by Clare Allan
'I told Dud about it. D'you know what he said? Maybe it wasn't such a bad thing. "They're just concerned about standards," he said. "We want her to get into Uni, don't we?" "Dud!" I said. "She's six years old! And what's wrong with not going, anyway? I never went to college," I said."Yeah, but they've got targets now," he said. "Seventy-five per cent," he said. "Three quarters of kids, they want, going to Uni." "Why?" I said. "Because that's the target," he said, like I'm thick. "You're just being neurotic." Neurotic! Do you . . . One sec,' said Poppy and turned back to look at the telly.
It weren't that I didn't feel sorry for Saffra, getting all stressed about her exams, but if that's all she got to worry her, do you know what I'm saying, not having a go, but to tell you the truth, I'd of give her a good fucking slap.
'Who is this Veronica Salmon?' said Poppy. 'What the fuck does a Mad Tsar do?'
'Dunno,' I said.
She glanced at me, then back at the telly and started to laugh. 'What does she think she's wearing!' she said. I looked up, couldn't help it. 'A tartan trouser suit!' she said. 'Jesus, N! No fucking wonder!'
30. How I walked past the 'Urine Samples' sign without even noticing and I had to go back and hand it in and what happened when I did
I weren't even nervous about my assessment. I knew I'd be OK. I knew if Astrid had got through no problem and Candid Headphones and Elliot and Dawn, there weren't no way they could discharge me, even if Tony hadn't of said how worried and concerned they all was, which he had anyway, that same one-to-one when I'd said about Poppy's arms, which I wished I hadn't.
The flops lined the corridor right down both sides, propped against walls or the doors or each other, like sacks of rice down the Turkish shop. I had to keep stepping over their legs, which was so close together I tiptoed it mostly, and Fag Ash Devine said I trod on her hand, which even if I did, do you know what I'm saying, you couldn't fucking see it, being so brown from tobacco it camouflaged into the carpet; but the flops started harping anyway and hurling their slippers, like any excuse, and everyone I stepped over so careful; next time, I thought, I won't bother.
Second-Floor Nancy was sat halfway down, holding hands with Nuthouse Neela. Neela got a joss-stick stuck in her ear, a picture of an elephant hung round her neck and a splodge of red on her forehead looked like ketchup. 'I won't take it personal,' Nancy said as I stepped across her veiny white legs; her flesh-coloured pop socks was down round her ankles. 'Just do what you have to do, love,' she said.
'I will,' I said.
'Not your fault,' she said. 'Not her fault, is it, Neela, love! We're all on the same side here,' she said. 'We ain't going to take it personal.
'Just do what you have to do,' she said, and she carried on calling after me, 'We ain't going to take it personal. Not her fault, is it, Neela, love!' all the way down the corridor.
'She's off her cake,' said Big-Nose Jase. He got huge great DMs on, the size of two cars so you had to do a Chris fucking Bonington to haul yourself up and over.
'Don't want to move down,' said Clifton the Poet.'Second-Floor Syndrome: that's what it is.'
'Like when Taz glued hisself to his bed,' said Jase.
'Forgot it had wheels!' said Third-Floor Lemar.
'So they just wheeled him into the lift!' said Jase. Him and Lemar was cracking up.
'Fucking idiot!' said Lemar.
'Still got half a mattress stuck to his back,' said Clifton the Poet. He was grinning as well.
'Just do what you have to do,' shouted Second-Floor Nancy.
There was a sign on the door of the theatre said:
But underneath there was another sign, handwrote in green marker pen:
So I taken the bottle out of my pack (Aqua Pura, Turkish shop) and knocked on the door of the theatre. It was Tony answered, holding a plate of sangers. When he seen it was me he glanced down at his watch. 'We're not quite ready yet, N,' he said. 'Could you wait out here for a minute?'
'Alright!' I said. 'I'm just handing this in.' And I held out the Aqua Pura. Just a couple of inches, there was, in the bottom, had a bit of a scum sort of thing on the surface, 'cause I'd tried to dissolved in some Plutuperidol, make my levels up closer to what they should be. Tony frowned. 'Like it says!' I said, and I tapped the sign with the bottle to show him; you could hear it sloshing about.
