I Came to Find a Girl

by Jaq Hazell

  “The project is Who Am I – not how does it feel to be a woman.” Mike Cherry pursed his lips. “I thought we’d got over all that years ago.”

  “I kind of think my gender is integral to who I am,” I said.

  “It’s perfectly valid, Mike,” Suki interrupted. She was one of Mike Cherry’s favourites as, even though she was a left-wing feminist, she also possessed a petite Asian figure and doe eyes.

  “What do we have here – a victim, an animal?” Mike Cherry pushed his nose up close to the painting’s surface.

  “There’s a decadence to it I find interesting,” Mike Manners said. “The crimson mouth for instance...”

  “How does this answer the brief? I’d love to know,” Mike Cherry said.

  “I was concentrating on how appearance can so easily be misconstrued.”

  “The face is unexpected,” Mike Manners said, “it’s not a look I recognise.”

  I had painted a self-portrait in dull greys – a sad face with vacant, staring eyes and taken on a mock religious pose like a Virgin Mary statuette. This was the quiet me, the dull, sensible one from Stowe-on-Sea. While in the background in small typeset I’d printed: “I came to find a girl and that girl is you”.

  “It is interesting,” Mike Manners said.

  Mike Cherry made a dismissive noise, before decisively sounding: “Next!”

  Spencer again said that he liked my piece, once the crit was over. “What does Cherry know, anyhow,” he said. “You coming for coffee?”

  But I couldn’t sit around after everyone else’s work had been well received. What’s the point? All that work, all that effort and all I got was, ‘Next!’

  Back home in my room, I took out my sketchbook, found a clean page and wrote ‘NEXT!’ in the middle in neat capital letters and drew a box round it – all in black ink. I had a bad feeling. I didn’t like everything moving on, stuff continuing as if nothing had happened when all the while Jenny was missing. Nothing matters any more – nothing but Jenny...

  I went to the window, peeking from the edge of the curtain, conscious I couldn’t let anyone see. Girl-with-braids was there, just as I’d hoped. I held my sketchbook below the window and using a black pen began to make marks on the page, sketching her lean body with gazelle-like thighs, a hooded top and nonchalant expression, mobile gripped at her ear. She looked hot, edgy, good enough to get into any club – how can this be her lot?

  I added the brick wall behind and a couple of lines here and there representing the crossroads, then Girl-with-braids paced up and down and I started again on a fresh page. Girl-with-braids stopped on the corner, I started drawing again, then a car drew up and I added it in, lines over lines, images on top of other images. Girl-with-braids got in. I scribbled down half the number-plate before the car (I didn’t catch what make) drove away, and then I turned to a fresh page to draw the scene again – this time empty. The urban landscape: a wall, the tall Victorian terraces, the shadows they cast, and the crossroads.

  Thirteen

  Exterior, Victorian factory conversion: camera approaches a doorway with an adjacent brass plaque: The Wire Works.

  There is the sound of someone fumbling for keys and the camera moves through the doorway into a stark, white entrance hall towards a small silver lift. The doors close, the lift travels upwards. There’s a corridor, another door, his door. A key is inserted in the lock but it doesn’t turn.

  “What’s going on?” It’s Flood’s voice, the camerawork shaky, as he leans in to push against the door. “Rita! Are you there? Come on, open up.”

  The faint sound of footsteps and the camera jolts as if Flood has fallen through the doorway. “Rita, what you put the other lock on for?”

  Rita, the cleaner, looks different, dishevelled somehow, her long, dyed black hair pulled up high in a messy ponytail. She’s wearing a brown velour tracksuit. She narrows her eyes. “You piece of shit.”

  Flood goes to the tripod in the corner of the studio, switches to the other camera and comes into view. He removes his black raincoat. The studio looks immaculate. “What have I done?”

  “You no-good piece of shit.”

  He sits down and kicks off an old pair of Pumas.

  “You are sick bastard. You care about no one but yourself.”

  “Stop talking in riddles, I’m not in the mood. If I’ve done something to offend you, please tell me.”

