Clean

by Juno Dawson

  ‘It was all Antonella’s idea,’ Nevada offered giddily. It’s odd, on reflection, that we never called her Toni, Ant or Nels. Everyone else had a nickname, but never Antonella. I sometimes called her ‘Hems’ and she hated it. Every syllable is meant to be savoured like a delicious Italian aperitif.

  Antonella, as ever, shook it off. Not false modesty: modesty. ‘I was just the first to suggest it. Total team effort.’

  ‘Well, I must say, I’m very impressed, not to mention touched, at your selflessness, girls. And the fact you’ve organised everything with only minimal help from your teachers is even more impressive. Good on you, ladies. Good. On. You.’

  I lizard-basked in her praise, wholly undeserving of it. Sure, I got Daddy to send a truck load of food from the hotel, but it was all Antonella. Like everyone else, I’d seen the sad, ashen faces of those kids living in shithole campsites – while politicians and journalists discussed their fate over negronis at Soho House – and thought, wow, that’s bad, poor people. If it hadn’t been for Antonella throwing herself into organising the food drive, my mental and moral exertion would have ended right there.

  Antonella made things happen. She made you believe it could work. ‘We should do something,’ she said quite unexpectedly as we were having a picnic in Regent’s Park. She was leafing through that day’s Metro as I braided Genie’s hair.

  ‘Tonight?’ I said. ‘I thought we were going to the cinema with those St Barney’s boys?’

  She rolled her eyes at me and held up the front page. A crying child, looking for his mum, clutching the ubiquitous limp, dirty teddy bear. ‘No, silly. We should do something to help. These people have risked life and limb, fleeing war and despots and fascists and rapists, and we’re making them live in what is essentially a shanty town by a railway because bigots don’t want a few extra children in their dreary towns. It’s bullshit. We should help.’

  ‘Help how?’ Nevada said, popping a grape in her mouth.

  ‘Well,’ she replied, ‘we could either do a crowd-funding thing for a charity, or we could do a massive food drive at school? Just think, if every girl brought like five tins of soup, we’d have . . .’

  ‘Two thousand tins of soup,’ I said.

  ‘And that’s a lot of soup.’

  ‘Do refugees even like soup?’ Genie asked, because she isn’t very bright, bless her.

  ‘It’s not just soup,’ Antonella explained, not a hint of mockery in her voice. I’d have told Genie she was being thick, but not Antonella. ‘They need warm clothing, toys, books . . . anything really.’

  ‘OK,’ I said. ‘What do we do with all the stuff once it’s at the school?’

  ‘OMG!’ Nevada said. ‘You know that TV presenter? Dawn thingy? She’s been sending trucks over from London. I bet if we tweet her, we could arrange a truck to collect the stuff.’

  ‘And the teachers would totally go for it because it’s good citizenship . . . and more importantly, it makes the school look awesome.’

  And thus a plan was hatched.

  Just because she did nice stuff, she wasn’t Sister Antonella of the Sacred Tedium, make no mistake. She was a riot. She called it ‘minxing’. ‘Lex? Are we minxing tonight?’

  Even at fourteen we could easily pass for eighteen. Daddy preferred us to hang out in one of the hotels where someone could keep an eye on us, but determined teenage girls will always find a way to test the electric fences. It’s like chaos theory. Probably.

  One night I got absolutely spannered on Jägerbombs at Shadow Lounge. Antonella’s big brother is gay and was hanging out there with some mates. I wasn’t used to drinking in the way that Antonella was. Sure, I’m Russian, and vodka is The Way, but Antonella had been gently sipping red wine and grappa on vineyard terraces at twilight her whole life. Like any good friend, she held back my hair as I nostril-puked, legs poking out of the toilet cubicle. Even once my stomach felt hollowed out, I was still in no fit state to go home.

  ‘Daddy will kill me. I told him we were seeing Mamma Mia.’

  ‘Come on,’ Antonella said, her Jägerbombs apparently not touching the sides. ‘Follow me.’

  We left the club and she propped me up all the way down a thrumming Old Compton Street, dodging bears, drag queens and kamikaze rickshaw drivers. It was almost midnight, but somehow she knew where to go. We turned on to Frith Street, avoiding a manic G-A-Y promoter thrusting wristbands in our faces. ‘How have you never been to Bar Italia?’ she said, catching me as I tumbled off a heel. Christ, we wore some skanky jailbait stuff when we were kids. ‘It’s open until five a.m. every night.’

