by Stella Duffy
First time laughing, too stoned, new to us, first time laughing so much, giggling stoned laughter and it won’t go away and I’ve peed my pants and Jill and me both just laughing even more at that, sticky ammonia turning cold in my jeans. She’s trying to cut out a line of speed to sharpen me up, take the edge off the giggle, but her hand’s shaking so much and I’m laughing so much I blow it all over the table. Stopped me laughing though.
Nothing to stop her laughing at me now and I’m not wasting good drugs on her sense of humour this time. So I’m fucked off and hate her. Hate her hard. Worried by the hate, it’s the one that scares me, and I really don’t like to hate Jill, but she is so not going to stop laughing, she’s having far too good a fucking time and I think maybe I need to leave now, go out for a walk, get away from the laughing bitch because I might just have to smack her fucking big mouth if she doesn’t stop, and I’ve never hit Jill before, though she’s hit me loads of times and I don’t know if I could hit her, not really, but right now I might just slam my fist so far into that laughing gob of hers it’ll come out her cunt next time she sees it. I don’t like being this angry. Worries me. Don’t like it at all. And then – bliss, sweet rapture, and praise the gifts of the virgin who’d hate to see me harm a hair on the beloved’s head, I’ve slammed pissed off hands hard into my pocket and there’s a couple of jellies in there with the condoms and the Polo mints. I know, but it only sounds like an odd combination at first. You figure. And then maybe I can just about do this. The jellies and the coke and the hash? I don’t know if it’s a great combination, it’s not quite the real thing, but fuck it I might as well anyway because daylight saving has all gone and it’s dark at four thirty now and so we’re not going anywhere, right? Wrong.
Jill stops laughing and pulls me out of the door with her. I don’t need a coat she says, even though it’s bloody freezing, shit sleety rain far too early in November and slashing at my face, but she tells me not to worry, there’s a nice warm BMW parked just around the corner and we can put the heater on full and move in for half an hour or so. Jill can’t drive but she knows everything else there is to know about cars. How to get through the electric locking system. How to turn off the alarm without a key. How to start the motor. Jill fucked a mechanic for a few months last year, stole his knowledge and fucked off with his new set of tools too. Left his dick, not the best of his tools. And it’s a nice car, big and easy to drive. At least it is until Jill starts trying to direct me, over there, that right turn, no not this, the next one, shit you’ve missed it, u-turn, here, yes of course you can, you fucking well can, don’t talk shit, you fucking well can. Fucking well can’t. Coke, hash and jellies, power steering power steered from the passenger seat. Straight into an oncoming Nissan. We barely move, the BMW takes the swipe with a fat and solid crunch – side impact bars, air bags as standard, there’s something about these company cars that makes even facing the wrong way in rush hour not seem so bad. The tinny little Japanese spins out and then back into the line of traffic, driver looks as if he thinks it might be all right. He’s facing the right way. His neck isn’t broken. Chassis is though. I’m dazed and Jill’s pulling at my hand, grabs me out of my seat and we’re running fast, down a couple of dark streets, through a pathway, old lady shrinking against the wall, holding her trolley to her like a shield, thanking God we weren’t interested. A couple of people chase at first, but they don’t really care. Much more concerned about the guy in the Nissan than the couple of girls who’ve pinched some rich git’s car. God knows he’ll have enough insurance. I bet Nissan Man’s only third party, he looks like a local. Want to tell Jill, but she’ll hate me for worrying, looking back. Jill doesn’t look back. Quick turn left, no idea of exactly where we’re headed but we know there’s a canal along here somewhere, no-one comes to a canal at dusk. Not unless they’re running too. Into an overgrown estate and thanking winter now, glad of early sunset. I’m fretting about fingerprints but Jill is so sure that’s irrelevant, bloke’ll get his car back and don’t the cops have better to think about than that and who the fuck knows where we live anyway? No-one. No-one but Jill. We find the canal and follow the line down towards town, brighter lights and I really am freezing now, coke rush long gone, just a headache from too many drugs and the adrenaline mix, temples throbbing, I’m thinking maybe we’re headed home, maybe we can leave it for tonight, back to Jill’s and a bag of chips, vinegar and grease on my hands until the morning, but Jill sees me shivering and my goose-pimpled skin takes her ahead to the turkey. She wants us safe and warm for Christmas. Tucked up cosy and waiting for Santa. Inside.
