bought that morning with the breakfast goods. ‘Here, I got these. You’re really not going to be up to much, are you? Not in this state anyway.’

Sophie flapped a hand at her. ‘No worries, I’ll be right in a mo. I’ve had worse. Not saying I’m up for moving furniture like, but I can manage to chuck shite in bin bags.’

Edie passed her the medication, wondering at the wisdom of leaving someone who she hardly knew, who regarded other people’s belongings as ‘shite’ (and who, if profanity were removed from the language would have very little to say) in charge of clearing out Beattie’s room. She shook the thought off. It wasn’t as if she could really afford to care what happened to the contents of the house, as long as they were cleared and she could leave – it didn’t really matter what anyone did with her grandmother’s belongings. ‘Well, as long as you’re sure?’ she said.

‘Oh stop fussing will ya? Bugger off and go shopping, I’ll have this place sorted in no time.’ Sophie said, gazing casually at the plain contents of the small room.

Chapter Six

Edie cut across the park, skirting the now familiar murder tourists and their unhealthy obsession with Winfield’s more murky past. She was thinking about Sophie again, about the bruises on the girl and the cut on her face and about what would happen to her when the house was finally cleared. Edie would be gone by then and Sophie would have no roof again. There had to be something out there for kids like Sophie, something more than other people’s sofas on good days and shop doorways on bad ones. Perhaps, Edie pondered, there was some kind of charity that might help, or there might be a local hostel which she could persuade Sophie to try. Her thoughts were still running the possible scenarios of a less precarious future for Sophie when she reached the high street and had to stop to get her bearings. For some reason her preoccupation with the homeless girl had made her forget that things had changed in Winfield. The high street was no longer the bustling and lively place that she remembered, it was now a half boarded up commercial wasteland of charity shops and pound emporiums. She paused, sighed and looked along the street to see if anything vaguely familiar to her younger self still stood. With some relief and not a little nostalgia she spotted the Swiss Cottage café and, two doors down from it, Bryers and Brynt – purveyors of hardware and household goods. The fact that B&B was still in business was bizarrely gratifying and Edie felt a small smile tilt at the corners of her mouth as a memory of the place took hold. Recollections of the smell of beeswax polish and the sheen on the old mahogany counters, and the two old men who’d been the sons of the original Mr Bryers and Mr Brynt reinforced the smile as she strode towards the kerb, ready to cross the road and revisit her childhood.

She stopped in her tracks at the sight of Sam, standing outside the cafe and engaged in what appeared to be a heated conversation with a large man who was built (as her mother had been fond of saying) like a brick shit house. He was huge, with shoulders like a lintel and a musculature that strained the seams of his black wool coat. Even more incongruous than his size was the coat itself, it was August and although not baking hot, warm enough for shirtsleeves. The coat was a uniform, a statement and a badge of office. He looked like a bouncer, or some kind of hired thug, and from what Edie could see he was looming over Sam and exuding increasing amounts of menace. Sam wasn’t a small man himself, but he was dwarfed in the face of this giant and every time he attempted to step back and maintain his personal space, the man took a step towards him and narrowed the gap. Sam’s usually relaxed and handsome face had taken on an expression that smacked of mild panic, it pinched his features and showed his age. Fear did that, Edie knew. She saw it in her own face every time she looked into a mirror.

For a moment she hesitated and thought about turning round and walking back towards the square so that she could claim ignorance and avoid any liability for the scene that was unfolding before her. Not that she had any idea what might happen, it was the sense of escalating tension that came across the road in almost tangible waves that triggered her anxiety and awakened the fight-or-flight mechanism in her brain. She could run, but would she ever forgive herself if something happened to Sam and she hadn’t intervened? Swallowing down her better instincts, she checked for traffic and strode across the road, waving at Sam as she went and catching both men’s attention with the movement. ‘Sam,’ she called out when she was only a few steps away from the kerb, ‘fancy seeing you here. I was hoping I’d bump into you.’ She stepped onto the pavement and patted her chest in mock breathlessness as she turned to the giant, giving him what she hoped was a dazzling smile. ‘Hello, sorry to interrupt, just wanted to catch Sam before he disappeared!’ she said, with a laugh that was tinny and falsetto and as fake as the smile. The giant frowned at her.

