by Matthew Crow
‘It won’t.’
‘We’re none of us born alone into this world. Solitude grows, like mould, through carelessness, laziness, missed opportunities to stop it before it becomes all-consuming. Grab hold of everybody close to you and hold on tightly,’ he said, becoming more and more passionate. ‘That’s the only way you’ll ever really stay afloat. That’s the only way worth living your life.’
‘I don’t really believe in any sort of God or afterlife,’ I said as I stood up and placed my cup back on the low table that separated us. ‘But wherever he is, wherever he went, I think he went there knowing, deep down that you loved him. And I think he went at peace knowing that.’
‘I hope so.’ Mr Fitzpatrick pressed his handkerchief beneath his glossy right eye.
‘Take care,’ I told him, as I made my way to the door, bending down and kissing the top of his head. It was the first time I’d ever been within touching distance of him.
‘And you my girl,’ he said, tapping my hand that I had rested on his shoulder.
‘I’ll see myself out,’ I said.
‘Claudette,’ he asked, as I was in the hallway, tying my laces on the bottom step of his stairs. ‘That bracelet, where did you get it from?’
I looked to my wrist and twisted the shells into view.
‘Um, I don’t know. Town maybe. Why?’ I asked.
‘It just reminds me of somebody I knew,’ he said quietly. ‘She had one just like that.’
My blood ran cold and as he drifted off into his afternoon nap, I slipped quickly from his house and ran down the street.
15
Girl Talk
There was a story about Sarah’s death on the news as I straightened my hair to go out that night. It was nothing groundbreaking. Yet still just seeing her made my mind shrink tighter and tighter until nothing else existed.
It was the slow realisation of burning that roused me from my trance.
I swore and pulled the straighteners away from my sizzling neck, oblivious to the fact that I was still gripping a large length of my own hair in their scalding jaws, so that my head jerked sideways with my panicked reflex.
I swore again and unplugged them, scraping my hair back and fashioning some form of messy bun in lieu of the silky tresses I had envisioned for myself. Then I dabbed at the burn with Savlon and got to spend five minutes focusing on the twinge of physical pain, as opposed to the churning pre-club anxiety that had been festering in my stomach all afternoon.
I had tried to put on make-up, which was rare, and soon I remembered why I seldom bothered. I was not the beguiling goddess I’d envisioned I’d be with a tenner’s worth of Paula’s lipstick and foundation plastered to my face. Rather I came out resembling a child’s crayon likeness of myself; recognisable as human, but by no means real. Eventually I settled on my usual; my dressiest nose ring, a lick of black eyeliner and some lip gloss that tasted like cherries.
Next, I tried on five outfits before I concluded that I loathed myself and all fabric for ever.
By the fifth attempt I had sweated so much that it had hardly been worth bothering with a shower earlier. I sat on my bed and enjoyed a calming moment, in which I hated myself for giving a shit about all of the stuff I knew I shouldn’t.
Hating the way I looked was never about what other people said or thought. I was not some slip of a girl and never would be. No concerned relative would ever pull me to one side and ask if I was eating properly (though there was often concern, mainly tooth related, to my penchant for opening sugar sachets and pouring them into my mouth one after the other).
When Patricia Hewitt called me a fat cow in science it didn’t bother me, nor did it bother me when the group of boys she was with spent the rest of the lesson sniggering and making mooing noises. I never was fat. You just couldn’t see the shape of my skeleton. Besides, Patricia Hewitt had been held back a year and her mum was a dinner lady, so comparatively I felt superior.
No. Any hatred I had of my body was down to me. A frustration that the reality and the fantasy were always so vastly different, that when I looked in the mirror the image in my head was not reflected back at me in the same shimmering, glowing light in which I was bathed in my imagination.
I sat contemplating how awful it was being a woman when a knock at the door interrupted my glorious misandry.
‘Only me,’ said Paula from behind the door. Her voice was accompanied by the sound of glass clanking on glass. ‘Thought you might like a little drink before you headed out. Just us girls. Our little treat.’