Tony cleared his throat. 'Ah, right,' he said. 'Well that goes down there,' and he pointed back down the corridor. Behind him, I seen Dr Azazel sipping a glass of wine, and someone was laughing, Dr Clootie, I think. 'You'll see the sign,' said Tony and shut the door.
So back I gone, climbing over the legs, with the bottle in my hand and a thousand flops all staring. And there it was, maybe six doors down, opposite Clifton the Poet.
But wrote so small you'd of needed a telescope not to just walk straight past. 'Gis a swig,' said Big-Nose Jase and the flops all started pissing theirselves, which is flops all over, immature, but anyway I just knocked on the door and gone in.
It weren't no bigger than a cupboard inside, like a meds room up on the wards. Dr Neutral was sat on this stool by the counter which run down one wall. He worn a white coat, like out of ER, and black rectangular glasses. All over the counter was bottles and funnels and jars and a rack full of test-tubes. Seeing me, he said, 'Come in,' which I had, then looked down at this list on the top in front of him. I seen Middle-Class Michael one above me then a row of numbers in boxes. His clean, blunt finger run down through the names. 'N, isn't it?' he said, and taken the bottle.
'One second,' he said, as I turned to go out. 'I just need to check we've got enough.' And he taken this jug with like measurements on and unscrewed the top off the Aqua Pura. He frowned; I seen he was on to the scum. 'Did you wash this out?' he said.
'It's water,' I said. Do you know what I'm saying!
'I mean after you drank the water,' he said.
'I didn't drink the water,' I said.
'Right,' he said. 'So . . .'
'Why'd I want to drink bottled? I got it fresh in the tap,' I said.
'Some people just prefer the taste.' He held the bottle up to the light. Flakes of Plutuperidol stuck to the surface like fish food.
'Really?!' I said, like playing it thick. 'But I thought it weren't s'posed to taste,' I said and I frowned like I didn't get it at all, like 'Ain't the world confusing when you's totally thick like me.' 'Cause that's how you got to be with doctors; you got to flatter them. And especially when you's getting assessed; if you don't want to end up out on your arse, you got to convince them their years of college and swatting non-stop from the age of three, it's all payed off 'cause it's turned them into the Brains of fucking Britain! And the best way of doing it is come over so stupid, it makes them feel smart compared. Like if they don't know what day it is, you don't know what year it is; and if they don't know what year it is, you don't know what century it is, and that makes them feel a bit better. Course some dribblers find it more easier than others, like not being funny but Astrid Arsewipe, do you know what I'm saying, they just had to look at her.
'I never drink bottled,' I said, which I don't, being as I never drink water at all, prefer Pepsi Max or Fanta. 'Don't trust it,' I said. 'Could be poisoned,' I said.
There was this knock at the door. Dr Neutral was pouring. His hand give a jerk and he slopped some on to the counter. 'Come in!' he said, like a bit pissed off and this woman I never seen before come walking in with a plate of sangers and a glass of wine balanced beside them.
'I thought . . .' she said. 'Ugh! It smells like a stable! I thought you might like some sandwiches.' She smiled. You could see she fancied him. 'But maybe not,' she said.
Dr Neutral smiled. 'You get used to it. Thanks,' he said, and he put down the bottle and taken the plate. 'Smoked salmon!' he said. 'Yum yum.'
'You all on your own in here?' said the woman. She weren't even pretty but she reckoned she was. She got blonde hair tied back in a pony-tail and this badge on her jacket said, 'Beverly Perfect, Phlegyas Pharmaceuticals'.
'So what are you doing, exactly?' she said.
'Just labelling,' said Dr Neutral. 'Measuring and labelling, then packing them up for collection. They all have to go to ten different places. You know how it is,' he said. 'No one trusts anyone else to do it properly.'
'Sounds fun,' said Beverly Perfect and she laughed this stupid laugh.
'That's fine, N,' Dr Neutral said. He was bent down checking it come to the line. 'That's fine. If you wait by the theatre, they'll call you in a few minutes.'
Beverly Perfect stepped out of the way, pressing her arse up against the counter so's I could get past to the door. I give her a look but she made like she never seen.
