They Thought I Was Dead: Sandy’s Story

67 Autumn 2011

It was probably the most comfortable bed in which I’d barely slept a wink, in my life. I both sank into it and it held me firm at the same time. The pillows were the kind I’d wanted for years and had never found. Feather clouds.

Back in Jersey, although Nicos’s apartment had a magnificent sea view across St Aubin’s bay and the jagged promontory of historic Elizabeth Castle, it was close to one of the island’s busiest roads, Victoria Avenue. Despite our bedroom being at the back, I would go to sleep to an endless looped soundtrack of cars, trucks and motorbikes — punctuated by the occasional siren.

Last night had been complete and utter silence. And eternally long.

The new tablets had kept my cravings under control, without delivering any of the joy of those first hours after a fresh heroin fix.

My mind was alive, whirring, an engine inside my skull that wasn’t responding to the off switch.

I kept thinking of that drifting boat. I tried to tell myself that it probably had nothing to do with Nicos, or me. But I couldn’t shake off the thought of what might have happened to him, that he might be dead.

I wouldn’t wish that on anyone and really didn’t want to have to live with that guilt. I just needed him out of my life — banged up in prison would be good.

I’d left Roy. Then I’d dodged Albazi. And now run away from Nicos too. So far I’d got away with it but for how long?

I was in a country I didn’t know, where I had some distant family who I had never met, one of whom had been decent enough to leave me some money in her will, although peanuts, relative to her net worth. I was staying in a place I couldn’t afford, and I had a responsibility to my son.

It seemed just like my gambling. The final throw of the desperate gambler, down on their chips, is to put everything they have left on one last throw of the dice, or one last turn of the cards or spin of the wheel. It was known as going all in.

I’d gone all in for Hans-Jürgen Waldinger. Had he really changed, less flirty and womanizing?

At some point, I slipped out of bed and walked through into Bruno’s room. He was sound asleep and I just stood and looked down at his dark form, listening to his breathing, tears coming into my eyes. My son. My only real achievement after over thirty years on this planet. I whispered how much I loved him, that I would always take care of him. I told him he deserved that. And I told him I was sorry he had such a shitty mother.

I told him he was going to make the world a better place, and then I would have achieved something.

At some point, well after 4 a.m., I must have fallen asleep because I had a weird dream involving my parents. My father, who had never flown a plane in his life, told me he’d been in charge of air-sea rescue for the Channel Islands and he knew my secret. Then my mother, who had never organized a party in her life and had no interest in doing so, told me she had put up a marquee in her back garden and invited Roy, Roel Albazi and Nicos to come and celebrate my birthday — which was, actually, not until spring.

I woke in a panic, wondering for some moments how the hell I was going to get out of the party. Then, as reality dawned, I felt so incredibly relieved it had just been a dream.

‘I’m hungry, Mama!’

Bruno was standing at my bedside in his dinosaur pyjamas.

I looked up at him. Despite the thick curtains, my room was light. The clock on my beside table said 7.22.

‘I think we ordered breakfast for 8 a.m., darling. Have you brushed your teeth?’

‘Not zactly,’ he said.

‘Go and do that,’ I encouraged him.

With rare obedience, he padded back out of the room.

Routinely, I picked up my phone and checked first Sky News, then I went to the Jersey Evening Post website. Because of the absence of Wi-Fi and having to download everything on my phone it took a while. But finally it arrived.

And I stared at the front-page splash in shock.