Sweetpea

by C. J. Skuse

  2.People who don’t indicate at roundabouts or junctions – just assume these fuckers are on every single one of my lists, OK?

  3.Those body dysmorphic freaks who have concrete injected into their buttocks or seventy-eight operations in order to look like Barbie.

  4.Anyone who downloaded that bloody ‘Gangnam’ song

  5.Miley Cyrus

  Me and Craig did bugger all today except eat crap and rip the piss out of three classic Bank Holiday movies – The Great Escape, The Sound of Music and Grease.

  Grease got the brunt of it.

  ‘How old is Rizzo? And that girl who dances with Danny at the prom is her grandmother, surely. And we’re supposed to believe Danny isn’t actually burning for Kenicke all along? There’s only one way his Greased Lightning’s going…’ You get the picture anyway.

  Took Tink out for our constitutional, as usual. Pretty uneventful, but for the two cats I saw having sex in the bush. I’ve never seen cats having sex before. They always look too prim to do that, especially in public.

  I do take Tink out every day, sometimes twice a day, so just take that as read, will you? I also go to the toilet quite a bit during the day, and do my hair and make-up and stuff but I’m not cataloguing everything I do. This isn’t a bloody police statement – yet.

  Wired Lucille my £160 for the Weekend That Must Not Be Named. I couldn’t get away with it any longer. She’d already sent me three reminder texts that I’m one of the last to cough up. Now my fate is sealed – an entire weekend with the PICSOs, pissed out of my brain, deafened by 80s disco and playing Dodge the Genital Warts.

  Also, there’s been a bit of progress with Wesley Parsons. He’s accepted my Friend Request. I’ve friended him under a pseudonym and fake photo of course – I’ve called myself Annabel Hartley – named after a girl I went to school with who hanged herself in her parents’ bedroom. His hair’s different now – it’s short and blond, rather than the shaggy brown it was when he ran over Joe’s head. Now, I have access to his whole life.

  I know he lived with his parents in Bristol before he moved to Birmingham and moved in with some woman ten years older than him who had his child – a boy called Nathan.

  I know he works nights in a bar in the city centre, mends televisions as another job, plays football for some low division side when he can and helps his friend Troy in his painting and decorating business.

  I know Nathan is into gaming and Manchester United. Recently had his room decorated – Wesley himself painted it red and white and gold.

  I know some other woman called Sierra is pregnant with his kid – she announced it last month and tagged him in the post – he’s neither Liked nor Commented on it.

  And I know he calls himself Wes now.

  I had a message from him:

  Do we know each other? Wink.

  No, I lied. I just saw your pic come up on my friend’s page and I thought you was well good-looking. Heart eyes emoji.

  You’re pretty gorgeous too, he came back. Slurpy face emoji.

  Thanks, I said. Ditto.

  Do you live in Brum?

  Sadly not, I lied. But I’m coming up soon though for the Beyoncé gig. I see you work in a bar.

  Yeah, he said. On and off. The Glass Tree on Kemp Street. You coming up with your mates then?

  Yeah, I lied. We’ll be staying right in the centre of town.

  Ooh, he said. You’ll be near me then.

  Indeed, I said. What nights do you work?

  He took ages to respond – twenty-two minutes. Sorry, love, was just on a call.

  Girlfriend was it?

  Is that a problem, Annie?

  Not for me it isn’t, Wes. Cue slurpy-faced emoji.

  I work most nights. First drink is on me. See you soon. Wink emoji.

  You bet you will. Cue heart-eyes emoji. Kiss. Kiss. Kiss.

  Craig made a bit of an effort in bed tonight – I was treated to a baby oil massage and an extra three minutes of inny-outy, during which I fell asleep. We’ve just changed our pillowcases and the smell of lavender was so comforting I drifted off. He wasn’t happy. I gave him a blowj to make amends. Men are so easy it’s embarrassing.

  Ooh, better take my pill while I remember. Nighty-night.

