Boys & Girls

by Paul Burston

  The phone rings. It’s Flo for me.

  ‘I’m home,’ she says. ‘My mum’s said I’m not to go up to London with you anymore,’ she says.

  ‘Why? Where did you go?’ I say. ‘I waited in Pizza Hut for three hours.’

  ‘I can’t tell you now,’ Flo says. Then the phone goes dead. I go back to my room and look at the postcard in the light of the window.

  A bob is a hair cut to be desired.

  JAIL BAIT

  STELLA DUFFY

  Jill’s telling me the girl unit at Holloway is the coolest thing she’s ever heard of. Special and new made and all shiny and clean. And just for us. It was on the radio – I didn’t hear it, I don’t listen to that kind of radio, don’t listen to any kind of radio, got enough voices of my own to listen to, tell the truth – but Jill heard about it and she told me and we thought it was just so cool. It’s not got any of the old cows in it, sad old slags and the slappers who’ve been around forever anyway and don’t know where else to be, except just this side of north London, downwind of Hampstead, turn back if you get to Arsenal, you’ve gone too far. You’ve always got to go too far.

  Getting our first tattoos together. Real tattoos, paid for and sterile and everything. Watching the man painting on her skin, soft flesh raised into hoarse red welts, wiping away the blood and adding new colour, pretty yellow and blue and deep red darker than her blood. Then my turn and Jill said it wouldn’t hurt, didn’t hurt her, did it? She wasn’t whimpering for fuck’s sake. So I took off my bra, lay down, heart shape over heart space. But it did hurt. Too damn much. I made him stop even though she said I couldn’t. Made him give up halfway through. He said I must have a low pain threshold. Maybe I do. I also have a tattoo of a broken heart.

  Sitting in Jill’s bedroom – also kitchen, lounge, bathroom, the lot – sitting on the floor, leaning against her knees, hoping if I wait here long enough she might stroke my head again, play with my hair. She doesn’t. We’re sitting there and then she says how fucking crap the end of daylight saving is, how she can’t stand it and now the bloody sun’s coming in waking her at eight in the morning and then it’s dark by four, dark before the day’s even started and too damn cold and what the fuck are we supposed to do for Christmas dinner anyway? I thought it was a big leap from the end of October to the full stuffed turkey, flaming Christmas pudding, but you could see what she meant. Then she said we should go to Holloway. For the festive season. And I’m like fuck me but you’re a mad cunt, madder than I am, and Jill says that’s just not possible, just not possible. But she’s not making a whole lot of sense either, she can’t mean it, that place stinks and anyway last time we tried that shit she got to Holloway, I ended up in bloody Styal, two weeks out of my mind in boredom valley and then luckily just about loopy enough to get shunted off to community care hole. Left there in a halfway house to nowhere, easily influenced, just keep the mad bitch on the medication and she’ll be good as gold, good as Goldilocks, steal your fucking porridge you stupid great cunts and what do you mean I can’t see her, I have to see her, who else is there? Then fuck you bitch and now what’s the problem, you’ve got another eye haven’t you? Oh Christ and such a lot of blood and God I hope it’s not mine, there’s nothing like an institutionalised period to start the day, end the day, start the week – more radio fucking shite – and then the quiet and the sweet icecream and jellies, temazepam baby I am, will be, ever be, hush now good girl.

  Anyway, anyway, the point being that the last time we tried to come in from the cold they tore us apart and broke my heart and Jill came tumbling after. But apparently … Holloway’s got this new young offenders unit and the radio lady from the north thinks that’s shit, thinks all the money will go there, showcase for the dangerous young ones, too much of a good thing and what about the poor little girls in the frozen north, where will all their good money go? Stay down here baby, warm in the soft south where it always has been, did you not notice it’s why we moved here too? So – it’s the end of October. We just have to do it well enough, big but not too big, within the next couple of weeks, then the least it’ll be is remand and maybe even a few months more to get us all the way into spring, fever of the recently freed.

  But we have to do it right. Too big and we’ll not see summer soon enough. Too small and it’s a crap cell night, maybe a caution, and worse than that the possibility of another fucking year fucking the carers. So whoring’s out because that’s always leading back to some foster daddy, let me hold you and make it all better baby, oh yes please do, that’s just what I need. And shoplifting’s good for the clothes, or your dinner, or even just the sheer fucking thrill of being bad in the shining light of security cameras and in the face of Henry Stupid the thick bastard who stands at the door pretending to be a security guard, biceps for brains and a dick the size of my clit, but shoplifting won’t get us Christmas crackers with plastic scissors inside. And housebreaking is possible but Jill’s still terrified of dogs and gets tinnitus with too much loud noise – or a too hard smack on the head – and if we want them to get us it would have to be dog or alarm and what’s the point of the pointless break-in if you get away with it? Indeed.