31. About my assessment and how it weren't at all what I been expecting but I done my best to use the resources God give me
Like I say, I weren't worried about my assessment but when I seen them all sat there behind that table, even I felt my stomach done a few forward rolls, and then a few more, and then over and over, like a fucking gymnastic, do you know what I'm saying? Like that Nadia Commonitch, who was Russian, 'cause I watched her with my mum.
So there's me on this little plastic chair and there's them in a row behind this enormous table. Bang in the middle, opposite me, there's Dr Diabolus' throne. Dr Azazel's sat one side and Dr Clootie the other. Sat next to Dr Azazel there's Tony and sat next to Dr Clootie there's Fowler, keeps eyeing Dr Clootie's tits. Rhona's on her own down the end, at this little desk covered in papers. She keeps on sighing and shooking her head and going through her papers and glancing at Tony and shooking her head again. Aside of Rhona and Malvin Fowler, everyone else is all of them looking at me. They's looking at my scabby old tracksuit bottoms I got inside out so this label on my leg says 'KEEP AWAY FROM FIRE Made in China'. They's looking at my sweatshirt with the crap down the front and snot all over the cuffs. They's looking at my hair - ninety-nine per cent fat, as my mum used to say - and the fag ash under my eyes. And even though they don't say a word, I reckon I'm doing alright.
But nothing prepares me for what happens next. I seen this man on telly once; he'd won like fifty Olympic gold medals, and every time he won one, he said, it taken like a month to sink in, and even then it still felt like a dream. Which I couldn't of put it better myself.
I mean even just the one of them, that would of been, do you know what I'm saying, but all four of them; I couldn't believe it, still wouldn't believe it, to tell you the truth, if it weren't wrote down for all to see in The History of the Abaddon, a history, which it will be Professor McSpiegel said, just as soon as he gets 'official confirmation'. All four of them they held up their cards, that's Tony and Fowler and Dr Azazel - and Dr Clootie as well, all four - they held up their cards and give me four perfect 6s. I stared. I couldn't take it in. '6.0, 6.0, 6.0, 6.0.' Just shapes; I couldn't see the numbers. Then suddenly there's this roll of drums and they start playing the National Anthem, and this Union Jack comes rolling down and the crowd cheers so loud I get real tears in my eyes.
After that, the rest is a bit of a blur. Rhona read out this list of statements ('I see things other people can't see' 'People are plotting against me' - the usual) and after she'd read each one out you got one of five choices how you could respond. You could strongly agree, moderate agree, neither agree nor disagree, moderate disagree or disagree strongly. There weren't nothing else you could do, just one of them five. If you didn't reply, they marked you down as 'neither agree nor disagree'; it weren't like you got no bonus or nothing, which sometimes you do for 'non-cooperation'.
Every time you give a response, they held up the cards again. I got 6s mostly, a few 5.9s and a 5.8, like fair enough, do you know what I'm saying; I ain't greedy. But I couldn't help noticing Dr Clootie always give me less. And after a bit it pissed me off, like I'm doing my best, do you know what I'm saying, and every time, she's marking me down. I mean this one statement, it gone something like, 'I find it hard to make decisions' and as soon as she said it, I seen the trap straight off: if I said I strongly agreed they could say I was lying on account I just made one, and if I said I disagreed they could say there weren't nothing the matter. So in the end I gone number 3, neither agree nor disagree, and Dr Clootie, she give me a 5.65! 'Up yours!' I thought. 'Up your tight Scottish arse!' and I just ignored her after that, never even looked at her card, like 'it don't make no difference to me what you think', 'cause I knew it was just female jealousy and not proper marking 'cause that's what some women are like.
It's got to be said, I been better assessed. I ain't saying they wasn't accurate, as far as they gone, that is. But that was it: they didn't go far enough. Like all the stuff they didn't ask; they hardly scraped the surface. I mean all the stuff I could of said: stuff what happened when I was a kid, stuff would of give them tears in their eyes at how sad it was and how brave I been and they never even asked. I could of told them stuff goes on in my head like every day, you'd never believe, like every minute of every day, would of got me four 6s straight off. But the moment I opened my mouth to speak, like one single word more than what I was s'posed to, Rhona the Moaner would hold up her hand. 'Just answer the question please, N!' And she'd read out the five different choices again. ' 1 . Strongly agree; 2. Moderately agree . . .' and so on in this monotone voice, 5.9 suicidal, easy.