  Tuesday, 7 May

  1.Creepy Ed Sheeran – he was hanging around outside my office at lunchtime with a full carrier bag of chocolate. He sat on the wall opposite my window, eating it

  2.Bill the sub-editor – the man farts at his desk, is a chronic sexist and can lower a tone quicker than an England flag on the side of a building

  3.Wesley Parsons

  4.Dillon on the checkout in Lidl who squeezed my wholemeal today as he scanned it. Not just held – SQUEEZED. Now my every piece of toast has to be accompanied by the imprint of his thumb under my Nutella

  5.The Geordie telephonist discussing which she preferred out of Ragu and Dolmio with her mate while sorting out my car insurance. ‘I’ll just put you on hold a second, pet, if that’s all right.’ I’ll put you on hold for the rest of your life. Pet.

  AJ was riding his skateboard through the park today on the way to work. I hung back so I wouldn’t have to make conversation with him and watched him doing his tricks and attempting to ride it along narrow wall edges. He fell off once and I laughed, but he seemed to really hurt himself and limped into work with a wad of tissue on his knee.

  May is Hell Month for birthdays at the Gazette. It’s Daisy’s today, then on the thirteenth it’s Mike Heath’s, then Johnny the photographer’s on the nineteenth and Paul Spurdog’s on the twenty-third. Claudia and Ron share a birthday on the twenty-seventh. I’m so glad we don’t do the Everyone Put a Pound in the Hat for So-and-So’s Birthday thing any more. Now we just take money out of petty cash for the card and the birthday person buys the doughnuts. Much fairer.

  Daisy brought in ten boxes of fresh chocolate eclairs, having grossly overestimated how many mouths she had to feed. I forewent lunch and ate two. Joy watched me, eyebrowsing me with every bite. An eclair is 50 per cent air anyway – FACT.

  Bumped into Lana coming out of the toilets. She asked me how I was. I asked her how she was. She said ‘fine’ but she’s not. She’s like an unset jelly – uncertain and watery and the smallest movement could spill her everywhere. I am the nicest version of Lovely Girlfriend I can be when I’m talking to her. I complimented her on her strobed cheeks today. She’s going to give me a lesson after work one night. I’ve a feeling if I bring wine into the equation she’ll tell me all her secrets. We’re firm friends now. Trading make-up tips and secrets and everything. I can still smell Craig on her though and this alone makes me want to cunt punch her into the sun.

  Still no arrests in the Julia Kidner murder but the Blue Van Men have finally been named – Kevin David Fraser, thirty-nine, originally from Aberdeen had been the one in red gloves and Martin Horton-Wicks, forty-eight, was Balaclava Boy (Daisy had pictures of both of them on her computer, old mugshots from burglaries they’d done a few years back). And still no witnesses. How can one girl be so lucky?

  Friday, 10 May

  1.Woman who short-changed me in Costa

  2.Two lads I saw through the window in Costa, spitting on a homeless man

  3.All the onlookers waiting at the bus stop who didn’t intervene in said homeless Spit Olympics before the police arrived. Why didn’t I intervene, you ask? Do you know how long we had to wait for a table in Costa?

  4.The man on the bus who had to sit next to me, even though the rest of the bus was empty. Every time he breathed out, his dandruff floated onto my lap.

  5.The morbidly obese – they clearly want to eat themselves to death so let them. Feed ’em up, I say. We’ve got to keep the population down somehow and if we really are ‘beating cancer’ it just seems logical to me

  Met up with the PICSOs in Costa at lunchtime for their perennial pursuit – Croissants, Coffees and Completely Barricading Everyone’s Path to the Toilets with Pushchairs event. There were only t
wo babies present this time – Sam and Cleo’s two-year-old (I can never remember his name – either Django or Jaxon), who was asleep throughout. The place was heaving and I queued for ten minutes to get a skinny flat white and a Danish which looked as though it had a bite taken out of it. The talk, primarily, was about Pidge’s miscarriage, though Pidge wasn’t there.

  ‘She sounded awful on the phone,’ said Lucille, tits akimbo even in the daytime. ‘I don’t know how she’s gonna get over this one.’

  ‘How many’s that now?’ I asked. There were babies screaming all over the place. I tried to focus on my breathing.

  ‘This’ll be her third one,’ said Cleo. ‘Aww, she was so excited at being pregnant for the wedding as well, wasn’t she?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Anni, ‘she had her eye on this maternity frock we saw in Debenhams. I was going to hand her on some of mine too.’ She was breastfeeding Sam underneath a gold speckled shawl. ‘I don’t know whether to go round there or not. I’d have to take Sam with me.’

  ‘I’ll go round if you like,’ I said. ‘I’m the only one who doesn’t have kids. It’ll be easier for me. I can take some flowers from us all.’

