Back against the wall, legs stretched out in front across the width of the mattress. Neck’s against the cold, solid, wallpapered plaster and back bumps along it, just as bony. Too skinny, Alf. Need some meat on those bones.

He’s sleeping and you’re not, are you? You’re sitting there trying to blend in, feeling out of place, like you always do. Hunch legs up so the backs of thighs don’t touch his any longer. Don’t want them to. Air is cold when you breathe in, matching the grey early morning light. Nose and fingertips are numb – bad circulation, see?

Stare unseeingly at that poster on his wall that you’ve never figured out. Could be anything. Abstract art to album cover and everything in between. My room isn’t like his. If posters are personality, then I’m lacking. Just a ghost- see, they were right all along. You’re here, but nothing you touch leaves a mark – not even if you want it to. At some point, blending in became being ignored and who can say when that happened, or really if the difference is so all great.

The bottom right corner of that poster’s peeling up and the blue tack has left a sweaty round stain on the paper, even though it doesn’t work anymore. Blue tack has more presence than me.

I will get up. I will crawl over his legs without waking him and I will finish getting dressed without a word, but I will leave my shoes off until I’m downstairs so that I don’t leave muddy footprints on the stairs. But I could.

I will not kiss him.

Could write my name in thick felt pen all over his white shiny bedroom door - could traipse mud down the stairs or leave my boxers hanging from the banisters. But I don’t. Simpler, more malicious, I could wait another ten minutes before I slip down to the kitchen and let myself out of the back door. All I would have to do is wait until his parents’ alarm clock goes off down the hall, pretend not to have heard the low beeps that carry through to here and go downstairs anyway – walk in on his mother making tea, purposefully half-dressed, tugging my t-shirt down over my hickey-covered chest, instead of waiting until they all leave. But I don’t. Because he trusts me not to.

Or maybe because he’s convinced himself that I couldn’t do it anyway, and I can’t prove him wrong. Ghosts don’t make marks; even I’m having trouble remembering that I’m not one. Tug my hood up. Slip out the back door. Thief in the night, except it’s not, is it? It’s morning – already late for work.

Broad leaves in the wood up the way from his farm cast dappled shade from the morning sun on the bare compacted earth. Halfway along the path a gnarled trunk divides the ground, the curved bark flattened and polished smooth by the many feet that have stepped up on it. As you walk around it the hand that reaches out to catch your balance grazes the same place everyone’s touched for centuries. Get off your bike and haul it over, re-mount, pedal up the hill.

Further up another tree is bare-rooted, clinging to the embankment, spread around a heavy boulder-shaped rock. This track is deep and cool even in the heat of the afternoon but right now it’s getting on for chilly. My father likes to tell me that the way was carved by farmers herding pigs to market, their trotters excavating the deep cut after centuries of use. No river ever flowed here. He’d have me believe this path has been here since the Romans. Maybe even before. Don’t know why he’s so determined that it was pigs. There hasn’t been a pig around here in living memory – sheep are less interesting, but it’s what the landscape is dotted with.

Maybe because ancient pigs are practically wild boar and they’re as exotic as you’re going to get around here, ignoring the llama farm across the other side. Strange things happen in the East of the island. We avoid it here – more cut off because of the river. We’re half a world away.

Dad’s story is one of the myths that get built up around a place like this by the locals, over time – patchworking the land together in a web of untruths. The track goes to the top of the hill and winds its way along the chalk downs, a stark white scar against the dense, dry green of heather and gorse. From there you could go anywhere – track along the ridge of hills in musty, bracken-scented sun, or back down into the shaded valley – heading in land, the muddy path shaded by dense woodland, but the tracks don’t lead to a market town. Even if pigs were once driven along here by ancient peasants, they didn’t go to market. This is not the way to go.

But people like myths – things to make the everyday less dull. Down that path to the right, a little way off the main sun-soaked gravel track running parallel to the road in my village, with brambles and overhanging trees - so it goes, according to most people – there lives a man from far away, who’ll curse you quick as look at you and murder you even faster. Grind your bones to make his bread. Fee fi fo fum.

He’s the local monster – rattling around in a house five times bigger than the terrace houses they live in – bigger even than the farm by the Sheep Wash Garage – with dark windows and creepers growing up all over it - a very good house to be haunted.

They say he hates children, so of course they all seek him out – dare each other metres down the path and throw eggs at the windows. They say he killed his wife and buried her somewhere in these woods. They say at night you can hear her screams. They dig holes to find the bones, and scare themselves stupid when they find the remains of ancient foxes. I’ve seen them do it. They’re wrong about all of it though, because I know for a fact that she went away to Liverpool, but no one likes to think anyone would leave this place voluntarily. Working on the boats is bad enough.

She left him – that man from far away – when their kid was still small, because she couldn’t face life holed up in the crumbling ruin of her family’s farm, in the deep dark woods with no one but him for company. She was a local girl, and he wasn’t. She’d thought he’d take her away from this place, not box her in. But he tried, and she got out like she’d always wanted to.

And they needed someone to blame. All that was needed for the hostility to grow when she did leave was the single fact that he wasn’t local. Anything that happened was his fault. She should have married Tom Hood up the road, see, or maybe John Granger, Peter’s dad. The farm should still be working, not covered in weeds and bad feeling, forgotten and crumbling, roof like a colander – tiles pulled off here and there, even the corrugated patches rusted through and its windows so dark that no one could really live inside. Because he doesn’t – not really, he’s a ghost, just like his son.

Most nights his dreams wake us both up because he shouts out – desperate to keep her here. And I’ve never understood why he stayed. I’ve never understood why he didn’t leave with her – why he let himself get relegated to legend – murderer of Janey Black from Crook Hill. And none of them could tell you his name. Not a single one. I think they’ve even forgotten he has a son, though every now and then one of the older women in the village looks at me strangely if she reads my surname on a letter, or Peter shouts it out in the street. They’d rather I died with her, if indeed she died at all.

