Her journey to the clinic was torturous; the walk from Brixton train station was worse. Every step took her closer towards the destiny she had mapped out for herself.
She was absorbed; wrapped in her own bubble, barely noticing the world around her. She plodded towards the clinic, situated at the end of the High Street. Paige had seen it on the Internet before she had telephoned them; an imposing Victorian building at the end of a large drive, shielded by trees.
The noise of the south London district was deafening; car horns, shouting, bustling and activity. People pushed past Paige without noticing her. She was anonymous to them. Her tears not seen. She rounded the corner of the road to be faced with thirty protesters, outside the abortion clinic's tree-lined drive.
“ABORTION IS MURDER!” They yelled. “You are going to hell. Abortion is murder. Death to the baby murderers.”
She stepped back, hiding in the shadows of an Oak tree as they chanted on the busy main road. Paige watched from afar, observing the demonstration as she evaluated her options. A woman left the clinic; they harangued her as she walked on the drive to the main road. They shouted in her ear, pawed at her clothing, screamed abuse and pushed her. Even from twenty yards, Paige could see the distress in the young woman’s face as the distraught patient desperately tried to escape the protesters.
Paige was torn. She only stopped herself at the last moment from entering the fray and standing up for what she believed in. It was everything she had ever done, standing up for what she believed was right against big bullies. She never shied from a fight, not Christian Outrage, Peter Moran, not teachers, the Police or anyone.
But at that moment she couldn't. She was fragile. For the first time in her life, Paige felt vulnerable and alone.
She needed help. She needed to speak to someone about an abortion and had travelled to do so.
So Paige slunk into a coffee shop and waited, watching the protesters march outside the drive as desperate, vulnerable women cowered inside and were assaulted when they left.
And even when the Police were called, the bullying anti-abortionists continued their demonstration as they invoked their right to protest. Ten minutes after they arrived, the Police left, leaving the violent protesters to continue their war on women.
So Paige waited.
And waited and waited.
Chapter XXXIII
Andre
“You wanted to meet.”
The words were unwelcoming and the tone of her voice was harsh. He looked up to see the frame of his ex-fiancée and nodded.
Hazel had persuaded Claire to accept Andre’s call and he had asked to meet his ex-partner at a remote café in the Hertfordshire countryside; far away from the bustle of London.
She avoided his attempts at a hug or a kiss, and refused to accept a drink from him. “This better not be an attempt to get back together 'cause I don't want to fucking know.”
“No,” he muttered. “I know that.”
“I don't want to fucking know you either.”
“I know that too.”
Claire glanced at the waitress. She placed the cup of coffee on the table in front of the world-famous guitarist. Claire thanked her; the tone of her voice warm for a fleeting moment.
“I just need to tell you something.”
“Hazel said you did.”
“Yeah, and umm, this isn't easy.”
Claire's eyebrows raised briefly, taking a sip from the scorching drink and placing the coffee cup on the saucer with a clatter. “What the fuck do you want to say to me? Spit it out and be on your bloody way Andre.”
He gulped. “OK. The Sunday Herald has the story. And I don't know where from. Of my infidelity.”
Claire grunted and then smiled, breaking into callous laughter. “Sorry. Actually, not sorry. They are going to print about you dipping your wick into some old floosie in Bangkok. Why should I care about that? At least it shows I was right to dump you.”
She took another sip from her coffee. “No. They are going to print the whole story.”
She glanced up and gestured at him with her hands. “That is the whole story, isn't it? It's what you told me.”
“Ummm …”
“So even when you were being honest about your dishonesty, you were still being dishonest.”
“Ummm … There were some whips and chains and stuff. And it wasn't just one woman.” Claire's brow furrowed and he took a deep breath. “That massage parlour, it wasn't just one woman.”
“So how many was it? How many women did you sleep with? Not that it matters now.”
“One woman. And one …”
“What?” Her hands held the hot cup as she glared at her squirming lover. “One what?”