  We darted over the road, a black cab honking at us. Bar Italia was long and thin, with a coffee bar on the right and a narrow row of stools all the way down the left wall. It was crowded, but not too crowded. We wove through snogging couples and loud Italians to get to the very back. Antonella put me on a stool and returned a couple of seconds later carrying a second for her to sit on. ‘Ciao!’ she called to the cute guy behind the counter. ‘Due espressi doppie mio amico!’ The waiter called something back with a broad, and very minxy, grin. ‘Sei piuttosto carino troppo!’ she replied.

  ‘What are you saying?’ I slurred. I was starting to get floor-spin, sobering up.

  ‘He says the espressos are free because we’re cute. I told him he was cute too.’

  He brought the espressos over and I took a gulp. ‘Holy crap, that’s strong!’ I gasped. It was so hot I think it stripped the top layer of my tongue clean off.

  ‘You’re supposed to sip it, Lex! God, you’re so not Italian!’

  We laughed. Antonella and I sat, people-watched, and sipped bitter espresso until I was so sober my legs quivered with caffeine and I was ready to go home.

  Since arriving at Clarity, I’ve been slumming it: ignoring make-up and grooming completely. For whatever reason – or because I know Brady will be at Group – I put on a little kohl, mascara and Chanel lip stain. I rarely see Brady at breakfast – he works out in the morning so he eats early, or ‘juices’. When did we allow that to become a verb?

  I have a one-on-one with Goldstein first, of course. He toothpicks more into my time at school.

  ‘Have you thought about resuming your education?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘But what about your future?’

  ‘My father owns twelve international hotels. The future is New York, or Singapore, or Beijing, or Cape Town . . . shall I go on?’

  ‘But what will you do?’

  I waft a hand lacily. I’m in that sort of mood. ‘Shop.’

  He smiles. If I squint, he looks like Aslan. ‘I don’t believe you mean that, and neither do you.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be the first heiress to travel, eat, shop, drink and party. There’s a different charity benefit seven nights a week if you’re feeling humanitarian.’

  ‘What happens when fun stops being fun?’

  I say nothing. He’s got me there.

  ‘You’re worth more than your inheritance, Lexi. Can’t you see that?’

  I can feel tears burn, but I divert it into a bitter laugh. ‘Well, that’s lovely. Can I put it on a cushion?’

  Sadness dims his gaze. ‘You can do whatever you like with it.’

  Before Group, I have a fag and think about Siddhartha. The prince who would eventually become the Buddha. Guru Rachel told me all about him. He grew up in a palace with bling and privilege. So sheltered was he that he didn’t even know about illness or ageing, until he escaped beyond the gates. Once he saw suffering, he rejected his royal name and dedicated his life to poverty, spirituality and the quest for Nirvana.

  Is that what Goldstein wants? For me to cast off the Volkov name? The money? Get a nice job in PR, do Hot Yoga and get Deliveroo on a Friday night with some nice Netflix David until I die? That . . . that is utterly terrifying to me.

  It’s like a multiple choice: Why did Lexi end up in rehab off her tits on heroin?

  a) Her shit parents neglected her.

&nb
sp; b) She was sad. Boo hoo.

  c) She was bored and already had everything else except an addiction.

  d) She hated herself because of a, b and c.

  Or, of course . . .

  e) All of the above.

  It’s all of the above, and then some. I’m so fucking sick of thinking about ‘Lexi’. I’m starting to break away from myself and become a concept. #ProjectLexi. I’m bored of me. I have cabin fever in my own skull.

  ‘Lexi!’ It’s Ruby, calling from inside. ‘Hurry up! We’re starting!’

  ‘Coming!’ I stub out what’s left of my cigarette and slouch through the patio doors. This is the first time I’ll see Brady today and I suddenly wish I had a mint. I should be able to get some from somewhere, right?

  ‘Oh, there you are,’ Dr Ahmed says, hovering in the doorway. ‘Is Saif out there with you?’

  Despite being all alone on the terrace I look over my shoulder like a twat. ‘No. Just me.’