Nearly eight o’clock as you peddle over the swing bridge. You can see the time on the church clock above the square. Tide’s out and the mud flats are desolate as ever. Meant to be in at half seven, Alf. Tie the bike up, fumble with the chain, skin knuckles on the railing. Wince and suck the blood away. Hare up the steps, in the door scrabbling with my apron ties, sweaty from the bike-ride - mud-splattered too. Reception Lady gives a solid look, dark make-up eyes widening and I shrink back. Should have gone home. Shouldn’t have slept at Peter’s. But I did. It’s done now.

Push the kitchen door open and freeze. It’s not Ryan. Chef is doing breakfast. Chef never does breakfast. So screwed Alf, so very screwed.

He looks at me, eyes narrowed. Says, “Afternoon.”

Millie isn’t there either. Xavier’s slumped next to the Waiter’s Fridge looking disdainful. Casts an acid, “Sleep well?” and a grimace that might just have been a smile.

Swallow, don’t answer. Look down at the mud caking the leather on my shoes. Not a good day to be late. Look to the side – orange juice is running low. Nod at it. “I’ll get some more.”

Turn around out of the kitchen and to the bar immediately. No questions. You know the jobs now – just get on with it. Like Ryan said – not here to make friends.

“Good Doggie.”

Xavier’s main pleasure in life seems to be ordering me about, whilst sipping espresso leaning back , ordering, “Push, push!” the Frog version of chop-chop, bip-bip. Want to make his espresso so I can spit in it. Never thought you’d have the guts, but you’re getting close.

His girlfriend doesn’t work the breakfast shift; he’s more irritable than yesterday. Puts toast in without saying, then blames you when it burns. Makes you clear all the trays he brings back as well as making coffee, tea, fetching juice, ferrying plates back and forth with Chef yelling for customer numbers and which tables need mains, and you don’t know, because Xavier doesn’t speak to animals. He doesn’t wipe plates either. Not sure what he does do. Lazy, no good, posing fuckwit. Kitchen speak’s rubbing off.

Half way through he makes a grab – hand on my shoulder – says “Alf, you’re behind.” Open, honest, expression, concerned, lying through his teeth.

Force a smile because I need the job; hitting him would get me fired. Pull back, dust my shoulder off. “I’ll go set the tables.”

Chuck the polishing cloth down, grab the cutlery tray, leave before he can stop you, but outside you realise it’s all laid up. All he’s left are plates to wipe – endless mountains of them, and you realise – this is war.

9.30, Ryan strolls in with a lazy “Xavy!” and a punch to his shoulder like they’re the best of mates. Traitor. What happened to Fucking French Wanker? Everyone here thinks the bastard’s great.

Ryan catches that glare and he pulls a taut smile before he looks away. Listen without meaning to and catch snatches of conversation about Xavier’s girlfriend giving him full-throatal. Don’t draw attention, but very quietly you can smile and shake that head. Xavier - tiny cock or he’s lying through his teeth. Yesterday his girlfriend nearly gagged on a lollypop. No way could she do what he says she did. Minor triumph – you got off better than he did last night.

“What you grinning at, New Kid?” Chef demands. “Fahking pay attention. You’re burning all the goddamned bread. It’s not free. How do’you think I make money if you burn all the blahdy bread?”

Snap the smouldering toast out of the toaster and dump the charred remains into the bin. Xavier strikes again.

“Push-push, Doggie.”

“Where’s my fahking cappuccino?”

“Blow job Alf?”

My job is the best job in the world.

Oh grow some balls. Chin up, stiff upper lip. Take what they’ve got and let it roll off. You’re going to do this Alf. You’re going to do this so well you’ll be running the place by the end of the summer. They’ll be begging you not to leave. How hard can it be? You know breakfast better than Xavier – this isn’t his normal shift. So show him he’s out of place.

Smile like you think it’s funny, put the bread in the toaster, grab the tray before Chef yells, slip the plate on – don’t burn your fingers. Order pad, basket of toast, don’t forget the butter. Grab French Git’s pen. Millie’s got you trained – you know what to do. You’re a waiter, Alf, not fucking kitchen boy.

Set the plate down in front of the customer, smile politely. Clear the empty tables of plates and cutlery. Take the cereal bowls away from the couple by the door. Heave a laden tray back to the kitchen, and then, say it, just like you’ve heard them all yell so many times before.

“Table Three, main course away.” Silence. Repeat it, louder. “Table Three, main course away.”

Chef looks up – mocking gone, face calm – nods, adding finishing touches to another plate. “Table Five. Bang it out.”

Xavier’s face drops – he was standing ready with a tray, but Chef looked straight through him – looked at you. Don’t grin like an idiot, just shove him out the way. Grab the toast basket with one hand and slip the tray onto the hotplate. Reach for the plate, ready for the burn, but… “Wait,” Chef stops you – lifts the plate with his oven cloth, and sets it down for you. “Hot plates, yeah Doggie?”

And I get it now – I’m a dog if I’m stupid. I’m a dog if I take it. Nod and get on with it, out the door to the dining room.

Ryan stops me – that smile he was wearing the first time I ever met him sparkling at his eyes – mischievous, friendly. “Fucksake Alf, where’s my tea?”

Look up at him – you know he’s joking when his voice is exaggerated like that and his eyes sparkle. Push back against the swing door and pause. Feel your gut jump with your new found gall, knowing exactly what you want to do. Borrow from Millie’s phrase book and raise your voice a bit.

“Xavier? Pull your finger out and make the bloody tea.”

Lunch is going to be hell, but just to see Ryan’s face it was worth it.