First Christmas alone. The mother and father have gone away. Packed their car with a DNA-variegation of children and driven to their cousins in the north. And I will not go with them. I will not go to the happy family and play the good child. We have been fighting for weeks and then she said it, the mother, OK, don’t come, we’ll take the others. You stay here. By yourself. That’s fine. She turned the electricity off as she left and removed the key card. Christmas morning listening to the one radio in the house that had batteries and boiling milk for hot weetabix, grateful for the gas stove. I’m eleven, Jill’s twelve and a half. She knocks on the door, shivering in pyjamas and dressing gown. Her lot are still asleep and can she watch telly at my place, she knows we have too many kids here for them to attempt the sort of TV rules they have at her house. No TV. Jill can’t believe it, is shocked – all alone? Stunned – they’ve really left you all alone? And so fucking excited. Stays all morning. By eleven we’ve finished the Baileys and started on the Tia Maria. Weetabix with hot milk and whisky. Her gran swears by whisky to keep you well, milk to line the stomach, makes Jill a hot toddy every night in winter. Jill says it will stop us getting sick. It doesn’t, but we’re not bothered. Morecombe and Wise are probably on telly now, it doesn’t matter. Queen’s Message comes and goes and Jill still isn’t going home, she’s having too much fun and I do think, I really do, that maybe her gran will be worried, but then the thought passes and anyway, she won’t know to find Jill here, thinks my lot are all away. They are. Early evening and there’s Advocaat and some cheery cherry brandy and Jill thinks we should set fire to a pudding. But we haven’t got a Christmas pudding, so it’s the last of the Weetabix and a third of a bottle goes on top, because there’s alcohol in Christmas pudding too, isn’t there? So it can’t matter how much we throw on. Can’t matter until the lit Weetabix flies up to the greasy nets and we’ve left the gas on to heat the place and there’s a lot of flame, lot of fire and we run out to the balcony, Jill screaming, nylon dressing gowns glowing in the night wind. Hospital, new homes, new parents, Jill’s gran can’t cope and she joins me in care limbo.
Until that Christmas Jill had only been my best friend. After that she was my only friend.
We’re out now, so we may as well stay out. We may as well make it happen tonight. That’s Jill’s plan. Along the canal for a bit, past a couple of girls out working. Not looking for work, actually working. Jill gives a few pointers to the one giving a blow job. ‘Slower love, slower. The gentle gobble’s what the bloke’s after, aren’t you mate?’ Punter and girl look up, Jill’s smiling, as much as you can smile with your gob wide open miming the mouthing. The girl slows down, the punter nod relief and grins, winks at Jill. The kid’s probably only about fourteen, no fucking idea yet. ‘That’s it love. You’ve got him now. He’s happy now. well done love, that’s it, keep on, good girl.’ The bloke’s smiling, eyes closed, pants down. Jill reaches for his wallet, poking out of his trouser pocket, grabs a twenty for herself and pushes another into the girl’s bra top. Poor bitch must be freezing. All the while Jill’s sweet talking the pair of them through it. ‘Now you’ve got it, good girl, that’s the way. Soft and slow. See love, there’s some things your mum’ll never teach you.’ He’s grinning and moaning to himself and the girl’s sucking and slobbering for all she’s worth, eyes wide and delighted. We walk on, maybe ten yards and once we’re almost at the bridge Jil
l shouts out, ‘That’s it! Good girl. You’re doing a great job, great job. Soft and slow and get them going and now -’ The girl looks up, mouth full, the punter opens his smiling eyes, grateful inquisitive looks towards the pair of us from both of them, ‘Now bite the fucker off!’ Jill screams with delight, girl chokes with laughter, man freaks, cock shrivels, nothing to blow. God knows why they do it, men are a fuck of a lot braver than us. I’d never trust anything that tender to the teeth of a stranger. We run off and Jill can’t get over herself, fucking delighted she is. Twenty quid richer too.
First trick. Jill’s idea. We’ve both done it, Jill figures we might as well start getting paid for it. Jill figures. I’m fifteen, she’s sixteen. Legal. Real. I’m nervous about it though so she tells me to watch her, see how she goes and if she can do it, then so can I. A fuck’s a fuck, right? And I can just stop with a blow job if I really want to. I don’t know. Seems to me your actual fuck – eyes closed, all noise and panting – is a damn sight less personal than having some stranger’s dick in my mouth. Anyway, she’s street-cornering herself and I’m stopping in the dark part, under the arches, watching her and these lads come up. It’s a stag party. They want her for the groom. What’ll she do for twenty quid? We didn’t know much about market forces at the time. She offered the lot. Quite a show, best man got a handjob, bride’s little brother got a blowjob and then Jill’s feeling a bit knackered so she calls me out of the corner and asks the groom how does he fancy me and her together? This is all out in the fucking street, mind. Anyway, course he does. So I’m there right and Jill reckons it’ll be fine and then we’re fooling about and now the groom’s got his dick out and Jill reckons I should do him, get it over with, at least she’s there with me. So I turn to do him and then I see it’s all of them that are waiting. Not just the groom and this wasn’t the deal and Jill’s saying no, this wasn’t the deal, but that’s not the fucking point, right? The best man’s not quite so drunk now. She did half a dozen of them and I did six of the others. This was not voluntary. Except when they left the little brother ran back and gave us another twenty each. So it wasn’t really rape either. Was it? We got better at it after that. More fucking careful anyway.
