by Jessie Jones
‘Are you sure?’ I asked quietly, wanting to make certain I’d heard him right.
‘Positive. I’ve never been happy about you living here.’
‘There are muggers everywhere, Archie. Even round where you live.’
‘But this flat …’ He trailed off, seemingly unsure how to express himself.
‘What’s wrong with it?’
‘Well, you’ve got another one of them upstairs, haven’t you?’
‘A mugger?’ I gasped. What did he know about James, my upstairs neighbour? As far as I knew his only crime was playing his stupid music too loud.
‘No, one of them,’ he said.
I looked at him, confused.
‘A nigger.’
I was stunned into silence. Had he really just said that?
He wasn’t finished either. ‘You’ve got those Turks downstairs and I don’t like the look of that girl across the landing.’
‘Kirsty?’ I said, recovering my powers of speech. ‘What have you got against Americans?’
‘Nothing, but I’ve got plenty against dykes. I saw her at it with her mate when I came into the pub. Disgusting. You looked pretty uncomfortable with it as well, as I recall.’
‘I was,’ I said, ‘but only because –’
‘I’m surprised you hang around with her.’ He was in full flow and didn’t seem particularly interested in my view. ‘It’s a crying shame because until not so long ago this was a white area. Look at it now. It’s all blacks, Pakis, so-called asylum seekers, gypos most of them. And if that isn’t enough, you have to put up with dykes and shirt-lifters for next-door neighbours. That’s the tragedy of this country. Decent, honest English people are being driven out of their own homes. And if we say anything, they call us racist. It makes me sick.’
He stopped. Had he finished or was he just pausing for breath?
‘But it is racist, isn’t it?’ I said feebly. ‘People are just people and –’
‘That’s where you’re wrong. These people are not the same as us. You said it yourself: you called that runt mugger an animal and that’s exactly what he is.’
‘Yes, but not because he’s black,’ I squealed, out raged.
‘Listen, sweetheart, blacks make up four, five per cent of the population, but what proportion of muggers are niggers? I’ll tell you: ninety-five per cent, Dayna, ninety-five per cent. I’d say that tells you pretty much all you need to know about blacks.’
I couldn’t argue with him, but only because I had no idea what the true figures were. Instead, I started to cry.
He reached out and held me to him. ‘Listen, that bastard’s going to pay and, once you move in with me, I swear nothing like that will ever happen to you again.’
But that wasn’t why I was crying. I was devastated because only moments before I’d been mentally counting the tiers on my wedding cake. But now it was clear that if we ever had a white wedding it would refer to the colour of the guests. My hero was turning into a vindictive, violent racist before my very eyes and I felt sick.
I pushed myself away from him. I didn’t want him touching me any more.
‘You gonna get your things together, then?’ he asked.
I didn’t reply. I got up and went to my bedroom. Not to pack, though. I just needed to get away from him. But he didn’t pick up the vibe. He was too full of his own importance to notice how I might be taking this. While I sat on my bed, wondering what the hell to do next, he carried on talking.
‘After an experience like you’ve just had, you need to get straight back on your feet,’ he called out. ‘You need to feel as if you’re doing something to fight back. You should come to one of my meetings.’
What? With the council? How was that going to help?
‘I haven’t been completely straight with you, Dayna,’ he said, appearing in my bedroom doorway. ‘Those blokes I came into the pub with a few weeks ago, they’re not councillors. I know, I shouldn’t have lied and I’m sorry, but I had to be sure of you before I told you about it.’
‘What’s going on, Archie?’ I asked, my head spinning.
‘We’re political activists. This was once a beautiful, proud nation, before they let the filth in, before they tried to turn us all into little “Europeans”. Great Britain, my arse. We just roll over and let the Jews and the blacks and the gypo refugees walk all over us. They’re laughing at us, Dayna. But we’re not taking it any more. We’ve got plans. I’m telling you, you should come to a meeting. It’ll rebuild your faith.’
It was quite a speech and he was sounding like Tony Blair – well, Tony Blair with a little toothbrush moustache and a swastika armband.
There would be no coming back from this.
