by Helen Walsh
We don’t want to risk getting K. B’d from another club and we can see she’s slumping into a sledge so we starts walking back towards the flat. What we’re thinking is – we’ll play some tunes and make her a brew and that, sort her a Joe Baxi. But before we’ve even reached the Blackie, the three of us’ve glided into one of those gorgeous drug-fucked conversations which you never want to come down from. At thirteen and a half, she was lucid and funny and cynical as fuck. Full of fucken insight, lil’ Millie – way too clever for her own good. But she still saw the world with that kidlike simplicity, too. That unblinking naivety that stemmed from having good and protective aul’ folks. And growing up in a decent area. You could just see it from talking to her. She was from a place where bad things don’t happen. That stoic fucken self-assurance la, it don’t come from fear, that. It comes from never having to worry about nothing.
We stayed up and talked all night. I’ll admit it – we was buzzing off her, me and our Billy. And when Sean come in and seen how young she were, he just half nods and that, grunts and goes upstairs. He knows us too well. He knows there’d be no funny business going down.
We dropped her off the next day and she blubbed like a baby. Made us all swear that we wouldn’t write her off as some ecstasy cliché. When we woke up, we were going to remember this as something real, something good, not some strobe-lit fling. That the plans we made for the future would not perish before the crushing onslaught of the inevitable comedown. We all swore we’d meet for a drink at The Belvedere – mine and Billy’s local from when we was kiddies round there – that following Friday. Did she fuck turn up, mind you. And in fairness, even though we never said nothing, I think we was both that little bit relieved, me and Billy. What was we starting here, end of the day? Where was it going to go – a binding friendship with a kid? So for them six months, that’s exactly what she were – a strobe-lit fling but one which shone on in my head like a big bright fireball. Then, six months later, one November morning, she produced herself at the door, gurning her kite off and acting like she’d only been gone five minutes. Like she’s just nipped out the all-nightie for juice and Rizlas and that.
‘Coming to catch sunrise at the Docks,’ she goes, just like that.
And apart from the fact that dawn’s dissolved into daylight more than four hours ago it’s fucken teeming down! Big mad storm brewing out across the Irish Sea and creeping up on the city like some malevolent fog. I puts my coat on anyway and plunges out into that bitter winter morning, hungover and wretched but with my heart romping in its cage, happy as hell. You don’t think of friends in terms of chemistry but there’s something between us, la. There’s some powerful magnetism at play that’s got nothing to do with sex.
So we’ve sat in silence for hours that morning, just staring out into the sea with the wind slamming in off the river, bang into us, feeling it full force. We’ve sat there watching it conjure up a storm, teeth chattering to fuck, pair of us staring out in pure awe as the storm finally hits and lightning cracks that big black Mersey sky. I could’ve been swept away and tossed to my death for all I cared that morning. I was so fucken happy. That moment with her – that was the pinnacle of that whole eckie period. It was pristine and immovable and I knew that moment could never come again. And when I was falling asleep that night this lovely warm swoon crept over us – the kind you gets when you’re a kid, when dark nights start kicking in and you know there’s stuff to look forward to like Bommie night and Halloween and Crimbo. And for me, that special something was Millie. She’ll tear us to shreds when I do finally get there, tonight.
Millie
He’s fucking late. Jamie’s always late when he’s been at hers. She drops her knickers just as he’s walking out of the door, on the supposition that if she sends her man out sexually gratified, he can spit in the face of temptation. Cute, but incredibly naive. Doesn’t matter how big a grin your fella’s wearing as he walks out of the door – fresh fanny is fresh fanny at the end of the day. And she’s still nauseatingly paranoid about Jamie and I, or James, as she calls him, our man-and-girl friendship. This, I just can’t fathom, seeing as though the plaster of our friendship was cast four and half years before she lumbered onto the scene and started rationing the time we spent together. In the past, when Jamie’s had girlfriends, we’ve always remained as thick as thieves. We’re impenetrable us two. We can withstand anything and the reason for that, if she’d just open her eyes and see it, is that we don’t fancy each other. She should embrace it, the tube-bronze tart, but instead she’s trying to break it. Jesus! It’s not so long since the pair of us would suffer withdrawal symptoms if we let the day expire without speaking to each other. Now, days lapse into weeks. Months even. That conniving tip rat managed to keep us apart for the whole of June this year. Dragged him off to some two-star sunny scouse paradise in Marbella and drained him of all his savings.