  ‘For crying out loud. Will you go give him a knock?’

  I sigh, but I nod. I drift down the long corridor to the entrance hall, across reception, brushing my fingers among the leaves of the potted palms. I’m dawdling, avoiding as much dreary therapy-time as I can. They can wait. In fact . . .

  I remember I have gum in my bag and dart into my room, giving Saif a knock as I pass. ‘Saif! It’s time for Group!’ I shout, popping gum in my mouth and shutting my door.

  I go back to Saif’s room and knock again. ‘Saif! Are you taking a dump, or what?’

  That reminds me that you shouldn’t eat too much sugar-free gum because it contains xylitol and that’s a laxative.

  ‘Saif? Are you in there?’

  It’s silent beyond the door. I can hear the light bulbs in the hall buzzing.

  It’s weird, isn’t it, that thing where you just know something’s wrong. Sixth sense. I think back to breakfast. People coming and going . . . but no Saif.

  ‘Saif?’

  We aren’t allowed keys to our rooms, obviously. I put my hand on the door handle. If he’s having a wank or something . . . well I don’t think he’s my biggest fan anyway. ‘Saif? I’m coming in, yeah?’

  I press down on the handle.

  His room is identical to mine, but smells like boy. Trainers and deodorant and testosterone musk. I take two steps into the suite.

  My heart clambers up my throat.

  And then it falls all the way down.

  Because you’re never wrong when you want to be.

  He’s on the bed in his boxers, duvet bunched around him like tissue paper.

  His grey fingers are still wrapped around the needle in his thigh.

  At first I freeze. I just stand there.

  He’s definitely dead. He’s staring at the ceiling with cloudy fish eyes. His lips are blue.

  Is that what I looked like in the hotel suite?

  I knew he’d smuggled shit in and didn’t tell anyone.

  Some emergency protocol kicks in. You must get help now. I collide with the door to his suite before backing into the corridor.

  But then something overrides my emergency protocol. A voice that sounds a lot more like me. Get his stash first, moron.

  Before I know it I’m beside his body, scanning. Sure enough there’s a silk pocket the exact same shade as his ‘sister’s’ hijab. I pick it up and rummage through with my fingers. Blow, gear and some little bottles of what I assume must be growth hormone or steroids or some shit. Saif had no intention of getting clean.

  Maybe I could just take the coke?

  Yeah, I’ll take the coke and leave the junk. Easy.

  A new voice interrupts. This one also sounds like me. What the fucking fuck are you doing, you fucking ghoul?

  ‘Lex? Saif? What are you doing?’ It’s Kendall. She must have been sent for both of us.

  She sounds close. Without thinking, I stuff Saif’s entire stash in the front of my knickers. I don’t know what I’m doing. I do it anyway.

  ‘Lex?’

  ‘Don’t come in!’ I cry. I turn and crash into her as she arrives at the threshold to his room. ‘Get an ambulance!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I think he . . .’

  She pushes her way around me. She reacts like a normal human would. She cries out, covering her mouth with both hands. She tumbles into me.

  ‘Help!’ I cry to no one in particular. ‘Saif needs help!’ I know he’s well beyond help. ‘Help us!’

  The receptionist appears at the end of the corridor. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘He overdosed! Saif! He overdosed!’

  The poor receptionist’s face changes shade, from St Tropez to living dead in a split second as she sees I’m not kidding. She launches herself at the phone and activates the nurse bell. I take Kendall’s hand and drag her out of the room, down the hall, away from the body.

  Goldstein and Ahmed appear in reception along with Scouse Gary. ‘Saif’s dead!’ Kendall screams. ‘He’s dead.’

  The doctors and Gary push past me and Kendall towards Saif. I feel dizzy. I feel the ground vibrate as they charge.

  ‘What?’ says Guy. The others are filing into the hall now, their faces pale. ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘He’s dead!’ Kendall repeats. ‘There’s a needle sticking out of his leg!’ Kendall crumbles entirely, flopping into Guy’s arms, inconsolable.

  I look to Ruby and she shakes her head. ‘Kendall, let’s get you some water or something. C’mon.’ Ruby steers Kendall and Guy towards the dining room.

  I sort of black out for a second. Suddenly Brady is holding me up by the arms. ‘Lexi? Are you OK?’