‘You’d better go,’ I said.
‘I’m not leaving you, not tonight. Come back to mine and –’
‘No, go, please,’ I said more firmly.
‘What’s the matter?’ He looked gobsmacked. I think it was the first time it had struck him that we might not actually be on the same planet.
‘I don’t know … I just need some time to think. I need to be on my own.’
I should have told him how I felt and had it out with him, but I couldn’t.
‘You’re going to chuck me out after I saved your life?’ He was angry all of a sudden – not with blacks or gays, but with me. ‘What’s going on?’
I hesitated for a moment, then, ‘I’m really grateful for what you did. But … Look, a lot’s been said … And I’m not sure … I … agree with it.’
God, how pathetic did that sound?
‘Jesus, I can’t believe this,’ he snapped. ‘You’re not sure you agree …? What the hell do you think just happened out there?’
‘I know, but that doesn’t mean –’
‘Forget it, Dayna, just forget it.’ He turned to leave. ‘And the next time some black bastard’s got a knife at your throat, well, don’t count on me being around!’ he yelled as he slammed the door.
My engagement, short-lived as it was, was over.
7 cm
‘I think the epidural’s wearing off again, Emily. I can feel … stuff.’
‘Oh my God, shall I get Louise back?’ she asks, stretching in the chair and rubbing her sleep-filled eyes.
‘Don’t be silly. Louise knocked off ages ago. Just after you went back to sleep, actually.’
She looks at me sheepishly. ‘Sorry, but after Max called to say he’d landed, another wave of tiredness just hit me. God, that was ages ago. What time is it?’
‘Seven thirty. The new midwife came to check me just before you woke up.’
‘How are you doing?’
‘Six and a half centimetres. Pathetic. I don’t think this baby wants to come out.’
‘I don’t blame it,’ Emily says, placing a hand on my stomach and giving it a gentle stroke. She takes it off pretty quickly when I let out a shriek as a sharp bolt of pain shoots through my abdomen. ‘Sorry, Dayna, did I hurt you?’
‘No, no, not you. This epidural’s definitely wearing off. That was really painful. I haven’t felt anything like that for – Aaaggghhh!’
She stares at me helplessly as another spasm rocks me.
‘I’m scared,’ I tell her when it fades.
‘I’m going to get someone,’ she says, turning for the door. But it opens before she gets there. The new midwife, Maureen, comes into the room. Her smile is quickly replaced by a look of concern as she checks the heart monitor, which seems to be going a little bit mental. I was too busy crying out in pain to notice.
‘What is it?’ I ask, fear creeping into my voice. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘We’re going to have to hurry this along a little. It looks like the baby’s in a tiny bit of distress,’ she tells me, fixing her face with that professional smile that says, ‘Don’t panic, nothing to worry about.’ It’s a lie, of course.
Emily and I both shriek, ‘The baby’s in distress?’ I think that makes three of us, then.
‘Calm down, t
here’s really nothing to worry about,’ Midwife Maureen lies. ‘It’s the sort of thing we have to expect during labour. Now, just relax. I’m going to break your waters. That should speed things along nicely.’
She disappears between my legs and seconds later the gush of fluid onto the bed coincides perfectly with the epidural wearing off completely. What the hell has that stupid midwife done to me? Because I am suddenly in more pain than I have felt in my ENTIRE LIFE.
At last it fades and I turn to her and say, ‘Please, please, go and tell them I’ve had a rethink.’ I’m gabbling because God knows when the next spasm is going to hit me. ‘I want a caesarean. I want to be asleep. I want to wake up with a baby and no memory of – Aaaaaaaaagggggggggghhhh!!’
The agony is unspeakable, indescribable. Where is the pain? Everywhere! In my back, my front, up my middle and trying to drill its way through the top of my head and … Oh my God, isn’t the birth canal supposed to be connected to your, er, front? I think my anatomy must be completely wrong because by the feel of things this baby is coming out of my bottom.
‘OhmyGod, my bum!’ I shriek.
Maureen smiles at me. ‘It can feel like that sometimes.’