Jamie wears his emotions like a clown and I know he had a hard time that holiday. Even the prospect of sex on tap was but a paltry compensation and I’m sorry but no way in the world is that bint an imaginative lover anyway. I know for a fact that she doesn’t suck dick and boy did she lose the plot when she stumbled upon his stash! You don’t just stumble on Jamie’s stash by the way. It’s sandwiched between a pile of Auto Marts and old phone directories in a storage cupboard in the yard so she must have gone rooting which makes her fucking nosy as well as frigid. And because of that selfish bitch he had to forgo our annual pilgrimage to Amsterdam this year. He said it was a financial impossibility but I bet it was her jutting the bottom lip out. In her monolithic outlook, there is something sinister and threatening about friendships between men and women. Apparently we have ‘latent’ desires for each other. Latent! She’s robbed that from Cosmo, the daft bitch. And I really hate the way he refers to her as a model. He always has to slip that little reference point in. As though staggering down the catwalk for a few poxy local fashion shows can somehow justify that she paints digits for a living.
Another twenty minutes lapse and I’m still loitering at the bar; sandwiched between two fat suits and silently debating my third JD which will either soothe or exacerbate this knot of anxiety wrenching my guts. Usually when I’ve a been a glutton with the beak, a couple of stiffs is all I need to calm my ticker down and stop my mind from rambling and lets face it, I’ve been here a thousand times before and I always pull through. There’s been occasions when I’ve done treble the amount I’ve done tonight and my heart has beat so violently that it’s felt as though it might smash through my ribcage and like I say, I always pull through. It’s nothing to get worked up about but I can’t deny that there is something sinister about the way I’m feeling. Maybe it’s just the austerity of the surroundings, all calculated minimalism, accentuating the need to feel and appear normal. Or it might just be that the gear was cut with speed. But there’s this nasty, negative feeling squirming through my system. No point dwelling on it though, best just to keep your head clean. Trouble is, you can’t pre-empt a blackout. Not when it’s drug induced. There are no alarm bells. It just whams you in one powerful sweep. Putting it into perspective though, I had three bumps before I left the house, a tiny one in the taxi on the way into town and a couple in the toilets about five minutes ago. That’s not even half a gram. Doesn’t warrant thinking about. People don’t OD on half a gram of beak. Fuck’s sake Millie. Get a grip. Order yourself another stiff and get a fucking grip!
Jamie
I’m pulling up outside 60 Hope Street now and if the truth be known, I’m not that fussed on the gaff. End of the day though, it’s one of Millie’s favourites and I haven’t seen the waif in days. She practically lives in here. I can’t help myself though. I’m on okay dough at Fords and all that, I’m no worse off than any other wannabe cunt in here but it’s the same thing every time. I do – I half crap myself as I walks up these steps. Half feel like some cunt’s running his eye over us, finding us out. I would’ve much preferred the Eureka, the little Cypriot gaff up
on Myrtle Parade. Friendly as fuck they are in there by the way, lovely little atmos they’ve got going. And it’s not that cheap either. There’s no end of professors and that from Millie’s uni, fellas from LIPA and all kinds. But it’s nice, end of the day. Down to earth. You can’t deny that the grub’s fucken gorgeous in here and that, but it’s a phoney’s paradise. I’m only doing this for her.