‘He’s all yours, lady.’ he said, in voice that sounded more like a grunt than anything else. ‘Don’t forget Campion, Mr Pascoe wants what he’s owed.’

‘Don’t worry, he’ll get it.’ Sam said, his voice tense and tight.

The giant gave him a grudging nod, turned and climbed awkwardly into a sleek black car that had appeared at the kerb. Edie watched as he forced his bulk into the front seat and slammed the door. She treated him to another radiant smile as the car pulled away and even risked a small wave to Sam’s horror.

‘What’re you doing?’ he demanded.

‘Being polite.’ she said, dropping her hand and turning to Sam. ‘What was that all about?’

Sam took her elbow and steered her towards the café. ‘Just business, nothing to worry about.’

Edie wasn’t so sure – though the pinched look had departed, his voice still sounded as if it had come from behind gritted teeth. A muscle, fired by tension, twitched in his jaw. ‘Are you OK?’ she asked.

Sam’s eyes narrowed, then in an instant the tension was gone and the familiar smile broke across his features. ‘Of course, why wouldn’t I be?’ He nodded towards the café. ‘Fancy a coffee, as we’re here?’

The sudden change in demeanour rattled Edie for a moment, but she was so relieved to see the familiar relaxed and cheerful Sam that she shook off the feeling and returned his smile, ‘Why not?’

The Swiss hadn’t changed at all, in fact as Edie looked at the yellow stained walls and worn wooden tables she wondered if the owners had even decorated in the thirty odd years since she had been there last. A memory of drinking hot chocolate and eating cake with Uncle Dickie rose like a bubble and popped on the surface of her consciousness. ‘Dickie used to bring me here for hot chocolate,’ she said, as Sam found them an empty table.

‘Yeah? He was a nice guy as I recall.’ Sam said. ‘So do you want hot chocolate now so you can relive your childhood? Or are you going to settle for a nice, grown-up coffee?’

There was a slight smirk hiding in Sam’s smile and the sight of it sent a frisson of embarrassment through Edie. She certainly had no desire to relive her childhood and felt irritated at the suggestion that she might. ‘Coffee please. I don’t believe in going backwards.’ she said, with more grit than she’d intended.

‘Fair enough.’ Sam waved to the waitress and made their order. ‘So how’s it going? Have you discovered the family jewels yet?’

Edie laughed. ‘Hah, some chance of that! No, it’s going OK. The sooner I get it done the better.’

‘Have you started on Dickie’s room yet?’

‘No, I haven’t touched the bedrooms, I’m kind of building myself up to it. Dolly’s is a nightmare – every time I think about it I feel like packing my bags and running away!’ she said it with a laugh, as if injecting humour into the prospect would somehow lessen the veracity of her desire to cut and run from the whole thing.

‘Ah, it won’t be that bad once you get going. We managed the lounge easily enough, didn’t we? Why don’t I come round and give you a hand again? I could sort Dickie’s room, while you tackle Dolly’s.’

It was a kind offer, but Edie felt that she’d already taken up too much of his time and Lena’s kind help. ‘Ah, no, it’s fine. I’ll manage. You and your mum have already done enough. I’m very grateful.’

To her surprise Sam reached across the table and took her hand, squeezing it warmly. ‘It’s no problem, we like to help. I want to help.’

Edie was acutely conscious of the warmth of his touch on her skin. Fortunately their coffee arrived, borne on a worn out tray, which was wielded by an equally worn out waitress by the look of her. Edie pulled her hand away from Sam’s and reached for her cup. ‘It really is kind of you, but I’m absolutely fine. I have a friend helping me now, so I won’t need to impose on you or your mum. In fact I’m off to buy some bedding in a minute so that I can move back in. Much as I love your mum’s company, I’ll get a lot more done if I’m “in situ” rather than gossiping to her every evening.’ She added a smile and sipped at her coffee. It was piping hot, too milky, cheap and burned her tongue. She winced at the pain and put the cup down as if it was the vessel’s fault she’d scalded herself.

Sam ignored his own drink and peered at her. ‘Oh? Who’s the friend?’

Edie avoided his eyes and glanced around the seedy café. ‘Just a girl I met, she’s helping me out a bit. I feel kind of sorry for her, she’s sort of on her uppers and needs a bit of help.’

Sam frowned, as Edie expected he might. ‘Are you saying you’ve picked up a stray and let her loose in the house, Edie? Are you sure that’s a wise move?’

