Sweet

by Julie Burchill

  ‘You left sorta sudden, din’t you?’ he said. ‘Catch you drinkin’ their booze, did they?’

  This was a bit near the knuckle – I was about to make up some excuse when Susie said something incredibly annoying. ‘Ooh, look at those clothes they’ve done! – they’re a bit weird, but it’s all the rage, innit!’ She turned to me. ‘Ria, you’d look lovely in ’em!’

  I turned away quickly from the screen; I couldn’t trust myself. ‘Yeah, Mum, I can see why you like ’em – reminds me of that fancy-dress fairy-princess outfit you made me when I was seven. The one made out of twelve rolls of pink bog paper.’

  She looked hurt. ‘It wasn’t my fault it tipped down and you were all in the garden!’

  Of course it hadn’t been – she’d stayed up all night attempting to work magic with a dozen rolls of Andrex (‘Only the best for my little princess!’), and it wasn’t her fault that the subsequent unseasonal downpour and ridicule was the first time it dawned on me that being pretty and sharp didn’t count anywhere near as much in this world as having money.

  I mean, it was bad when I was a kid, but it’s got worse since then – becoming a model or, I dunno, an actress used to be a way for a hot girl from a poor family to get out. But now even those jobs are already taken, and you see the biggest dogs with famous dads just grab them as a matter of course. All that’s left to us is to take our kit off – funny how those doggy rich chicks never want to be Page Three girls. Though I was dead pleased the other day when I read that some restaurant thought that Jade Goody was about to turn up, and they were all excited – and then it turned out to be Jade Jagger, and they were all dead disappointed!

  About as disappointed, dismayed, disgusted, in fact, as I felt now watching Bag and Ag’s latest, greatest fan – my mum! – ooh and ahh over them. This would be the same pair of stuck-up ponces who’d considered MUM’S ABORTION such a suitable source of inspiration, and who perceived council tenants as brain-dead breeding machines!

  ‘So, James and Andrew, can you tell me more about DESIGN FOR LIFE?’ the gorgeous Marcella was saying.

  ‘Well, Marcella,’ one of the loathsome blighters replied, ‘my partner and I have always been interested in underprivileged young people –’

  ‘That’s a funny noise, Ria!’ commented a twin. ‘Like a piggy!’

  ‘– chance to give something back –’

  ‘Mum, look at Ria! She’s making a face like she’s going to be sick!’

  ‘ – give young people a helping hand –’

  ‘Ooh! – maybe they could help you get some work experience, JJ! Ria, could you put in a word for your brother, do you think . . .’

  ‘Oh, give me an effing break!’ I slammed out and into my room, before I finally said something about having fixed their kiddy-fiddling wagon. And before I really gave Mum a mouthful about how dumb she was. It wasn’t her fault after all that those two were bastards who’d give her underage son a roasting soon as look at him, any more than it was her fault the bog paper fairy dress had made me a laughing stock back when I was seven. I guess that was just the way life was . . .

  I was just getting used to going down this ‘whatever will be, will be’ route for once when the bedroom door opened and JJ sidled in. He closed the door quietly behind him and then leaned against it, smiling slightly, his eyes heavy-lidded, looking at me; I know it sounds sort of sexy, but when it’s your kid bruv, whose filled nappy you’ve had the pleasure of more times than you care to remember, believe me it’s not. Besides, he was looking at me funny.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nuffin.’ He went over to my dressing table and started fiddling with my stuff – I hate that! And it’s always just the one way round, have you noticed – I’ve never met a girl who goes into her brother’s room, be it behind his back or right in front of him, and fingers his smelly socks and stuff. I’m not surprised that the world’s full of men dressing up as women but not the other way round, and that it’s nearly always men who want to have a sex change, not women – they’re obsessed with our stuff! We’re meant to have penis-envy – I don’t think so – I think they’ve got punani-envy.

  He gave himself a couple of quick squirts of, appropriately enough, my Envy perfume, and then turned to face me, smirking in a way that made me uncomfortable. ‘So. Tell me again why you don’t work for them two benders no more?’

  ‘I got sick of skivvying, din’t I?’

  He snorted. ‘Like you’re not doing that at Stanwick!’