Oh can it? Well, you try getting on this bed and bloody well feeling it, then.
The contraction passes and my wailing stops and I flop backwards, panting like a marathon runner at the finish line. Maureen uses the relative calm as an opportunity to check me again.
‘Seven centimetres,’ she announces proudly, as if it’s her cervix that’s expanding at the pace of an arthritic snail. ‘Well done, Dayna. Breaking your waters seems to have done the trick.’
‘Is it going to be over soon?’ I whimper.
‘Not long, I should think. But don’t push yet. Do you hear me? Whatever you do, do not push.’
‘Arrggh … urrrgghhh,’ I reply in a voice that isn’t my own, but that I think is trying to say OK.
Emily has been struck mute. Her complexion is bleached and she’s rooted to the spot. I suspect she won’t be getting pregnant anytime soon.
Not strictly No. 4
After Archie had left that night, I couldn’t sleep. I tossed and turned, alternating between visions of the sick bastard who had attacked me and the other sick bastard who had saved me from him.
I felt frightened, shaken and angry. I felt pretty bloody stupid as well. How could I have missed the signs? There must have been signs, surely. After all, when he’d walked into the pub, Kirsty had taken all of three seconds to figure him out – and they hadn’t even spoken. I’d obviously been so blinded by love and/or been so plain thick that I couldn’t see the obvious. There were things that I’d chosen to ignore: his coldness with slightly Jamaican Emily and totally Jewish Max; his horror of any food that wasn’t fish and chips or full English breakfast; the jokey remarks about gays that clearly weren’t that jokey, and other little comments that now replayed themselves on a loop in my head.
Was this going to be the story of my life? Was I destined always to fall for blokes who’d lure me in, then whip out the rug from under me? What next? I wondered. There wouldn’t be a next, I decided. I was done with love. I was now a man-free zone.
But rather than make me feel better, that decision just depressed me. I was a lonely, embittered spinster, only thirty years ahead of my time.
After two hours of fitful sleep, I got up and got ready for my interview. I really didn’t want to go, but I couldn’t fail to show up. I wasn’t that unprofessional. Not yet, anyway. I flung on some clothes, slapped on a bit of make-up, gave myself one last check in the mirror – what a state! – and left.
On my way downstairs I bumped into James from the top flat, who was on his way to work. He’d lived above me for ages, but we hardly ever spoke. When we did, it was usually me politely asking him to turn his rubbish music down. Funny, but until Archie had used the N word about him the night before, it had never struck me that he was black. Of course I’d noticed, but I’d never given it any proper thought. I did now, though, and I panicked. I didn’t want him thinking that my annoyance at his music levels was a colour thing.
‘Hi, James, off to work?’ I asked extra-breezily.
‘Um, yeah,’ he mumbled. Obviously not a morning person. Or maybe he was just thrown by my extra-breeziness. Whatever, I pressed on.
‘Wow, that’s great,’ I said, if anything slightly more breezily than before. ‘That CD you were playing the other night –’
‘Oh, it wasn’t too loud, was it? Sorry, sorry.’
‘No, it wasn’t loud enough. It was absolutely brilliant!’ I whooped. ‘What was it?’
‘Er … Dunno … It could’ve been Van Morrison. I’ve been listening to a lot of his old stuff lately.’
‘I love Van Morrison!’ I gushed. ‘So soulful. That’s the fantastic thing about black music, isn’t it? It’s got so much soul. Honestly, however good white singers are they just haven’t got … that … er … soul … have they?’
I’d become hesitant because James was giving me the strangest look.
‘You know Van Morrison’s white, don’t you?’ he said after a long moment.
‘Yes, absolutely, of course,’ I squealed, feeling the heat from my blushing cheeks threaten to burn off my make-up.
God, I don’t think I’d ever felt so embarrassed. And now I was going to be stuck with him all the way to the tube station. Luckily, Kirsty was in the hall, shuffling through the post, and I saw an escape.
‘Just want to catch up with Kirsty,’ I said to James. ‘See you later.’
‘Hi, Dayna, what’s happening?’ Kirsty asked without looking up from the wad of envelopes in her hand.