Edie was rarely sure of anything these days, but she did know that it was her decision and that she didn’t need to justify it. ‘I’m happy with her there, I trust her.’ For instance, she wasn’t sure that statement was true, but was equally unsure she wanted to debate it with Sam. Nice as he was, appealing as he was, he wasn’t her keeper.

Sam’s frown deepened, he seemed to be thinking. ‘Hmmmm, well, I hope you don’t regret it. Why don’t I call round later, help you out a bit and make sure this “friend” is the full ticket and not intending to rip you off?’

Edie really didn’t want to be rude, wasn’t even sure she was capable of it – she sometimes felt that her default setting was ‘polite people-pleaser’ – but this overprotective streak in Sam was starting to grate on her. ‘Thanks, but it’s fine. Honestly. I’ll take my chances.’

Sam shrugged and sat back in his chair. ‘Fine, fair enough, just looking out for you that’s all. This place isn’t what it used to be Edie, you can’t go around leaving your back door open and expecting no one to walk in and help themselves these days.’

Even though she was bristling on the inside, Edie smiled. ‘I know, in fact I might just do that – if people walk in and help themselves it will save me a lot of work!’ It came out with another laugh that was a little too tinny and a little too high. Sam was making her nervous and she wasn’t sure why. ‘Anyway, let’s change the subject. Tell me what happened to all of the old shops along here that I remember. What happened to the butcher, Mr Lovell wasn’t it?’

Sam answered her question without enthusiasm, explaining that the demise of the high street had been a typical thing – out of town supermarkets had been built, the community had broken down, the socio-economic state of the area had taken its toll… Edie sipped the now drinkable coffee and listened patiently, grateful that she was no longer under the spotlight of his attention. When the conversation had petered out, and they had both finished their drinks, there seemed nothing else to do but thank him and get on with her day. He seemed distracted and preoccupied, and Edie was worried that her defensiveness had offended him. Outside the café she hesitated, wondering if she should acknowledge her concern. ‘I hope I didn’t annoy you Sam, I really am grateful for everything you’ve done, and for this – the coffee and the company.’

He seemed to snap out of his mood at her words. ‘No worries, you didn’t offend me at all. I’m just concerned for you. Anyway, I won’t interfere where I’m not wanted.’ He accompanied his words with a wan smile, which made her feel she had just put a dent in something that she might need – his friendship.

‘Oh Sam, I’m so sorry. I just didn’t want you to think I couldn’t manage things on my own. I don’t want you to think of me as some burden who’s turned up out of the blue!’

He slid an arm around her shoulders and squeezed, then to her surprise dropped a kiss on the top of her head. ‘You’ll never be a burden Edie, I’m just happy to help. Anyway, I’m off. People to see, things to do.’ He squeezed her shoulders again.

As he walked away her words of farewell seemed to hang on the air like the smoke from a cigar. She felt like she had given in to something, let him win in some way – but win what? Surely she was the one who had gained by maintaining their connection. Whatever. She pushed the strange feeling away and walked into Bryers and Brynt in search of bedding.

***

Alone in the house after Edie had gone, Sophie looked around the kitchen and contemplated washing up the breakfast things. She supposed that she ought to really if she wanted to show some appreciation for the food in her belly and the roof over her head. Washing up was probably the chore that she had loathed most at home, mainly because ‘stepdad’ number seven had chosen to use his half eaten meals as an impromptu ashtray. The memory of cigarette butts protruding from uneaten piles of cold food like little gungy stalagmites turned her stomach. As did the thought of him with his sly leers and wandering hands. With a shudder she turned her back on the dirty dishes and headed upstairs, taking a roll of black bags, a pack of cleaning wipes and a pair of rubber gloves with her.

Beattie’s room might have been less cluttered than the others, but it had suffered from the same degree of neglect, and the faint, musty smell of mushrooms lingered in the air. Dust coated every surface and the desiccated carcasses of dead insects peppered the edges of the room. The windowsill alone looked like a moth and fly graveyard. Sophie grimaced at the thought and decided to start with the wardrobe and build herself up to dealing with the dead bodies.