I sighed and stood up, opening the door. ‘Don’t sit on my clothes,’ I said, turning off the television and the volume on my phone up, so that the music rose to an almost uncomfortable level.
‘You look nice,’ she said and I sighed.
‘God, Paula, I don’t care how I look,’ I said. ‘I’m only going out with friends and even if I wasn’t it still wouldn’t matter,’ I growled.
‘Absolutely,’ she said, pouring a glass of wine for herself that reached the brim, and one for me that was so small she may not have bothered at all. ‘It’s who you are on the inside that counts.’
‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘For the wine,’ I added, keen to nip any suggestions that Paula was my feminist role model in the bud.
‘You looking forward to tonight?’ she asked, fluffing the pillows on my bed.
‘Better than staying in,’ I said and lied. There was nothing about going to a nightclub that evening which made me feel anything other than dread. But the fact of the matter was that Ross had disappeared almost entirely since Sarah was declared dead. And, worse still, if what Dan had told me was accurate then soon he could also be gone for good. Sarah could no longer be saved. This part was true. But those responsible for her death could be held accountable. If Dan was to be exposed it would be up to me to do push him into the light. I had to tighten my grip on him, and the only way to do that was to lay my cards on the table; to make him understand that I saw him for what he really was, and wouldn’t rest until the rest of the world did too.
‘Ah the confidence of youth,’ she said. ‘I remember a time when I relished leaving the house. Don’t think that won’t leave you. Nothing a lounge-suit, two bottles of wine and a boxset is worth sacrificing for.’
‘God, it’s like you’ve given up,’ I said.
‘The opposite!’ she said, laughing. ‘We’ve cracked the secret to life, us oldies. One day you’ll realise. You’re not going to drink are you?’
‘Probably.’
‘Claudette,’ she said, in her concerned voice, as I picked hairpins from my curled lips and slid them into the more persistent lumps in my crown. ‘You know it’s not good with your tablets. Plus girls your age need to keep their wits about them in places like that.’
I’ll say one thing about Paula. She always tried to treat me just like she would any other teenage girl in the world. I was going out, and she was being a concerned mother figure. The same scene was playing out in houses the length and breadth of the land. Most people weren’t kind enough to even attempt this.
‘Odd sentiment for the woman pushing the cheap rosé,’ I said, still unable to verbally acknowledge my gratitude.
‘It’s £6.99 a bottle, full price, thank you Claudette, and I thought it would be nice to have a girly chat.’
‘You were mistaken,’ I said, backing up to her. ‘Will you zip me up.’
‘There you go, bonnie lass,’ she said, as she clipped the tag of the zip beneath the low backline of my top.
Paula held me gently by the arms and stepped closer to me, staring at us together in the mirror.
‘Such a lovely young woman, Claudette. I hope you know that. We’re all so proud of the way you turned out.’
‘I’m a mess.’
‘You’re beautiful,’ she said, gripping my arms tighter. ‘Not that it matters. You could be a hunchback and covered in slime, and everybody would still love you. But you are. And you’re tough and you’re clever, which is the
best part. I don’t know anybody who knows their own mind the way you do.’
‘Shame I can’t control it,’ I said and Paula shook her head.
‘We’ve all got our crosses to bear,’ she said. ‘Some are just heavier than others. Besides, you always bounce back. Tough as old boots, that’s our Claudette.’
There was silence as Paula sat back down on the bed.
‘You and Jacob seem to be getting close,’ she said eventually, and let her words hang in the air. ‘It’s not often you go anywhere with anyone save Donna.’
I groaned. Here it came.
‘He’s a friend,’ I said. ‘And that’s what I need at the moment. That’s all I need at the moment.’
‘He’s older, isn’t he?’
‘He’s forty-two,’ I said.
‘Funny.’