  I shake my head. The pieces are falling into place. If they catch me with drugs, they’ll think I’m using again – or, even worse, that I gave them to Saif. I don’t know what to do. Brady seems so solid. I don’t have much choice. I pretend to hug him. I whisper into his ear. ‘Brady, I took drugs off his bed. I don’t know why.’

  He hugs me tighter. ‘Give them to me.’

  ‘Brady, I can’t . . .’

  ‘I haven’t been in his room. They might search you, they won’t search me. Where are they?’

  ‘In my pants. I know. I don’t know what I was thinking. It’s fucked up.’ I look up into his eyes.

  ‘Hand them over. I’ll flush it.’

  By now, the entourage is halfway down the corridor, Ruby demanding to know what’s going on. Kendall is now in floods of tears in Guy’s arms. Checking no one’s watching, I thrust my hand into my underwear and retrieve the sachet. In one fluid movement, Brady stuffs it into his own crotch. ‘It’s OK,’ he says. ‘It’s OK. You found him?’

  I nod.

  ‘And he’s definitely . . .?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Oh, man. Fuck. Fuck this shit.’

  This time I hug him for real. I feel his hand on the back of my head, stroking my hair. I’m glad I don’t have the drugs.

  Now it hits: Saif is dead.

  How? He was just here last night. Like there was no . . . warning. No sign. No breadcrumbs or clues. No final words.

  I suppose, in real life, there never is.

  And I know this shouldn’t be about me, but I can’t help it. I’m glad it wasn’t me. It could have been. It almost was.

  A movement in the corner of my eye catches my attention. Her white eyes blaze through the darkness at the end of the corridor; Sasha melts back into the Group room.

  Shit. I don’t know what she saw.

  Shit.

  While Ahmed waits with the body – with Saif – Goldstein takes control and I am grateful. It feels like nothing bad can happen with him around. Father figure/Daddy issues.

  For the first time since I got here, he raises his voice. ‘Into Group NOW!’

  We’re kettled in the room, Ruby and Guy’s questions ignored. Kendall is hysterical. Hardly aware I’m doing it, I shove my fingers in my ears, blocking it all out.

  Goldstein returns to Saif’s room and leaves us under the watc
hful eye of Gary, who quickly agrees it’s probably for the best if the smokers are allowed to smoke for the sake of everyone’s sanity. On the terrace, I smoke with Guy and Kendall, her fingers shaking. Brady goes to use the loo and, I guess, flush Saif’s stash.

  The din dies down, replaced by a bulging silence. I’m not sure which I like less. I’m waiting for an ambulance to come caterwauling up the drive, but I realise it’s not gonna happen. We’re on an island. There’s no A&E. Goldstein and Ahmed are it. Are either of them even medical doctors? Goldstein was a skin doctor, what’s he gonna do . . . take a look at his eczema? I look to the patchy white sky and squint for a helicopter – I suppose that’s what’d happen if . . . well, if there was anything they could do to save him.

  ‘Do you think he did it on purpose?’ Sasha asks suddenly. She’s reclining on a sunlounger wearing sunglasses, her hands a pillow behind her head.

  ‘Jesus,’ Ruby says.

  ‘Plenty of people OD on purpose,’ says Sasha matter-of-factly. ‘He sucked Kendall off, right?’ How does she even know that? She seems to know everything. ‘Maybe he couldn’t deal with the gay Muslim shame of it.’

  ‘I swear to god,’ I say through my teeth, ‘Sasha, either shut up or I will knock you the fuck out.’

  ‘And I ain’t gonna lift a finger to stop her,’ Ruby adds.

  Sasha laughs. ‘I’m actually quite tempted to see the pair of you try, but I’m sorry Kendall, that was some shade. My tongue got loose from my brain and set out to cause mad mischief. She’s a cunt, that tongue of mine.’ She holds her hands up in surrender. ‘Kendall. I’m sorry. Here . . . bite me. I deserve it.’ She holds out a chopping board arm.

  ‘I’m not going to bite you. That was an awful thing to say.’

  ‘That’s why I said it. You know me by now.’ She reclines once more. ‘Tell you what though, Blondie, we got a saying on the estate where I come from: It’s “you wouldn’t trust a junkie with your granny’s handbag”.’