  ‘Aww, that’s kind, thanks, Rhee,’ said Lucille. Anni fumbled one-handed with her handbag to root out some change, prompting the rest to do the same.

  That’s me, Thoughtful Friend.

  I sank the dregs of my flat white and tried to think of a conversation starter that would interest me. ‘Hey, did you hear about that Derek Scudd dying?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mel, nodding. She had her trial wedding nails on and was trying not to touch anything, even the handle of her camomile teacup. ‘If I ever find out who did it, I’ll buy them a pint.’

  ‘Two pints,’ Lucille added.

  ‘I can’t say I’m sorry he’s dead,’ said Anni, changing Sam to her other shoulder, ‘but it’s a horrible way to go, burning alive.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Cleo. ‘I can’t think of a better way for a man like him to go. I’d have struck a match myself if he’d hurt my kids.’

  ‘Would you really?’ I asked.

  She stared at me. ‘Of course I would. We all would.’

  ‘Totally,’ said Mel, flaking off some of Lucille’s croissant and nibbling at it delicately with her fingertips. ‘Anyone laid a finger on my three, I’d tear ’em limb from limb.’

  ‘And me,’ said Lucille. ‘I’d swing for any bastard that did that.’

  Anni looked down at Sam. There were new lines under her eyes and in her scrappily bunned-up hair there was half a cornflake.

  ‘What about you?’ I asked her.

  ‘Anyone hurt Sam I don’t know what I’d do. I don’t think I could actually kill anyone though.’

  ‘I bet you could if you had to,’ said Lucille. ‘If you were driven to it.’

  ‘Maybe,’ she said, stroking Sam’s cheek. His mouth fluttered. ‘Certainly not at the moment I couldn’t anyway. I’m too bloody knackered all the time.’

  ‘What about you, Rhiannon?’ asked Mel. ‘Could you?’

  ‘Could I what?’

  ‘Kill someone if they hurt your kids?’

  ‘I don’t have any kids, do I? As we’ve established.’

  ‘No, but if you did.’

  ‘No,’ I lied, ‘I don’t think I’ve got it in me either. Like Anni said, I’m not sure I could bring myself to take another life.’

  ‘Well, you’ll see one day. You’ll see what we mean when you’ve got your own. You’ll either kill for them or die for them, you’ve got no choice in it. No choice at all.’

  I went round to Pidge’s straight after work with some gerberas, a card with puppies on the front, and a freshly made Mary Berry pavlova – her favourite. Chief Listener to the rescue. I should wear a goddam cape.

  In the card, I wrote ‘When Mum died, people didn’t speak to me for ages because they didn’t know what to say to make it better. Sometimes, silence hurts and you just need the noise, however mundane. Here if you need noise. Your friend, Rhee xxx’

  See, BuzzFeed? I do have a heart.

  Sunday, 12 May

  I went round to Pidge’s again this morning to see if she wanted anything brought back from town. I took her round an apple and peach crumble I made early this morning, just as an extra sweetener. It was a hot day and I fancied getting my legs out so I wore my red and white dress. Pidge was astonished to see the bruises. I knew five of them at least were from Julia and from Scudd – the rest I couldn’t remember.

  ‘Paintballing,’ I explained to her worried face. ‘Me and Craig went a few weeks back with some of his friends. It’s good fun but dead painful. I felt like the guy at the end of Platoon when the helicopter’s gone off without him.’

  She sucked the end of her French braid and remained silent. I don’t think she believed me but I also know that I don’t care.

  Biggus Dickus was online when I ventured into the chat rooms after Sunday lunch. He wanted a Snap Wank but no could do. Accused me of ‘pussying out on him’. How rude, I said, plus some other words to the effect that his dick looked like a mole rat and his stomach was too fat to find it half the time. He’s blocked me now.

  MrSizzler48’s still handy. Sent him some more nakes. He wants to meet up with me, just like JoBerg. City hotel. Drink in the bar first, maybe a bag of dry-roasted. And then upstairs for handcuffs, hand jobs and a whole lotta rimming.