‘What is this about, Paula?’ I asked. ‘It’s getting on. I still need to put my pants on and then sit for ten minutes at least to dry up. I’m sweating like a bitch on heat.’
‘All I’m saying is that if you ever did want a boyfriend,’ she said, and I groaned. ‘… Or a girlfriend, we’d be understanding. We’d make… allowances.’
‘What do you mean?’ I asked, suddenly curious. ‘Like, pay a dowry or something?’
Paula shook her head and rolled her eyes .
‘I just mean if you ever wanted the house to yourself…’ she continued, stretching the word to breaking point.
‘I want the house to myself all the time, Paula; twenty-four-seven, three-six-five. You both know this.’
‘Ever the wit,’ she said, standing up and livening up my empty glass. ‘I just mean, we’ve all been young once. We’ve all… experimented. But not out on the beach, or in the lighthouse…’ she said, grimacing.
‘Oh God!’ I said, taking a gulp of my wine and grabbing the bottle from her, topping up my glass. I was more horrified that our jaunt to the lighthouse hadn’t been as inconspicuous as we’d imagined it was, than by any notions of al fresco sex, but still felt mortified all the same. ‘We weren’t shagging on some wet rock, Paula. That’s gross. It’s filthy out there. Besides, it’s just Jacob. It’s not like that.’
‘I’m not judging,’ she said, holding her hands up defensively. ‘I’ve been on the beach at night. I’ve heard the… grunting in the dunes. I know what people get up to. I’m just saying. You don’t have to be one of them. I know you think we’re old stick-in-the-muds. But everyone is here to make your life easier, Claudette. All you have to do is talk to us.’
I sipped my wine and sighed.
In truth, I did sometimes think about getting a boyfriend. I didn’t particularly want one. But it would shut people up and get them off my back. For all I consistently smashed just about every exam I took, it was still the first thing almost every person who met me would ask. I knew I wasn’t the whole package. When it came to hunting for a mate I was quite aware of my strengths and weaknesses.
Pros:
Pretty decent set of tits for my age.
Skin OK on most days.
Hair acceptable.
Have given over five blowjobs and yet to experience negative feedback.
Objectively perfect taste in film and music.
Pretty amazing at masturbating. Therefore, assume have either amazing hand or vagina. Possibly both. Either way: transferrable skills.
Able.
Willing.
Cons:
Prone to bouts of psychiatric sectioning.
Tits aside, am shapeless, such as an oblong.
Of the four people I’ve had sex with, three were stopped prematurely when I sighed and said I was bored.
Arms and legs are fucked up with scars. Not an entirely lost cause, but a balancing act if ever there was one.
For all that I was no easy ride, the problem would come when it came to finding someone I could tolerate, let alone spend any length of time with. My list of hates was comprehensive to say the least.
‘Claudette…’ she tried again slowly, pretending to fold a top from the floor which had clearly been intended for the wash. ‘Why was Daniel Vesper sat outside of the flat for nearly two hours the other day?’
I felt the wine rise back up into my throat.
‘Who?’ I tried, as Paula stood up and dropped her usual tone.
‘Don’t pretend you don’t know who he is. He was sat in a car yesterday, smoking so much I thought the house over the road was on fire. Plumes of smoke coming out of the windows. How he didn’t choke I’ll never know. Claudette, if you’re in any sort of trouble…’
I sighed and turned to her.
‘Look,’ I said, softening as much as I ever could with Paula. ‘I know I don’t give you the easiest ride. And I’m sorry. OK. There, I am. And I promise, if I ever want to talk about boys or sex or being a woman or… grunting,’ I said, suppressing a shudder, ‘I will. I don’t take you for granted. I just like taking the piss sometimes. But there is nothing going on with me and Jacob. Not now not ever. And I don’t know why Dan was sat on our street, but I daresay it was for reasons known only to him and probably best kept that way. I’m not in any trouble. I’m not in any danger. Just stop pulling my dick, Paula, OK?’ I tried as certainly as I could.