  ‘That’s different. There’s other people there. It’s a laugh—’

  ‘Yeah, that’s why you come home singing and dancing every night!’ His eyes lit up as he saw some Benefit Bad Gal I’d lifted from Boots. ‘Nice one!’ Mouth wide open, he applied some as he gazed into the mirror.

  ‘Do you know what a cretin you look?’

  ‘Ta.’ He put it down and blinked rapidly. ‘Talking of which, you seen anything of Duane recently?’

  A gay goose walked over my grave. ‘Why would I? He’s your mate.’

  ‘No reason.’ He turned around and gave me that look again. ‘How much did the Argus say the compo was for turning in the kiddy that smashed up them gaylords’ gaff?’

  ‘I have no idea.’ I jumped up and grabbed my coat. I had to get out before I let on that I was terrified he knew something and begged him not to tell. I had to get round there and lay it on the line to them – that they’d laid Duane, that is, and therefore it was gonna be their necks on the line if my guilt in this matter ever emerged. ‘’Scuse me not spending the evening handing out make-up hints, but I’ve got places to go.’ I couldn’t resist a final dig; maybe if boys like my brother and Duane weren’t so keen on lipstick, powder and paint, men like Aggy and Baggy wouldn’t be so quick on offering them a quick spot of bed-bothering soon as look at ’em. It really pisses me off the way underage girls are always supposed to have ‘asked for it’ when some old perve screws them – there’s no male equivalent of ‘Lolita’ is there? Though in my experience most boys would probably do it with mud from the age of thirteen onwards, they’re that horny a lot of the time. ‘Try to remember to put the tops back on, won’t you – don’t want ’em drying out or they’ll be useless next time you got a hot date!’

  I was furious as I stormed up Clifton Hill. The idea of being banged to rights by those two preening queens, my mother being amazed and ashamed and – the final straw – my thieving brother making free with my Juicy Tubes made me see it was time for action. Such as going right round to said queens’ pit and making it clear as crystal that if they didn’t let this business die down soon, I’d make damn sure that it wouldn’t be Marcella Whittingdale giving them a shoulder to cry on, but rather Crimewatch feeling their collars. We’d see how much the local heroes they stayed when they were fingered for threesomes with minors!

  I got up to their poxy door, thought about kicking it, but instead I did the decent thing and rang the bell. I could hear it echoing through the house, and almost like hearing the voice of someone you used to be in love with unexpectedly, I got a real flashback of how big and dark and plush it was, filled with the ghost of that scent – L’Heure Bleue. Well, this should have been their blue hour – but like a pair of slippery eels in a Teflon pan perched on a duck’s back, everything had just rolled off of ’em. If anything, they were even better placed now! – the Argus, Marcella, local heroes, charity, bravery.

  It made me mad. I rang the bell again. And this time, for good measure, I kicked the door too. And yelled, ‘Oi! Gaylords! I know you’re in there! Woss wrong, got your mouths full?’

  And I kicked it again, harder this time. And grabbed the handle and rattled it hard, while yelling about what a pair of rotten bastards they were.

  Because in spite of what I’d done to them and their precious house, I still hadn’t rattled them. They still weren’t scared. And it made me think of that old saying ‘An Englishman’s home is his castle’ – in the olden days it was probably meant to like imply to all of u
s who live in this country, but, uh, I DON’T THINK SO! It’s always a man whose home is his castle as far as I can see, and it’s always a man in specific postal districts too.

  Because though the thing in front of me was just a big old door that opened straight on to the street – not even a porch door for protection – it made me think of when we’d been taken to Arundel Castle on a school trip one time. In the olden days the rich had had drawbridges and moats and stuff to keep the poor people out, but today they didn’t need more than an intercom and a Big-I-Am attitude. Where I’m from our places get burgled and trashed all the time – and if they do catch the skank that did it, even to some old person that had nothing but the skin on their Horlicks to their name, what does the ponced-up judge do? Pat ’em on the head, give ’em an iPod and tell ’em not to do it again! Even if they messed on their antimacassars! But let a rich person’s castle be done over and it was all posh hands on deck, hate crimes being announced from every rooftop and practically a price on my head.

  I couldn’t go back inside . . . I just couldn’t . . . me inside that cold, hard detention centre and them all tucked up cosy inside their warm, cosy house . . .