So I’m thinking about that girl and how I’m so bloody happy to be running round winter with Jill and not on my knees by the canal and we’re coming back up to Holloway Road now and Jill says that’s auspicious. It’s a sign. Yeah, it’s a fucking road sign. Not what she means. And there’s lights and cars and a few drunks and some young people in groups, pissed and laughing on their way out for the night, and Jill’s speeding now, really fucking speeding, God knows what on. Cold and potential and the twenty quid in her pocket I guess. And she’s looking all around and thinking who can we do? What can we do? Then she sees it, other side of the road, furniture shop. And in the window, a bloody fairy tale bed. Really fairy tale. A four poster straight out of ‘Sleeping Beauty’. All over girlie shit and frills and pretty and embroidered roses, wide curtains with white flounces and I can’t believe that Jill even thinks that looks like anything, but she’s just completely taken with it, and they’ve done some special lighting on it too, it’s all soft and golden, glowing in the cold street. And the cover turned down and a silk nightie laid out just waiting for the Princess to float in and sleep forever, no night dancing to wear out her shoes, no hidden pea to bruise her delicate skin. Perfect. And Jill’s got a rubbish bin and it just goes right through the window, before I can say not to, before I can even ask what the fuck she’s doing and the glass only takes two hits and then it shatters, glass mountain collapses with sparkling prisms all around us, glitter snow on the ground and the ringing of alarm bells. And Jill just takes her time, gives me her clothes, one by one, like I’m the fucking palace maid and I fold them up and put them on the ground because what else can I do and then she’s naked and she climbs in through the broken window, glass under her feet but that doesn’t matter and I help her put on the nightie and she just gets into bed. Climbs into the bed. I plump up the pillows and tuck her in and kiss her goodnight, pull the curtains around her. I’d turn out the lights but they’re flashing blue.
First night in the girl place. It’s OK. Really it is. Lots better than I’ve been in before, that’s for sure. It’s really not bad. The lady on the radio was right. I mean it is Holloway, but it is pretty flash too. Jill doesn’t know though. It all took ages working out what had happened, if they were going to do her or section her. I was easy, accomplice, best friend, no nutter me. Not now. Only then they figured same for her – she was bad, not mad this time. True too. She’s not mad. Pissed off but. Jill turned twenty while we were on remand, they reckoned she’s too old for this. Too late for it to do her any good. Fucked her off no end. I didn’t think it would be all right being here without her. But it’s not that bad. Not as bad as I thought anyway.
Still, it’ll be summer soon.
To Brixton Beach
THERE ARE IMAGES in the water. The pool holds them, has held them, since it was built in the thirties and before. And before that too, when there were ponds here, in the park, ponds the locals used to bathe in. Men at first, then men and women, separate bathing times, of course. A pond before the pool, a house with gardens before the park, perhaps a common before that, a field, a forest. We can go back forever. And on, and on.
6am. The first swimmers arrive, absurd to the gym-goers, the yoga-bunnies, those impatient, imperfect bodies readying for the cold, clear, cool.
When Charlie was a boy he and his brother Sid used to run all the way up from Kennington to swim, skipping out in the middle of the night, long hot summer nights, too sweaty in their little room, no mother there to watch over them anyway, sneaking off on their mate Bill’s bike, to where the air was fresher, the trees greener, the sky and stars deeper, wider. And the pond so clean, green. Charlie hadn’t been to the sea or to the mountains then, but the air in Brockwell Park felt cool enough.
8am, the pre-office rush, pushing at the entrance desk, swimmers to the right, gym-ers to the left, one half to fast breath, hot body, pumping music, the other to cold, cool, clear.
Mid-morning and the local kids begin to arrive. Jayneen lives in the Barrier Block, in summer she and her friend Elise and Elise’s cousin Monique go to the lido every day. They walk along streets named for poets, poets Monique has read too, poets she knows, smart girl, smart mouth an’ all, they walk in tiny shorts and tinier tops and they know what they do, and they laugh as they do it, as those boys slow down on the foolish too-small bikes they ride, slow down and look them up, look them lower, look them over. They three are all young woman skin and flesh showing and body ripe. And they know it, love it. The girls walk along and make their way to the lido that is Brixton Beach and they don’t bother getting changed, they are not here to swim, Elise spent five hours last weekend getting her hair made fine in rows, tight and fine, she doesn’t want to risk chlorine on that, they come to the lido to sit and soak up the sun and the admiring glances. Jayneen looks around, smoothing soft cocoa butter on her skin, as she does twice a day, every day, as she knows to do, and sucks her teeth at the skinny white girl over there by the café, all freckles and burned red, burned dry, silly sitting in the sun. Jayneen’s skin is smooth and soft, she’s taught Monique too, white girls need to oil their skin too. Maybe white girls need black mothers to teach them how to take care of themselves.
Charlie is in the water. He is already always in the water. Strong powerful strokes pulling him through. He slips past the young men who are running and cartwheeling into the pool, trying to get the girls’ attention, trying not to get the life guard’s attention, paying no attention to the long low deco lines. The young men look only at the curving lines on young women’s bodies. Charlie finds himself thinking of young women and turns his attention back to water, to swimming hard and remembering how to breathe in water. He swims fast and strong up to the shallow end, avoids the squealing, screeching little ones, babes in arms, and turns back, to power on down,
alone.