  “It is Dora.” She refers to Flood’s cat.

  “Dora?”

  She nods – her mouth downturned.

  Flood holds his hands up in surrender. “I give up, what is it?”

  “Dora is dead.”

  “Dead? She can’t be.”

  “It is because of you – your fault. You are useless pig.”

  “You have been feeding her?” Flood walks towards the kitchen area. He opens a tall cupboard, checks the cans of cat food. There are several tins of Whiskas left.

  “I come three times a week.”

  “And you have been turning up, I take it? I mean, don’t tell me I’ve been paying you for nothing.”

  “Three times is not enough. You cannot feed cat only three times a week. Dora should have been fed two times a day – you know that.”

  “Oh come on, that fat Indian woman across the road – she looks out for her – treats her like a temple cat: tandoori chicken, Goan fish curry, you name it.”

  “I have not seen Indian lady. You cannot rely on neighbour. Keeping pet is responsibility; you cannot go away all the days.”

  “There is that timed feeding contraption, but yeah, okay, I take your point, but she wasn’t really mine. She adopted me, cats are like that – they find someone who suits them. Trust me, I never went out to a pet shop and said: ‘Show me your fluffiest kitty for me to love and cherish for evermore’.” Flood pretends to stroke an invisible cat. “Anyway, where is she?” He looks around the vast space with its white walls and scant retro furniture.

  “Oh –,” Rita looks away, hand over her mouth.

  “What does ‘oh’ mean?”

  “You don’t want to see her?”

  “Yeah, I do. Where is she? Let me see her.”

  Rita’s face crumples. “I didn’t know what to do with her.”

  “Don’t start crying on me. Where is she? I want to see her.”

  “I thought perhaps I leave her outside but then she might get eaten but in here she would smell and there would be the maggots and the flies...”

  “So, what did you do? Don’t tell me you threw her away?” He looks out of the large warehouse window towards the bins.

  “I show you.” Rita walks around the concrete breakfast bar to join Flood in the kitchen area. She stops at the stainless steel fridge freezer.

  “She’s in the freezer?”

  She starts crying again. “I am sorry.”

  Flood takes a deep breath. “Let’s have a butcher’s.” He opens the heavy freezer door and pulls at what looks like a leg. “My God, that is not appetising.” The dark cat looks twisted, mangled even. “She’s been hit by a car by the look of it,” he says. “She came home to see Daddy...” Flood momentarily presses the frozen fur of Dora’s belly to his cheek.

  Rita’s arms are folded. “And you were not here for her.”

  “My goddess cat.”

  “She is super skinny.” Rita points at the cat’s twisted haunches.

  “Rock hard.” Flood taps Dora against the sealed concrete worktop.

  Rita squeals. “Don’t do that.”

  “She won’t snap if that’s what you think. Oh come on, don’t cry, there’s no need for that. Here, sit down, let me make you a nice cup of tea – or maybe you’d prefer something stronger?”

  Rita raises her chin. “What you got?”

  “Wine, vodka, whisky...” The bottles are lined up on the kitchen worktop.

  “What sort of whisky?”

  “Jacky D.”

  “Jack Daniels?”

  “Yep.”

  “I have tha
t – neat.”

  “That’s more like it – you want ice?”

  “What – from freezer – are you kidding?”

  “Good point, maybe not.” Flood takes a couple of glasses from the cupboard. “Here, get that down you.” He passes her a tumbler – three quarters full.

  Rita takes a gulp. She looks directly at Flood. “Can you put Dora back – until we bury her?”

  “You want her back in the deep freeze?”

  “Please.”

  “Bit cramped in there.”

  “You have too much frozen produce – not healthy for a man.”

  “Saves me shopping, I haven’t got time for it. In fact, perhaps you could shop for me. Jesus, you drank that quick – you Hungarians. You want another?”

  “Sure.”

  “So, what to do with the body? It’s always difficult – shall we bury her?”

  “Yes, of course, but I not know where?”

  “I don’t have a garden. Do you have a garden?”

  “I do not.” Rita feels her brow with the back of her hand.