  ‘Why don’t you pick on someone your own size, you fat bastards! – come out here and fight me like men!’ I contradicted myself wildly, banging and kicking at the door. ‘And leave my mum out of it!’ I added for good measure. ‘And you can shut your fat yaps about that bit of interior decorating I did for you the other day, unless you want me to come back with my mates and some spray cans and do the outside to match! And unless you want to make it back on to the front page of the Argus, but this time it’ll be your little tea-parties with teeny-boppers, not your so-called charity work!’ I was screeching now, conscious I was out of control and could be heard by any random passer-by, but I just couldn’t resist a final volley of abuse. ‘Talking of charity, you wanna keep bigging it up! Because that’s the only reason a fit kid like Duane would have anything to do with you two, for sure! I’ll give you fucking hate crime – it’s you that must hate people, inflicting your disgusting bodies on ’em like you do!’

  A curtain twitched – but it wasn’t theirs. It was next door, and of course it weren’t no ordinary lace curtain, not in Clifton Hill – it was one of those dyed black lace ones like that mate of Kate Moss’s makes and flogs for a fortune – seen ’em in Heat. And then a window opened and a man looked out, one of those men who’d be half fit if he didn’t look like he had a permanent kipper under his nose. Like Jude Law or Preston from Big Brother.

  I realized I was going to be jail-meat pretty soon if I didn’t do a bit of damage limitation. As I stood there peering back at old Jude-features, it did dawn on me that probably this wasn’t my smartest move ever – returning to the so-called ‘crime scene’ and throwing alleged ‘verbal abuse’ at the absentees.

  ‘Hiya!’ I waved at the Law looky-likey. ‘I’m just collecting for, um . . . Tourette’s sufferers!’ I grinned broadly and took a step towards him. ‘Would you like to make a fucking contribution, you twat?’ That’d do! Sure enough he pulled down the window with a look of absolute horror and I took off down Clifton Hill at a trot.

  17

  What had I done now? All it needed was for Jude to ring the cops and tell ’em that some really fit horny chick had been banging on the Bag-Ag door and threatening them with further damage to property, and all roads in Brighton led to me!

  But let’s be sensible here, I reminded myself. It was far more likely that he’d tell the gruesome twosome about it rather than squeal to the fuzz. And even if their suspicions were confirmed about my culpability, I still couldn’t believe that they’d actually be so dumb as to point the finger or press charges – I mean, to be crude about it, I knew where those fingers had been, and what they’d been pressing, and it definitely wasn’t legal, let alone honest, decent and truthful!

  No – the weak link here was young Duane; weak link, missing link, whichever way you sliced it he wasn’t the thickest doorstep in the loaf. We’d already established that easy livin’ was his number-one priority; you don’t become a fag of convenience with types as loaded and loathsome as Bags ’n’ Ags for the good of your health, so he must’ve been getting a backhander every time. So what was to stop the dimbo trying to get his mitts on the reward money, without it occurring to him that by giving me the key he was an accessory?

  I pulled out my mobile and called him. No answer. ‘Duane, it’s Shugs. Need to see you. Give us a call.’ As I stuck my phone back in my bag I saw the Whitehawk bus and jumped aboard.

  Approaching Duane’s mum’s house I reminded myself not to lose my rag again – imagine doing it twice in one day, from the white Regency houses of Clifton Hill to the council estates of Whitehawk; from riches to rags, shouting the odds all the way! So after ringing the bell, stepping back, checking the curtains for movement and finding none, I settled for scribbling a note and sticking it through the letter box.

  DUANE – GIVE US A CALL. WE HAVE TO TALK – SUGAR

  Well, they say that what goes around comes around. ‘Sugar – we have to talk!’ Asif hissed in my ear at work the next day.

  I fixed him with a stony glare and shook my mop at him. ‘Go on then – Chummy here’s all ears.’

  ‘MARIA!’ He caught me urgently by the arm. ‘I saw those men on the news last night! That you have wronged! That you must put right!’

  ‘Talk to the mop – the moppet ain’t listening.’ I dipped my trusty pal in the soapy bucket, wrung it out and we were off, accidentally on purpose slopping dirty water all over Asif’s shoes.