  Sweetpea: OK, see u Thurs then. Meet in the bar at 8.15. Don’t be late xxx

  MrSizzler48: Can’t fucking wait. I’ll bring extra lube x

  I’ve told him I’ll book the room under my name – Andrew Davidson-Smythe – and we’d split the bill after he’d spunked on my ass cheeks. The real Andrew was a sixth former at my old school in Bristol. He’d jumped off the Suspension Bridge after getting bad GCSE results. Poor kid. Little did he know that his one achievement in life would be to negotiate fake dates in order to piss off closet gays.

  It’s a funny old world, isn’t it?

  Monday, 13 May

  1.Iron Man

  2.The spotty-chinned youth at the Odeon who didn’t fill my 7UP to the top of the cup, even though it cost £4.50

  3.The two teenage girls and their chipped-tooth boyfriend who sat behind us in the cinema, rustling their sweets, crunching through a family-size box of cheesy Nachos throughout the movie AND who kicked my seat twice

  4.The old couple on walkers who had no business being in a Marvel movie anyway, who talked INCESSANTLY throughout: ‘Who’s he then? Was he in that thing with her that we like to watch on Sunday nights? You know, the one with the hair. What’s happened to that big green one, is he dead? How did he blow that up from all the way over there?’ JUST. FUCKING. DIE.

  5.The usherette who ushed us to the wrong seat, which we only discovered at the end – our actual seats were nowhere near ANYONE so we could have had a much more enjoyable film experience. Apart from Iron Man, of course

  It was Mike Heath’s birthday today but he didn’t bring in cakes. There were knowing looks flying around the office all day like winged keys. You have to bring in the cake when it’s your birthday, that’s the law. Nobody said anything though.

  I had to bring Tink into work because Craig had the dentist. Claudia said it was fine – we’re practically bezzies since our heart-to-heart – but Ron gave me several looks of disapproval whenever he passed by. Tink herself was as good as gold, sitting on her bed under my desk and actually proved a useful bonding tool with my colleagues, particularly Daisy who has ‘wanted a chihuahua for years’. Her husband won’t let her. He won’t let her watch Hollyoaks or have a washing machine either.

  But with the smooth always comes the rough and because of my pooch accessory Linus has now taken to calling me Legally Blonde. Yep, he’s back with a vengeance now mine and AJ’s pranking has ceased. There’s no denting his confidence for long.

  I think the bruises and having Tink there at work today were helping to paint me in a Battered Wife kind of light. More p
eople spoke to me and Joyless Joy didn’t make one pass-ag comment about my weight or my clothes. It was still light when I walked back to my car and happiness found me.

  It’s hard to find Happy, isn’t it? It lands only briefly before it flies off, like a butterfly. For me it always comes in brief but powerful gasps – an orgasm that brings me to tears (twice I’ve had this – once from a chat room encounter and once with Craig when he lay still on me for the longest time and I thought he had dropped dead).

  Getting Tink from the RSPCA when she was no bigger than a large dollop of ice cream was happiness found too. She makes me happier than most, particularly when I feel her breaths when she’s sleeping next to me, or when she licks my face or trots across the lounge with Craig’s sock.

  But it’s just so fleeting. And it was tonight too.

  I didn’t book the MrSizzler48 hotel in London as requested but I did book mine and Craig’s in Birmingham for Beyoncé – it’s a four-star, a bit expensive for one night, but it’s right in the centre of town and directly opposite a pub called The Glass Tree. A pub where a certain Wesley Parsons works. I have a strong feeling we’ll be going in there for a drink at some point during our stay.

  Me and AJ saw the new Marvel movie tonight – predictable tosh, superheroes save the world, stunning visual effects, blah blah blah. See Kill List for how the rest of the evening went.

  I got home and Craig was there watering the pots on the balcony, barefoot, with a spliff between his fingers. He had his Dirt Rally game on pause and the French doors were open and a light breeze whispered around the flat. Tink immediately rushed in to greet him and he kissed and nuzzled her and plonked her down where she ran off to find her chew stick. If every day was like this, I could be happy. I wouldn’t need much more than this.

  I wouldn’t need to kill if he was faithful. It’s his fault I’m not happy. He’s brought this out in me again. It was dormant, left alone, dead.

  Now Happy means killing. Killing Dan Wells. Killing Gavin White. Killing Julia. Killing Kevin What’s-his-Face and Martin Balaclava. Expunging the memory of killing my dad by suffocating Derek Scudd in his manky old armchair. I’m absolutely sure I’m not done yet.