32. How Rosetta gone and done a Captain Oats
Poppy was next but one after me, with Omar in between. I ain't said much about Omar yet 'cause there ain't much to say to be honest. He sat down the end between Candid and Faith and opposite Unity. Zubin called Omar 'Omar Bombing' because of Northern Ireland. But Verna the Vomit said that was tasteless 'cause people died and lost their legs and you didn't ought to joke about stuff like that and Sue said, who lost their legs, who's joking? And Zubin said Omar Bombing don't mind. Do you Omar Bombing? And Omar just shrugged like whatever they said, it didn't make no difference to him.
Nothing mattered to Omar Bombing on account he was too depressed to care or else he was eating his pic 'n' mix, else sleeping, or all three at once. One time I seen him down Borderline Woolies, walking round and round the stand, grabbing huge fistfuls of chocolate eclairs and mini Mars and jelly snakes and piling them into his basket. He'd heaped his basket up so high they slid off and on to the floor, most of them, but I don't reckon Omar even noticed, just carried on, like in some sort of trance, cramming his hand into tub after tub 'stead of using the scoop like you's s'posed to. These two shop assistants was stood there watching and one of them started giggling and the other one nudged her like 'Shut the fuck up!' before he come over and hacked them to pieces, then grilled the steaks I shouldn't wonder, community care do you know what I'm saying, on one of those instant barbecues they was selling, three for £ 5.
Fact Omar was pretty much a pacific; he only ever done one thing I know of and that didn't hurt no one anyway, aside of hisself, or his big toe to be precise. What happened was Omar Bombing's dad died, drunk so much his liver exploded or something like that; he was hazy on the details. Omar hadn't seen his dad since he got took into care as a kid, and he'd never mentioned him neither, not once; fact we never even realised he even got one. When he heard his dad died, Omar never said nothing, just slumped in his chair, eating pic 'n' mix and breathing so loud it sounded like he was snoring. First we knew was when he shown up one morning pegging along on crutches, and his foot bandaged up the size of a polyfoam pillow. 'What's up with Omar Bombing?' said Zubin. 'Don't call him that,' said Verna the Vomit. 'It isn't funny; people died. Children lost their legs . . .' 'What's that?' said Sue the Sticks. 'Who lost his legs? Omar hasn't lost his legs. You ain't lost your legs have you, Omar? What you done? You hurt your foot?' So Omar told her, yes he had, he'd broke his big toe kicking his father's gravestone. And he told us it felt good as well, he'd never felt so good, he said, and you seen him, he was all buzzed up and the next
day too and the day after that but then it worn off and he slumped in his chair like normal.
So Poppy was next after Omar Bombing and she come out the toilets just as I was going past. She looked like a fucking film star, no kidding, in her high-heeled shoes and her perfect legs, all freshly made up with her hair in a razor sharp bob. And suddenly this shouting starts up, then I seen Fat Florence with a traffic cone held to her mouth like a giant loud hailer. 'One, two, three, four! What do we want?' And all the 'Ps are supposed to join in but instead they just stand there mouthing the words, hiding behind their banners and stuff and looking down at their slippers. 'What do we want!' Fat Florence yells. 'One, two, three, four! What do we want?' but they's mumbling so low you can't hardly hear, and Fifth-Floor Praveen blows his whistle a bit but so feeble it hardly squeaks. 'One, two, three, four! What do we want? Move down a floor! Five, six, seven, eight! Ps want action; Ps won't wait! One, two, three, four! What do we want?' 'Ps want action!' whispers Paolo and she elbows him so hard you can hear his ribs cracking, while Pepsi swings this football rattle so limp it don't even click.
So Fat Florence give up and just shouted herself, over and over again. And she made up more of them as well, 'Fee, fi, fum, fo! Poppy Shakespeare has to go!' which stuck in my head for the rest of the day on account it was so fucking stupid.