‘Oh, nothing much,’ I said, watching James head out of the front door. He could move pretty quickly when he had a madwoman to escape from.
‘So, what do you want to catch up about?’ Kirsty went on.
‘Oh … er … you know …’
‘You still seeing that guy, the one that turned up at the Raglan?’
Aaagggghhh! She’d not only met Archie, but she’d nailed him immediately as a homophobe. I had to disassociate myself from him, and fast.
‘No, no, we finished. I dumped him in fact,’ I said hurriedly. ‘Completely dumped him. Not the guy for me at all. Not in any shape or form.’
‘Well, can’t say I liked the look of him. You’re probably well shot of him.’
‘Absolutely, totally, one hundred per cent well shot, Kirsty.’
Had I gone far enough to convince her there wasn’t a homophobic bone in my body? Probably. It didn’t stop me going that little bit further though.
‘Actually, there’s something I wanted to say,’ I told her as she turned to go back up to her flat.
‘What’s that, honey?’
‘You and Ruby … I just wanted to tell you I think you’re a fantastic, amazing couple and you’re absolutely brilliant role models for other lesbians, and if you ever want to, you know, adopt, foster, whatever, and you need a sponsor or a referee or even just a babysitter, well, I’m your man. Your woman. You know what I mean.’
She gave me a look not that dissimilar to the one James had given me. Then she said, ‘Are you on something this morning, Dayna?’ Cause if you are, I want the number of your dealer.’
Of course, my interview was a complete disaster. How could it be anything else after the way I’d begun my day? It was at the Hampstead Garden Beauty Salon, which was small, friendly and very, very smart. I’d have been more than happy to work there, but it wasn’t to be. The owner was lovely, a really nice lady who insisted I call her Helen. But she was also Greek. I think she might have been slightly freaked out by the way I forced my love of kebabs, stuffed vine leaves and Nana Mouskouri into the conversation when all she wanted to know was if I could do a Guinot facial.
That morning kind of set the pattern for the next few weeks. I positively went out of my way to prove to myself that I was completely non-homophobic, non-racist, non-anythingist. I went
out more than I had done in ages, on a tour of London’s clubs and bars and the more extreme and freaky they were the better. As well as proving my supreme tolerance, part of my reasoning was that if I surrounded myself with studded, tattooed, pink-haired art-school types, preferably gay or black, ideally gay and black, then I’d be highly unlikely to bump into Archie.
There was another reason for my constant partying: the mugging. I was determined not to be intimidated. It was like falling off a bike, Dad told me. You have to pick yourself up and get straight back on again. Excellent advice. I was not going to become a recluse, staying in every night … alone … in my flat … where every little noise or creak of a floorboard made me jump out of my skin. No, it was too scary being home alone. Much safer, I decided, to get out and about. So long as I didn’t do it on my own.
I gave up on walking and public transport, instead spending a fortune on black cabs (minicabs, obviously, being driven only by rapists), and I dragged my friends everywhere I went. Emily, Hannah, Kirsty and a few others; they must have grown sick of the sight of me. Especially poor old Kirsty. Well, in my quest to hang out with freaks and weirdos to prove how live-and-let-live I was, she was my guide, being slightly freaky-weird herself. It was thanks to Kirsty that I tried a number of things I hadn’t experienced before. Stuff like sushi, live jazz, art galleries and sleazy one-off sex with a complete stranger.
No, I’d never done the one-night stand thing before. I’d thought about it from time to time but I’d never dreamed it would really happen.
It wouldn’t have happened at all if Kirsty hadn’t asked me to go to a party with her. It was a real West End showbiz do, a launch for something or other. I wasn’t sure what but I didn’t care because there was free champagne and canapés and the promise of celebrities. Ruby was away for a few days and Kirsty hated going to these things on her own, so she asked me to tag along. ‘There’s gonna be a whole bunch of design people there, some important asses to kiss. I’m gonna need you in the background. Just look a bit dykey when one of ’em hits on me – one of ’em always does,’ she told me. Dykey? The new, super-tolerant me could do that.