The wardrobe doors sighed and sagged open at her tugging. They were swollen with damp and once ajar, released a foetid lull of air, which felt to Sophie like the breath of history curling into her face. Beattie’s particular history hung in the form of a few simple dresses and one good coat, which dangled limp and lonely from a rusted hanger. She gathered them up and bundled them unceremoniously into a black bag that initially refused to play ball and resisted her by folding in on itself and twisting away. She gruffly forced it into submission and rammed the clothes inside.

If she had been more patient, and looked at the clothes, she would have had to picture the shape of the woman who wore them. Having their owner manifest in her mind was too much; she didn’t want that, and quickly followed the clothes with shoes and a handbag made of stiff dry leather. She tried the clasp, but it was old and obstinate, much as she imagined Beattie had been. Everything in the wardrobe found its way into the black bag, including a faded, moth-eaten felt hat with a cluster of age-paled wax cherries on its brim. It crowned the heap of apparel in the bag and was sealed away with all the other things long past their wear-by date.

Despite her conscious refusal Sophie couldn’t help her mind constructing a picture of the woman who dressed in black crepe and who thought that a hat with cherries on the band was the height of haute couture. Sophie wasn’t entirely sure about haute couture, it seemed to be something for posh people with more money than sense. Beattie had not been posh; she had resoled her battered leather shoes, and kept mothballs in the pockets of her coat. Even now the faint tang of camphor hung in the air like a waft of bad breath.

Beattie seemed to have lived a life of frugality and austerity in a room so free of fripperies that it resembled a nun’s cell. The only nod to vanity was a tiny glass dish on the tallboy, containing a few hairpins. It was situated directly under a pock marked mirror, which distorted even Sophie’s fresh young face with its cuts and bruises. The room felt sad, lonely and almost punitive to Sophie – it was hard to imagine the demeanour of a woman who would choose to live like this. Even through the barrier of the loose rubber gloves she could feel the essence of the old woman’s despair penetrate her skin and seep into her bones, where it sat like a winter chill, brooding, ready to pounce and make her heartsick. It wouldn’t take much, she was heartsick already.

With the wardrobe clear and another bag already half full of hideous old knickers and vests retrieved from the drawers of the tallboy, there seemed little else to do. Sophie’s ribs were getting sore again, the ibuprofen had worn off so she necked two more, swallowing them without water as she contemplated stripping the bed. The feelings and ghosts that she had manifested since starting on the room made the prospect of sleeping in a shop doorway and grappling with the elements (and the drunks) suddenly more appealing. She tried to snap out of it, a bed was a bed and anywhere had to be better than the street.

The bed had last been made with absolute precision, the sheets and blankets were stretched tight as a drum with hospital corners so spare they would have made even the hardest matron weep tears of joy. As she wrestled with the stiff fabrics she thanked God for the invention of duvets – life should be about ten second flings, not faffing about with sheets and standing by your beds. No matter how hard she pulled, she couldn’t release the bottom sheet from the corner of the bed where it was wedged against the wall. Not that she could pull very hard, well, not without risking a punctured lung the way her ribs felt. With a sigh of abject frustration she shuffled round the end of the bed and attempted to use her foot to move the divan out and away from the wall. It wouldn’t give, despite an immense amount of effort and some serious grunting. She had no choice but to get down on her hands and knees amongst the insect corpses and inspect the problem. With a grunt of effort she got down, gritting her teeth at the pain of the movement, and felt around the castor to see what was preventing it from moving. Sure enough it had sunk into the rotten wood of the floorboard and was firmly wedged into a neat, soggy hole.

There was a small fireplace in the room, unused for years, and plastered in a fall of dusty soot, but next to it was a set of fire irons, equally dusty and unused, but complete with a hefty looking poker ideal for use as a lever. Sophie reached out and grabbed it, shoved it under the edge of the bed near to the castor, got to her knees and heaved. As she levered – with a searing pain shooting through her thorax – she shoved the poker to one side, moving the now raised bed a little away from the hole. For a frightening moment she thought that the sickening crack that shuddered through her had come from her ribs, because it sounded like bone rending from bone. She froze and took a breath, expecting it to make her chest scream with pain. To her surprise it was no more sore than usual. When she unscrewed her eyes and took a look, she realised that in removing the castor from the floor, she had also managed to pull free a large wedge of rotten floorboard. Dropping the poker she pushed the bed away and surveyed the damage. ‘Shit!’ Edie was not going to be happy. She was expecting a cleared out room, not a wrecked one.