She paused for a moment, her suspicion clearly still not entirely assuaged, and then thought better of it.
‘That wasn’t so hard, was it, Claudette?’ she said, with a smile that seemed oddly unconvincing. ‘You really are a good girl. I’ll let you get on.’ She picked up the glasses and left my room.
‘Yeah, well I am drinking tonight,’ I yelled through the door, still shaken by the thought of Dan Vesper watching over me, but keen not to let any vulnerability show.
‘Very good,’ Paula yelled back cheerily from the kitchen.
‘And having unprotected sex with strangers,’ I yelled.
‘Fantastic,’ she said, just as chirpily.
‘And doing heroin,’ I hollered.
‘Aren’t we all,’ she said in a sing-song voice before I gave up.
Just as I was navigating my jeans over the difficult terrain of my thighs there was a knock at the front door.
‘Don’t go, it’s for me,’ I shouted.
‘I’ll get it,’ Paula said, completely ignoring me.
I lunged to try and beat her to the door but my jeans gripped tight at my knees and I ended up sprawled on my bedroom floor.
Shit.
I made my finishing touches as quickly as possible and made my way into the front room where Jacob was sitting nervously on the couch as Paula offered him a chocolate from her birthday box which he declined.
‘Hello,’ he said looking unusually nervous.
‘We have to go,’ I said. ‘Now.’
‘But we haven’t finished our chat yet,’ Paula said brightly.
‘Next time,’ I said, leaving the house.
‘Call me if you need me, Claudette,’ Paula said, following us to the front door. ‘And Jacob… To be continued,’ she said as she shut the door behind us.
I apologised for Paula as Jacob walked silently by my side.
‘It’s OK. Well, she’s terrifying. But OK.’
‘Paula?’ I asked, bemused. Paula was many things but a source of fear was not one of them.
‘What did she say?’
‘Not much. She asked me how long I was staying, and whether I’d visited the student art gallery in town.’
‘Oh, she’s always pimping that thing. It sounds awful.’
‘I don’t know, I’d quite like to go,’ he said. ‘And you have to come with me for making me come out tonight.’
‘Fine,’ I said.
‘Then she told me if anything happened to you she’d have my legs broken in so many places they’d look like they’d been drawn on an Etch A Sketch,’ he said, and the imagery stopped me dead in my tracks, right in the middle of the road. ‘Then she offered me a cup of tea,’ he finished nervously.
It wasn’t much after ten by the time we arrived at
the club.
‘You’re barred for a fortnight,’ the bouncer with the neck tattoo said, as his colleague dumped one comatose boy onto the kerb and left him to his concrete slumber.
Across the road, a girl in a white dress displayed her reproductive organs to the world at large as she leant across the railings of the promenade, vomiting onto the sand below.
‘What do you mean we can’t get in!’ her friend in smudged eyeliner shrieked at a terrified cabbie, who had locked the doors on them and was trying to start the engine. ‘She’s not drunk, it’s food poisoning!’ she objected as he sped off into the distance.
From the pub down the street, the one with the bucking bronco and the girls in cowboy hats, a group of prematurely aged men, with bellies sticking out from underneath popped buttons, walked arm in arm, incoherently and discordantly chanting a song in which only the occasional swear word and racial slur could be made out.
Mercifully they passed almost entirely without incident, save one of them commenting that if I hung around for two more drinks he’d probably give me a go.
Something about it being night-time made them intimidating to me in a way I would never have felt during daylight hours, when I’d have given as good as I got. Tonight, though, I bit my tongue. The night felt stretched and tight; like a violin string turned to snapping point. Everything felt a hairs-breadth away from snapping – the wrong look, at the wrong time, was the difference between relative calm and all-out violence.
‘I hate you for dragging me into this,’ Jacob said quietly, as we approached the muffled thud-thud-thud coming from behind the closed doors, where two bouncers stood side by side – each hairless and round like some dystopian Tweedledee and Tweedledum.