Can tell just by the way she’s stood there that she’s been caning it. Head lolled against her shoulder, hands clamped tight behind her back and her right foot jittering away. Pure keyed up body lingo that. Even before she comes bounding over, smiling brilliantly – which soon breaks into a scowl when she remembers how late I am, by the way. Even before I smell the whisky on her breath and wipe away a globule of beak-sodden snot from under her nose, I can tell you exactly what she’s had and how much of it, too. Just by the way she’s stood there. If the truth be known, I’m a tad disappointed that she’s gotten in this state all by herself without waiting for us. There’s nothing in the world like getting slowly, gloriously sozzled with your bezzy mate and your conversation flows seamlessly cos you’re drinking at the same pace and you’re on each other’s wavelength. I was looking forward to that tonight, but I’ll tell you exactly what’ll happen now. We’ll get past our starters and then she’ll casually suggest that we skip the mains and head straight into town and if I say I don’t fancy it, she’ll start sulking and acting up and I’ll give in cos I can’t be doing with the hassle. And then she’ll start demanding beak and note I says demanding cos that’s what she does when she’s done in like this and she’s on a mission and if I don’t deliver the goods she’ll say something ridiculous like:
‘Ah well, I guess I’ll just have to get a taxi down Granby Street and go find my own then.’
Which’ll leave us no option but to drag Sean into town who won’t be too happy but’ll do it anyway and then she’ll start pleading with us to do a line:
‘Oh please Jamie, just a tiny one? It’ll perk you up.’
And I’ll relent just to shut her up, but there’s no such thing as ‘just the one’ with her is there? Which is why I do my best to avoid it these days cos next thing you know it’s ten o’clock next morning and we’re sat in Millie’s kitchen talking pure shite and everytime I make hints at heading off, she’ll go:
‘Please, please, please! Just one more. One for the road.’
And then it’s three in the afternoon and I’m walking to the bus stop cos the taxi that she swears blind she ordered never materialised and my heart’s heavy with dread cos I know there’ll be a hundred answerphone messages from an irate Anne Marie who’s day/weekend/ life I’ve ruined and I always swear down on our kid’s life that I’m not doing beak again. Ever. And it’s a fucken miracle that our Billy’s still alive.
Millie
A skinny waitress guides us to our table. She has a pretty face and a delicate physique, but her arms and jawline are swathed in hazel down. A real friend would tell her – that’s just ugly, that is. You don’t want to be looking at something like that – not in a place like this. She places us at a window seat which looks right out onto Hope Street, the bleeding heart of the red light district. I make a clumsy attempt at steering us to a more central table but a sharp dig in my ribs summons me to silence.
‘Best spec in the house this,’ Jamie says when we are finally settled, ‘What you playing at?’
I shrug my shoulders apologetically and stare into the faded felt black of the street, where headlights are prowling along in full throttle, breathing a plume of excitement and fear into the already frightened night. A demented silhouette stumbles past the window, pausing to look in on us. Just a shape without a face. It could be her. It could be anyone. I avert my gaze to Jamie who is eyeing me intensely and gulp down the icy dregs of my JD. I slam the glass on the table with more force than intended and Jamie’s vision swooshes from left to right. He tosses a diffident smile to a couple who’s attention it’s caught.
‘Chill out, for Christ sake – it’s Friday.’ I say.
He opens his mouth in protest but the waitress materialises and hands him a menu. I place mine flat on the table, fold my arms and lower my head. The words swim in front of me, meaning my eyes are drunker than my head. Not drunk enough to let that hairy wrist swoop down and scoop away the empty glass, though. I’m half tempted to take her to one side and ask her if she’s aware of this fundamental defect. And how a simple course of lazer treatment would kill the problem forever and thus transform her from an unfuckable attractive lady to a fuckable stunner. I’d be doing her a favour. I hold her wrist while I double drain the glass. Maybe I will. Later.
The very idea of food causes my tummy to gripe. I forgo the starter and opt for a simple goat’s cheese salad. Jamie orders two starters and steak with fries. He flounders self-consciously over the wine menu then decides upon a bottle of Pouilly Fume – my favourite. He can’t afford this, but I don’t have the heart to tell him I’m beyond caring what I drink. From now on everything will taste the same. I order another JD. The downy waitress minces off and Jamie throws me a disapproving look. I feel about four.