“One lady-boy,” he sheepishly admitted. Claire froze; her body gripped with angry emotions. She didn’t hide her disgust.
“A lady-boy?” He nodded. “And what did you do. Or she do? Or he do?”
“We had a threesome,” he muttered. “The ‘paper say they have everything and will print it, but I don't know where from or what they have. They may even have a video. And it could be embarrassing.”
“Yeah. You lied to me. You not only cheated on me with a prostitute in Bangkok, you then lied about it.” Her voice raised; the couple of customers of the small eatery turned to watch the angry woman shout at the meek man. Hushed whispers broke out as Claire's voice thundered. “And you slept with another man.”
“She was a …” His voice trailed off. “ambiguous gender.”
“No. You cheated on me and you lied about it. You slimy, disgusting, filthy cunt.”
Her hands grabbed the nearest object, her coffee cup and she threw it at the cowering figure of her ex-fiancée. It landed in his lap, scalding his crotch with steaming coffee.
The muttering around them intensified; the coffee cup fell to the floor and smashed as Andre screamed in pain.
The proprietor walked was already walking towards the commotion. The buxom woman angrily demanded that Claire leave her establishment and pay for the breakage. Claire thrusted a ten pound note in the woman’s hand, and went to leave the café.
“One more thing. All this cheating filthy debauched sex you had. How much did it cost you?”
“Umm … about six thousand baht I think. That’s what Ben said it cost.”
She snorted. “In pounds?”
“About a ton.”
“You threw away an engagement, a three year relationship and we called off our wedding for the sake of a hundred pounds. Was it worth it?”
Andre sniffed. “I'll do anything to turn the clock back. Anything to take back the harm and hurt that one hour has caused. When I look back I'd never do anything like that and it wouldn't be worth it if it was a million pounds. Because back then you were the most important thing in my life and …”
“You have a fucking funny way of showing it,” she interrupted and walked out of the door. Her phone buzzed. It was Emit.
“Fancy a night in with some drinks?” He asked.
“Fuck yes.” She tapped on the screen to reply, and hailed the first cab to take her home. Via the off-licence and her drug dealer.
Chapter XXXIV
Paige
“You OK there, love?” The café proprietor served Paige her fourth drink of the afternoon as Paige had simply sat in the window, observing the park and protest. “This'i' the third day they've been there. An' they been there since I got here at eight. They keep callin’ it Operation Zero Tolerance”
Paige gulped and nodded. “Think they'd have something better to do than bullying pregnant women.”
“Aye, you would.” The Scottish lady put the coins in change on the table and took the empty cups from beside her customer. “You look like you've something on yer mind. You OK love?”
“Fine,” Paige lied, not turning to look at the lively Scottish host and sniffing back the tears.
“I'called the Polis an' all yesterday. Was Shameful the way they were treatin' people. But they s
ent some wee barras. The lassie got ‘em to simmer down but they’re ragin’ again today.”
“They came earlier. Did fuck all,” Paige muttered. “Waste of fuckin’ space.” Her sharp tone cut the conversation short and her Scottish host left with the dirty cups. Paige watched the ongoing abuse from the other side of the road, biting her lip and stewing angrily.
The coffee burnt her tongue, but she barely noticed. She needed to do what she came to do. Paige needed to complete the path which she had set out to do. For every minute she waited, her resolve got weaker and her traumatic state became worse.
She had spent two hours hoping the fanatics would abandon their protest. Two hours listening to the dominating bullies tell the world that her chosen course was wrong, was murder and was evil. Two hours of torment. It felt like they were shouting at her, not at the world. They had opened up a one-sided conversation with Paige Simmons and screaming at the singer that she was “pure evil.”
Paige couldn’t wait any more. She left her coffee on the table and walked out of the shop, ignoring the cries from the proprietor that she had left her small pile of coins on the table.