  “We’ll have to take her down the park in the dead of night.”

  She touches her forehead again. “You know, I don’t feel so good. I haven’t eaten.”

  “That’s what they all say.”

  Fourteen

  How extraordinary we look. I had caught sight of my friends reflected repeatedly in the Venetian glass mirrors that lined the walls of Ruby’s. It could have been a glossy photo-shoot for a Vogue spread: unlined skin and shiny hair with the seemingly effortless style that consists of T-shirts, cut-off jeans, flimsy sundresses and miniskirts. We looked so good I could hardly believe I was part of it. Jenny would have fitted in; I thought, with her strong, slim runner’s body and waist-length hair. How had I not seen it before, how wonderful we looked? I could have spent the year feeling better about myself. But then perhaps it was just a moment, something that would slip away unless you thought to pickle it in a jar like a Damien Hirst.

  It was early evening, the summer term was drawing to a close and about ten of us had met up in Ruby’s before more friends joined us on the slouchy leather sofas.

  “What are you doing over the summer?” Beth asked, flicking her hair as she always did. She was on my course.

  I told her I was planning to work extra shifts at Saviour’s. “That’s as exciting as it gets. What about you?”

  “New York, New York – I’ve lined up work experience at a Soho gallery.”

  “How did you manage that?”

  “Billy emailed samples of my work to a friend out there. They loved them. We’re going out for the whole summer.” It was down to her older boyfriend. I knew it. He’d last as long as he was useful.

  I turned away, keen to join Kelly’s conversation but she was looking to her right, in hysterics over something. I couldn’t get the gist of it, so instead I gazed ahead at the vast Venetian mirror opposite. Who’s here? Anyone I like? There were other students I recognised, but no one I particularly wanted to talk to. I looked towards the reflection of the door, wondering who would turn up next. Immediately I tensed, my skin bristled and my heart raced. There, right in front of me, or rather behind me, or more like all around me were ten, maybe twenty or even more Jack Floods reflected in the surrounding glass.

  Where is he? I froze, my neck locked, too afraid to turn round. What if he sees me? A wall of noise rose up around me with nothing I could home in on. I was unable to move. “Kell? Kelly,” I said, from the corner of my mouth but she wasn’t listening. “Kelly!” She turned around. “Don’t look now,” I said, “but you know that artist Jack Flood; you know the one from the private view?” She nodded. “Can you discreetly look round and tell me where he is?”

  She gave me a funny look then slowly moved her head as if she weren’t looking at anyone in particular, while I sank deeper into the sofa. “He’s by the window, to the right, near the door,” she said.

  “Who’s he with?”

  “I dunno. She looks like a gecko – all pale with white hair – nowhere near as nice as you. Mia, what are you doing? Are you hiding?”

  “What’s he doing here? He lives in London.”

  “I didn’t think you were into him?”

  In the mirror, I could see Flood’s dark eyes. It was hard to tell in which direction he was facing. He was reflected over and over, different aspects, different angles. I had to get out. I clutched Kelly’s arm. “I’ve got to go.”

  Kelly frowned. “But it’s Thursday.” We always went to Ruby’s followed by Rock City on a Thursday.

  I touched my head. “I feel weird.”

  “What is it? Are you all right?”

  I stood up. “I have to go.”

  “But it’s Rock City – you never miss Rock City.”

  “I really have to – will you come with me?”

  “I don’t get it – you love Ruby’s. Is it him?”

  “I’ll explain later – just come.”

  “What about the others?”

  “Tell Tamzin, but just say we’ll meet everyone else at the club.”

  Tamzin said she’d catch up, so at last we were leaving, weaving between people, tables and chairs. But, oh God, it’s Bert. I hadn’t seen the French guy since the morning after, when I’d shoved him out the door. Bloody typical, he’s with another girl. I had to squeeze behind him. I tried to smile, let him know I didn’t care, but my heart was pounding and I stopped, frozen, right there behind beautiful Bertrand and his equally attractive female companion.

  “Come on, Mia,” Kelly said.

  “Get me to the door.”