  ‘But, Maria! . . . to make a hate crime! You know what I have been through, because of hatred.’

  ‘Listen, Asif.’ I leaned on my mop and glared at him. ‘I’ve got every sympathy for you and your people and what you’ve been through at the hands of those crazed nutters back in Pakistan. But two nasty rich gayers having something spilt on their carpet is hardly rape and murder, is it!’ I resumed my mopping. ‘But don’t let me stop you. You want to go round there and comfort them, go on and give them a treat. Go round there and turn the other cheek – butt cheek, that is. Mind you, don’t take it too hard if they don’t welcome you in with open arms – you are a bit too old for ’em, after all.’ He looked blank. ‘They’re kiddy-fiddlers – child molesters.’

  Now he looked absolutely horrified. I couldn’t help laughing. ‘Then you must go to the police immediately and report them for this awful crime!’

  ‘Make your mind up! What are they – victims, or villains?’

  He backed away, mumbling something about the world being turned upside down and turned inside out. A bit like the fate that would have awaited him, probably, if he’d gone round there all wide-eyed and opened-mouthed to comfort that pair of perves. I only hoped he felt suitably grateful to me for saving his arse.

  But they say there’s no rest for the wicked. I was just sitting down for a quick fag when the Dracules bowled up looking like they’d lost a silver bullet and found a sprig of garlic. ’Cept they didn’t even look like Goths any more, even though they’d just arrived and were in their street clothes rather than their uniforms. And all the metal had been removed from their numerous piercings – they looked like a pair of human sieves.

  ‘Can we go outside, Sugar?’ Mr Munster muttered, and I noticed that the little fang implants were missing.

  ‘Sure thing, Drew.’ I grabbed my fags and grinned at him.

  ‘It’s Josh,’ bustled Drina, and I saw that her novelty gnashers had gone too.

  ‘OK, Drina!’

  ‘It’s Katie!’ fussed Josh. Jeez, this was gonna be fun!

  Identities firmly established, we went outside and found ourselves a choice bit of concrete, where I could look at the most beautiful sight in the world – planes taking off, carrying people escaping, if only for a short while. I lit up and squinted at them in the winter sunlight. ‘So. How’s tricks? How’s little Bela doing?’

  ‘IT’S LUKE!’ th
ey chorused as one. I obviously wasn’t too hot at the name game today.

  ‘OK . . . Luke it is. So what’s on your mind?’

  They got either side of me and made me start walking, darting paranoid glances all over the place. It was like being in a crap old spy film. ‘We saw the Argus !’ Josh eventually muttered. ‘About . . . what we did that day! And the local news!’

  ‘I know! – if they keep it up at this rate, there’s gonna be a Hollywood blockbuster about it by Christmas. Bags me gets played by Angelina Jolie!’ I jested, in what turned out to be a doomed attempt to lighten the mood.

  ‘This is no joke, Sugar! It’s not funny!’ hissed Katie.

  I stopped still, pulled my arms from their grasp and glared at them. ‘With all respect, nothing ever is to you lot, is it! Bloody Goths. Why’s everything under the sun have to be a fret-fest?’

  ‘We’re not Goths any more,’ Luke boasted. ‘We had an epiphany.’

  ‘Ooh, really . . . you can get stuff from the chemist for that these days, you know. No script, straight over the counter!’

  ‘SUGAR!’ Katie grabbed me and shook me. In a feeble sort of way. ‘Stop treating everything as though it’s a stand-up routine! When are you going to grow up and . . . smell the roses!’ she ended, again feebly.

  Josh took this as his opportunity to come on all Dad. ‘What Katie means, Sugar, is that this . . . incident, which we were stupidly involved in, has been something of a wake-up call for us. So we’re going to grow up and accept our responsibilities as married humans, and as parents to Bela . . . Luke, sorry!’ He yelped as Katie gave him a dry slap on the back of the head.

  ‘But we still have a lot of time for our religion,’ Katie continued, shooting him daggers, ‘and to be a pagan, at the end of the day, is about being kind to people –’

  ‘What about the “Wicker Man”!’ I protested. ‘They wasn’t being kind to no one – they was doing human sacrifices left, right and centre!’