Instead she walked, crossing the main road with a single-minded determination, pulling her hood over her head. She walked directly towards the protesters, guarding the drive to the abortion clinic. She would not be intimidated. She would not be kowtowed. She was Paige Simmons, and she was stronger than that.
She walked around the first protester, pushing into her as they barred her path. “Abortion is murder! Abortion is murder!” One protester pushed her face so far into Paige's space, she could smell the halitosis on the spotty teenager’s breath.
It was nasty. Paige pushed on. They grabbed at her hood, looking to unmask her, but Paige slapped their hands away.
They continued; the glut of haranguers converged on Paige. They yelled and shouted, calling her names and threatening violence.
And Paige snapped. All the emotion and stress of her unwanted pregnancy, the guilt of not telling Jack, the slow breakdown of her relationship, the waiting in the café and the abuse took its toll. Paige, accidentally hit over the head with a placard, grabbed it from the young lady holding it and Paige wielded it angrily.
It came down on the bridge of the protester's nose. “I'll fucking show you murder!” Paige screamed, smacking the wooden post against the blood spattered face of the anti-abortion demonstrator.
Two men tried to wrestle the wooden post from her. One got smashed in the groin before the other extracted the weapon from the young lady's grip. “You should be fucking ashamed of yourselves! Vulnerable women coming here and being assaulted, harassed, attacked.”
She gulped as a hand clamped itself over her face from behind her body, and yanked her neck back. She bit, hard, drawing blood and he screamed as she elbowed him in the belly.
It was a brawl. Paige had unintentionally started a brawl, and onlookers rushed to see. No-one stepped in to help the vulnerable woman, but they watched as Paige smashed her fists into faces, her knees into groins. It was the Police who broke up the disorder. The siren drew attention away from the warring parties, and two police officers pulled alongside the commotion.
“What's going on here?”
“She attacked us.” They pointed at Paige.
“They attacked me,” she shouted, and wiped her eyes as the female police officer took Paige away from the hubbub.
They recognised each other instantly; the female police officer who had been summoned to the supermarket was talking to her now. “That hoodie is getting you into trouble,” she said and Paige smiled through her tears. “If I remember you had a hundred pregnancy tests three weeks ago and now you are scuffling with anti-abortion protesters. I don't need to be promoted to Holmes of the Yard to work out what's going on here!”
Paige tearfully described the events of the day. She explained she had an appointment and they had assaulted and harassed her. It was self-defence. “I'm innocent,” she wailed, feeling a few streaks of blood from her cheek as a result of the fracas.
“Y’ know. This time I think you might be.” The female police officer watched her male colleague walk towards her. “It's not the first time we've been out this week.”
“They say you smashed the post into her nose, bit another, punched another and …”
“They attacked me!” Paige cried. “I have an appointment and they wouldn't let me pass and just attacked me and called me all sorts of names. I tried to fight my way through and …”
“If you want to go now there is no-one stopping you.” He waved towards the clinic and Paige shook her head. She felt drained and defeated.
“We'll take her home,” the female police officer suggested and they travelled in silence to Paige's expansive house ten miles away.
Jack opened the door as the police car stopped outside their house and his eyes fell upon his girlfriend in the back seat.
“What've you done now? Been picketing party events again?” Paige recoiled at the sharpness in his voice.
“I was attacked,” she blubbed; the anger in his voice evaporated as he extended his arms and hugged her tightly.
“What happened?”
She looked at the police officer and shook her head. “I was in Brixton and some religious nutters attacked me.”
“What were you doing in Brixton?”
“Leah,” Paige lied, and felt the warmth of her partner as he held her tightly to his chest.
Chapter XXXV
Claire
The table was lined with bottles; some empty, some only half drunk. Russian vodka was Claire's favourite tipple, but empty bottles of wine, beer, cider, rum and whisky filled her sideboard and littered her expensive mansion. She staggered from one room to another, only marginally more steady on her feet than a drugged Bambi on sheet ice.
