The Strange Death of Fiona Griffiths by Harry Bingham Page A

about me.’
    The woman on duty – plump, black T-shirt worn under a patterned Christmas cardigan, and a face that is both tough and loving – says, ‘Fiona, yes. Fiona Grey, right?’
    ‘Yes.’
    She tells me her name: Abs, short for Abigail. She gives me forms to fill in. I can’t fill them all out. Partly because I don’t want that level of intrusion into my notional past. Mostly because Fiona Grey wouldn’t want to.
    I fill in the main bits and wave my pen over the remaining blank areas. ‘I’m not going to stay long,’ I say.
    ‘Do you have a place to go to?’
    ‘Not yet.’
    ‘Friends or family?’
    I shrug.
    ‘Have you got anything lined up with the council? Put in an application form for housing?’
    I tell her no, but say they have to house me because I’m from the area.
    She grimaces, tells me it doesn’t work quite like that. Asks me what money I have. I say ‘twenty quid’ and show her what I have.
    ‘OK, we’re going to have to do this properly, but maybe not on Christmas Eve, eh, Fiona fach ? Do you have towels?’
    I shake my head.
    She books me in for three days. Charges me £1.00 for the towels, refundable if I return them clean. Twenty pence for a sachet of shampoo.
    She takes me up to a room. Two bunk beds, two other women already sharing. Everything very clean. Lockers on the landing where I can keep my cash and papers.
    ‘No smoking anywhere in the building. You need to read and sign our policy on aggression, drugs and alcohol. We operate a no-tolerance policy and we do mean no tolerance. Showers down the hall there. Breakfast at eight. Christmas lunch at twelve. It’s 50p for breakfast, £1.50 for the lunch, but you won’t want to miss that.’
    I say thanks. Drop my bag.
    The other two women are called Sophie and Mared. I say who I am, but we don’t talk much. They’re both alcoholic, I think. There’s something brightly unstable about them anyway.
    I take a shower. Wash my hair. Put on clothes from my bag. Dark jeans. Black boots. T-shirt, dark jumper and jacket. Wash my old underwear and T-shirt in the sink, take them back to my room to hang out.
    Mared says, ‘There’s a laundry room, you know.’
    I say, ‘oh,’ but hang my clothes out just the same.
    I quite like the hostel. Christmas lunch – everything overcooked, but big portions, warm and lots of gravy – is crowded, smelly and companionable. I sit next to a man who spends the entire time telling me about his past as a butcher. He doesn’t ask a single question about me, or not really. I eat everything, then fall asleep in the TV room.
    On Boxing Day, Abs sits me down and goes through my history. I say I was in a relationship in Manchester. Say that it didn’t work out.
    ‘Was there physical violence? Did he hit you?’
    I shrug.
    ‘Did you report it to the police?’
    I shake my head.
    ‘Do you have children? Are there any children involved?’
    Shake.
    ‘OK. Are you sure?’
    I nod. ‘I don’t have kids.’
    She goes through other things. My connection with Cardiff. My existing family. My job history. Any skills I have.
    I say, ‘I’ve always worked.’
    ‘OK, good. That’s good.’
    Abs digs it all out of me. I’m a cleaner now. Used to do clerical work. Filing, admin. Payroll. ‘I’ve got qualifications.’
    Abs wants to know more. I tell her I got all my payroll certificates.
    ‘Do you still have them?’
    ‘No.’
    Abs wants me to make a Reintegration Plan with her. I don’t do it that day, or the next. But before New Year’s Eve is breaking out in the city center like a small war, I have a draft Plan. Its gist: get a job, get accommodation, get a life. Don’t live with someone who hits me. Abs says, ‘You can do this, you know. Anyone can end up here as a one-off thing. That’s just bad luck. The trick is not to end up here again.’ I say thank you, and she hugs me.

16.
    I get a job. Cleaning again. Minimum wage. Start at five, work through to two o’clock. Offices and other