‘What’s that for?’
He thrusts a glass of water under my nose which I thrust right back.
‘That,’ he says through pursed lips.
I light a cigarette and pull a hopeless expression. The sort worn by good men married to vile fishwives.
‘Eh now, don’t be looking at us like that. It was your idea to come out for a meal. And all you’ve ordered is a plate of rabbit food and enough whisky to sedate a gang of paraffins.’
I raise an eyebrow – my time-honoured taunt when Jamie tries to use words to impress me.
‘Se-date!’
I roll my eyes dramatically and slip the jailbait sat opposite with her parents an impish wink. She drops her head and shifts uncomfortably in her seat. Jamie’s now frowning – or maybe he’s smiling. His face keeps shifting in and out of focus. I love his face. It’s bold and elegiac. Steeped in history. It dances when he talks.
‘Come on now Millie, mate. You’re gonna get us kicked out if you’re not careful.’
‘She’s gagging for it.’
‘She’s a kid. And she’s with her Mam and Dad.’
‘Still gagging for it though.’
‘I’ll remind you of that when you’ve got a daughter of your own and you catch some fat aul’ perve leching her.’
‘Somehow I don’t see myself as a mother. A fat old perve perhaps but not a mother.’
‘Aaaahhh, see! That’s exactly what Anne Marie used to say! Not that she seen herself as an aul’ perve mind you. Just, like, she never had no maternal instincts and that. Now look at her!’
Oh dear. Wrong move, Jamie darling. Just when you think you know someone they come up with something so crass it can shock you. How can he even think like that? How can he begin to try to put me in remotely the same box as that tanned tart!
‘Wanna see her, babe! Can not even walk past a pram without blubbing, that one!’
His face slips into focus and it’s all adoring. I feel sick.
‘Yes, but I’m nothing like Anne Marie. We’re worlds apart.’
‘Aaaah, no – you’re not that different,’ he says, protectively.
‘Oh yeah we are. The major difference being that when I see a mother and toddler in the street the first thought that flips through my head is how much easier my fist will slide in now that she’s been stretched by child birth.’
‘Aarrrr-ey! You’ve put us right off my food now.’
‘Don’t be getting all righteous on me, Jamie Keeley. You’re the one who implanted those kind of thoughts in my head in the first place. I was a good catholic girl before I met you and your Billy. It’s you guys that turned me into a pervert! You let me watch Animal Farm when I was how old, hey? Fourteen – that’s how old! Which is tantamount to child abuse is it not?’
I’m having fun with him, now. He’s biting on this one hook, line
and sinker.
‘I mean, did you not envisage how the exposition of such brutal filth would effect such a young and impressionable mind?’
‘Now, stop right there. You stole that video from our kid’s room. And if you remember rightly, I was extremely concerned when you told us you’d watched it. Extremely concerned.’
‘I noticed. You started locking your dogs up when I came round.’
He twigs and laughs hard. I love making him laugh. I can’t imagine her ever making him laugh the way I do.
Jamie
Here we go. Miracle she’s lasted this long, in fairness.
‘Jaaaay-meeeee,’ she says with big molten eyes, ‘Are you hungry?’
‘Fucken starving as a matter of fact,’ I goes, ‘Wish they’d get a move on with my steak. Why?’
‘Oh nothing.’
Her eyes wander sulkily around the room then fall south on the table. A short silence follows.
‘Have you seen Sean recently?’ she asks, dunking a piece of bread into her wine and making a little pyramid of the ash she’s spilt on the table.
‘No, honey. Ain’t seen him. Not since training last week – which reminds us. How come I ain’t seen you in there for over a month?’
‘I start back at Uni next week don’t I? And I’ve had to make a start on my dissertation.’
‘What’s that all about then?’