  First break-in. We were thirteen, fourteen at the most. Maybe Jill was already fourteen. Fast shared a gram of speed and running around the town, new town with walkways turned into airplane runaways, ready to take off there was so much of the too-much energy spilling round my veins. Then Jill says we should use the excess and do a job. She’s been watching daytime re-runs of The Sweeney, it takes me a minute to work out what she’s talking about. There’s a place on the corner, a flat above the closed off-licence, the woman who lives there works every day, gets the bus first thing and isn’t back until dark. She’ll be safely at the office. It’s easy to get in. No dog, no alarm, she’s probably not even thirty yet that woman, no money for any good security shit. Good guess, no security at all, but she’s got a great place. Easy in through the back window and it’s nice in there. Just bedroom and lounge, kitchen and bathroom. And all of it girlie soft and warm, too much pink, but it’ll do us. We eat bacon and eggs – Jill can’t eat much, but speed’s never really affected my appetite, I’m weird like that. I can just soak those drugs right up. She does me a big breakfast – half a packet of bacon, three eggs just how I like them, yolk running all over the bacon, bright yellow into the setting fat, geography rivulets on the plate. Bacon’s a bit too salty, smoked back, but good anyway. I chew the rind and walk through the little flat. We think about a place like this, maybe Jill and I could get a place together, share it. The woman’s got chocolates in her fridge, creme eggs too, we take the telly into the bedroom and get into bed, sheets quite clean, must have been changed only a few days ago and no fucking or period stains, maybe she’s got a washing machine, easier that way to wash your sheets whenever you want to. We eat chocolate and watch telly, laugh at the phone-in moan-in, but then it’s too comfortable and warm and we fall asleep and we’ve got problems of our own. It’s dark, the only light is from the telly, the woman’s walked in and guess who’s sleeping in her bed and she’s off on one and screaming at us, hitting at us and I don’t know what the fuck she’s so pissed off for, we didn’t take anything. Jill can’t believe she’s hitting her and I can’t believe she’s hitting Jill, can’t she see how stupid that is? She’s fucking lucky we fell asleep, we were going to take loads of shit and we didn’t so what’s the fucking problem? What is your fucking problem you stupid fucking ignorant bitch? Big dry cleaning bill I expect. Hard work getting all that blood off the pretty pink duvet in your basic home washing machine. The woman moved out weekend after that. Squatters moved in. Bet they didn’t keep it as nice as she did.

  Jill rolls a joint, mostly tobacco, thin rub of hash into it, then special treat for the goodest of good girls, sprinkling of coke across the top – she worked last night in the City boy street, sweet rich boys paying in kind. Kind City boy forced to hand over cash too when Jill explained what was going to happen when sh
e stopped twisting his balls and the blood flooded back in and then out again when she used the blade hidden in her other hand. Fifty quid, just like that. Scared city boy pissing in his own wind. But driving home anyway. Whimpering back to his girl friend and just an especially difficult day in the money markets darling, I’m a bit tired, maybe I’ll have a little lie down. No you bitch, don’t fucking touch me there, I didn’t mean that kind of a lie down, for fuck’s sake, is that all you bloody women ever think about? Jill and I lie back and dream of Holloway, special shared room and painted walls and breakfast and lunch and dinner and hide out in the house of girlies until summer comes around. I’m wondering, just briefly, if Jill’s got this completely right, if it’s all going to be so lovely, I mean the point is, it is a house of detention right? But she’s sure it must be great because otherwise why would the Tory bitch on the radio be so concerned and anyway, even if it’s just like the same old place, no new paint job or anything, if it isn’t for the old ones, if it’s just for us, then think of how it will be, no old lady smells and no mad mothers crying for their fostered babies and the following, always following because we’re always the little ones. We’ll be big girls, just us, our very own home from home. Which, when the home you’re homing from is ten foot square of peeling damp and the screams of the dozy cunt next door who will keep welcoming him into her bed and then getting surprised when she finds his fist into her face as well, if that’s home and Jack Frost is on his way, then maybe anything’s better. Or maybe I just wanted Jill to stroke my hair again. Like she did. Just the once. Soft stroking like she meant it, not absent action like I might have been the cat or her own head in need of a good itch. Anyway, anyway, the hash is spreading my mind all over the place, it’s chocolate spread brain, and then because neither of us smokes tobacco if we can help it, we’re getting a nicotine rush too and I’m just starting to refocus when the pretty little truth drug kicks in on top of all that and my poor bitch of a brain doesn’t know what to do. Mouth opens and closes and doesn’t know if it should laugh or talk and starts to say words, any will do, but tobacco dries my lips and nothing comes out just a goo gah of bollocks and pretty soon Jill thinks I’m really funny, really fucking funny and I so want her not to laugh at me, I want that hand to stroke my head not point fucking laughing at me.

  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 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 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 it out. 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 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 whiskey. Her Gran swears by whiskey 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.