  She grabbed my arm and pulled me through the bar. I couldn’t help but glance at Flood. He gave no impression of noticing and I was through the double doors and out into the warm, wet night air. “What’s going on?” Kelly asked.

  “Can we just walk?” I crossed over, head down staring at the dark grey sheen of the wet pavement.

  “Mia, are you going to tell me what this is all about?”

  “Mia! Kelly!”

  My stomach flipped. Who the hell shouted my name?

  “Girls, wait.” It was only Tamzin, but Flood must have heard as he was looking out the window directly at me. Fuck, I walked faster, almost running.

  “Mia, wait,” Kelly said.

  “What’s got into her?” Tamzin asked.

  It was nearly three weeks since the hotel. I hadn’t said a thing to anyone. I had hoped I wouldn’t have to, convincing myself I’d never see him again. But now it all had to come out, right there in the middle of Market Square with the grand columns of Market Hall behind me and the fountains, shouting drunks and leggy girls bantering with boys in baseball caps and hoodies.

  “I’m just going to go home,” I said. “I’m not feeling too good.”

  “Was it the French guy?” Tamzin said. “Who was he with?”

  I shrugged. “No idea.”

  “Are you bothered?” Kelly asked.

  “No.”

  “What is it then?”

  “It’s – something happened, a few weeks back, that artist, he...”

  “He what?”

  “I don’t know, it’s just...” I said what I could, tried to make sense of it. “I think he drugged me, but really I don’t know what else – I can’t remember.”

  “I can’t believe you didn’t tell us.” Kelly hugged me, they both did, and went on to say loads of great supportive stuff about what a wanker Flood is and things we could do. “You’ve got to report it,” Kelly said.

  “But I don’t know what happened.”

  “Yeah, but even so, what if he keeps doing it, drugging other women, I mean. What if they don’t get away next time?” Kelly and Tam looked at me like I was their kid for that moment. They knew best and I had to agree.

  “Will you come with me if I report it?”

  “Yeah, course,” Kelly said. “We’ll go tomorrow.”

  “Oh, I’ve got a crit first thing,” Tamzin said.
<
br />   “That’s okay, as long as someone can go.” I looked at Kelly.

  I felt like getting drunk then, really drunk. Nottingham was my place, why should I go home? I’d head to Rock City as planned, as a matter of principle.

  Rock City, a Nottingham institution, is a vast cave of a place. Its interior walls are painted black and there’s a beer-sticky carpet. We usually stood at the far end by the bar, overlooking the dance-floor. It was too much effort to talk – too loud.

  I knocked back my first can of Stella and went to the bar for another and, as I’d already had a few in Ruby’s, I was tipsy. Doug, one of those club-friends that you only see out, came over. He wasn’t bad-looking with dark hair and thick eyebrows but he didn’t do it for me.

  “I heard about Bert,” he shouted above the music.

  “What’s that?” I wasn’t aware they knew each other.

  “Mandy told me – about Bert’s girlfriend.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I said, which was sort of true. “Was that the girl he was with in Ruby’s?”

  “Yeah – Céline – she’s over from Paris. They're engaged.”

  Too much information – did Doug enjoy telling me that?

  “Bert’s been a prat,” Doug added. I shrugged. It was such an effort to talk, the music going right through me, and more to the point I’d noticed Luke, the third year sculptor. I hadn’t bothered talking to him since the night at the club when I’d returned home and cut up my Blondie T-shirt. But now he was standing close by, staring over like he wanted to talk.

  “Hello,” he said, and I went over as Luke knew I would. We talked for a while though it was more like the odd shout in one another’s ear in an attempt to be heard. He was going on about what it is to be an artist and whether acknowledgement is important, which was all very well but he was being pretty flirtatious – and didn’t he have a girlfriend? Wasn’t that her standing alone behind him?

  “Isn’t that your girlfriend?” I asked. He looked sheepish. Fuck it. I wasn’t in the mood for this. I turned on my heel, left him to it, and went back to Kelly. “I don’t believe it – that’s his girlfriend.”

  “Bert’s been watching you,” she said.