Emit was no more sober. He had consumed several pints of his favourite ale as well as shots of vodka with his host. His eyes were wide and glassy, his hair bedraggled like an abandoned Labrador.
They were both naked, remnants from the hot-tub, heavy petting and unprotected sex from earlier in the evening.
Emit's laughter carried in the mansion. Claire swigged from a large bottle of wine in one hand and a larger bottle of vodka in the other. “I … got … something … from … Dino!” She burped as she spoke, slipping on the carpet and landing with a soft bump in front of a small set of drawers, spilling the vodka onto the carpet.
She giggled as she opened the drawer, and threw two transparent pouches, one of white powder and the other containing orange pills, onto the lounge table.
Emit stared incredulously at her. She beamed. “What are they?”
Claire snorted and burped at the same time. “Dunno,” she slurred and emptied three of the orange pills in her hand, and downed them with the Scotch. Emit didn’t take the drugs when she offered him some. “Fluckin’ plussy!”
Emit didn’t reply, but watched as she tore a piece of paper in half and rolled it into a tube to snort the white cocaine.
She ranted, breathing heavily and deeply as she did. Andre was a bastard. He was a grade A 100% bastard and not for splitting up with her as that was his prerogative, but for what he had done. But if he wanted to sleep with men he could. Claire didn't have a penis and if he wanted to play with such anatomy then he had to be elsewhere. She had wasted three years of her life.
Her eyes became sleek and cold; her voice wavered. She went to speak but an avalanche of incoherent burbling and nonsense came from her mouth. Gurgling, baby sounds that made up snatches of words that she couldn’t form.
Emit just listened. Claire's hands shook as her voice became fuzzy. She panted as she spoke, her pupils clenching inside her eyeballs. She took short, sharp breaths and long, deep groans. Her hands clenched her groin and then her stomach.
“Schtlabbed. He schtlabbed me.” Her rantings around Andre’s indiscretions continued. She reached for the full bottle of champagne and giggled as the cork smacked agains
t the ceiling. The alcoholic fluid cascaded over her hair as she dowsed herself in the fizzy liquid and soaked the pale carpet.
“Claire …”
“C'mon here,” she cried and, dripping with sticky wine, fell onto her friend, kissing him on the stomach and then the lips. She laughed as his hands touched her tacky skin. She pulled him to his feet and unsteadily poured the remainder of the champagne over their hair as they kissed.
Her hands felt his genitals; then her own. The spinning room was full of naked people screaming at her, and she clamped her hands over her ears, dropping the bottle onto the floor. Claire stumbled, looking at Emit with a fiery expression and then slipped, falling next to the bottle on the soft carpet. She looked up at what she had been kissing.
A monster. A fierce behemoth with freakishly charcoal eyes and smouldering skin. The blazing red flesh, oozing blood and angry spouts of fire sent shivers down her spine as he opened his smoking mouth and growled at her. His eyes sparkled red with volcanic fire and his mouth hissed angrily. His forked tongue was slithering across the wet carpet towards her.
His hands danced with fire and flames; his roar filled the room. She panicked, throwing the half-empty wine bottle next to her that turned into a two foot ballistic missile the moment it left her fingers. It showered the floor with flames before it detonated on the wall beside him, showering the monster with sparks.
He roared, and scared by the explosion, he retreated. The shock had caused him to flee. She glared at him as he backed away and he ran through the door. Claire bellowed, and slipped, falling against the carpet, and landing with a bump on the table. She felt her eyelids fall.
She fought it. She fought the urge to sleep as the monster might come back. The monster might take her. But Claire was gone.
In her lounge, surrounded by drugs and drink and deeply unconscious.
Chapter XXXVI
Emit
Emit showered; Claire had gone too far this time. The warm water from her pool shower washed the wine from his hair and he dowsed himself in the last remnants of the mint shower gel.
Bare Necessities 2 (The Bare Necessities) Page 15