Black Lipstick Kisses

by Monica Belle

  The more I read, the more I became convinced that I had manufactured the entire experience in my own head. I didn’t want to accept it, because if I did, communion was never going to be the same again, maybe not even possible. That was enough to bring me to the edge of tears as I left the library, and I was cursing Michael. Yet the experience had been so powerful, and so real.

  It was going to be a bad night. My head was full of ideas and images, doubts and yearnings, senses of stupidity and shame, defiance, arousal, me as Bernadette, me bum-up across a man’s knee. I knew that the moment I tried to sleep they would all come crowding in. I had to get out of myself, somehow, and it was no use just getting blasted, because it might well not help and would only make matters worse in the morning. As a final straw I could feel my period coming on, adding PMT to my troubles just when I did not need it.

  Yet there was nothing I could do. Taking a bus the other way and heading back to old haunts, did occur to me, even going home. It was not going to help, or not much. There really was nobody I could talk to the way I needed to. I couldn’t commune, it was impossible, not with the doubt Michael had planted in my head nagging at me. I could go out, walk the streets with Lilitu to keep me safe until I was simply so exhausted that I slept regardless of what was going on in my head.

  There was nothing else for it. I’d dressed casual so that I didn’t get any stress at the library, and stayed that way: black jeans, black top and, on sudden impulse, Snaz’s hooded top. That made me think. I had her cans too. I could go and hit somewhere, give myself a rush that had nothing to do with men, or sex, and keep myself focussed for hours. It was pretty retrogressive behaviour, to use one of Stephen’s expressions, but I didn’t care. I wanted the hit, and the feeling that it was me against everybody else, that I was alone, laughing at them all.

  I got the bag and checked through its contents. Snaz’s colours were just not me, but Biggy’s were better: purple, silver and a green not too far from tourmaline. There was a black needle-cap too, and I fed the four into my pockets, not wanting the added risk of carrying a bag. Nor did I want to be identified, and put down my mobile. Lilitu was eager, sensing my mood, her tongue lolling out and her tail wagging furiously.

  It felt good, my worries already pushed down as I made my way down the yew alley and into the road. I stopped at the corner shop and used some of my modelling money to buy a four pack of strong lager, always a help. Just a few hundred yards away was the huge expanse of white paint where the big twin piece had been buffed over. To hit it would have been madness, with everyone who had anything to do with the place on the look out. On the other hand it was oh so tempting. It would also have been a tribute to Snaz, which was silly, but what I wanted to do. Not that she’d know.

  I went down the alley, but the café was still open and there were far too many people about. There was no harm in scouting it, and I hadn’t eaten, so I bought coffee and a bacon butty for myself, a saveloy for Lilitu and went to sit outside. There was a great sense of wickedness building up as I considered how it could be done, all my problems pushed away into the back of my mind, just as I had wanted.

  Getting on the roof seemed easy enough, with several cars and a breakdown truck parked tight up against the garage doors. The high bits they’d done, and the bit beyond the end of the garage was out of the question, and I could only imagine that she had sat on his shoulders to do it. A big piece was foolish anyway. I was out of practice and I was very unlikely to be given the time. Dubs were better, far quicker, and if it came down to it I was sure I could scramble up the cables onto the viaduct above.

  There were still way too many people about when I’d finished, so I went down under the bridge and into the park, sipping beer and trying to remember how the lines looked from the top of the tower. About a half-mile east there was a junction, which always meant plenty of transformer boxes and stuff, but it was very open, better for bombing than anything else.

  Then it hit me. The hideous concrete box of a community centre in which I’d first met Stephen was perfect. Its long, featureless walls just cried out for some colour, and it was sure to come to his attention. He knew nothing about my graff exploits, and although I had told him I liked to be called Dusk, he never used it. I could do letters so crazy he couldn’t even be sure, but he would surely suspect. That would give him a reason to spank me . . . no, that would teach him a lesson for doing it.

  I doubled back on my tracks, deliberately walking slowly. The centre would be shut, I knew, but it was foolish to risk anything before midnight. I drank my second beer on a bench at the edge of the park, feeling gradually more detached from the people around me as the alcohol kicked in. Only when the pubs had chucked out did I move on, my stomach tightening as I grew close to my target.

  Two rich yellow streetlights illuminated the front, with an alley at one side a black mouth overhung by creeper to make the side wall an easy target. That was not for me. Nor was the front, with its tattered posters and shuttered windows. I moved to the corner, peeping into the car park. A CCTV mast stood against the near wall, fixed camera, set to cover the parking spaces. That was just fine.

  Keeping a close hold on Lilitu’s lead, I worked my way along the wall, my back against the brick, under the camera mast and on. The back was perfect, no camera, two huge bins to shield me from the car park and a high, creeper-hung fence behind. A plain concrete wall stretched from the bins to the rear door – my canvas.

  I spent a moment listening, my throat and stomach tight, my hands trembling slightly. It felt good to be back, a street urchin once more, and I was grinning as I popped another beer and set out my cans. I’d come this far, so I should do it properly, a piece. Already I was buzzing, and I could just imagine Stephen looking at it with his face of concern and disapproval, the one he kept for just such occasions. He would speak with regret about fund allocation for youth services and the need for channelling creative energy, complete bollocks, and all the time thinking of how much he’d like to spank my bottom for me.

  Michael would be less fun, accepting of the act but critical of my abilities. That was what determined me to make it as good as I possibly could, and I paused with the black needle cap in hand. The old black letter ‘Dusk’ was not enough. I wanted full-on Gothic, illuminated capitals, as if it had been done by some berserk medieval monk. I could do it too – I’d spent enough time looking at them and writing them.

  I began to work, a can in each hand – one beer, one paint – focussing on the way a raven’s quill runs on paper as I put down a bold, sweeping D. It was right, straight out of the Book of Kells, and I knew I was on a roll. My u followed, s and k, all perfect lower-case black letter. I drained my beer and opened the last, wishing I’d bought six instead of four. Taking up the rich purple, I filled the upper part of the D, faded and filled the lower with green. The others followed, and more black, thickening the outlines and adding serifs. Then the silver, to create a pattern of Celtic scrollwork around each letter, crossing over and under to bring it all up into three dimensions and ending in beaked birdheads like the prows of Viking longships.

  It glowed. Only a neat i to sign it and I was done, my piece perfect, Goth graff art at its best. I was laughing and grinning as I stood back to finish my beer and let the image soak in, and wishing I had a camera. It would be gone in days, I knew, buffed or gone over by some toy bombing crew. I didn’t want to go. It was a work of art, my best, not like Michael’s, but an infinite improvement to the dreary concrete wall of the centre. The council were not going to see it that way.

  I was still standing there maybe half an hour later when Lilitu alerted me with a deep growl. She had lain quietly as I worked, used to being patient while I did strange, human things she couldn’t understand. Now she was anything but, standing stiff with her legs braced and her ears pricked up, her teeth showing in ready snarl. I melted back into the shadow of the bins, absolutely still, my heart hammering, my hand clamped tight over Lilitu’s muzzle.

  Police come
in cars, or noisily, and all I could hear was the dull hum of London’s traffic, which never goes. There are worse things than the police out at night, and I was as glad of Lilitu as I had ever been, and more, as I heard the stealthy pad of footsteps from the car park, and a female whisper. There were two people, probably a couple looking for somewhere to shag. Confident once more, and not wanting to totally wreck their fun by unexpectedly finding themselves looking down the muzzle of a Doberman, I rose.

  To find myself face to face with Biggy and Snaz.

  What do you say? What can you say? I’d had an embarrassed apology on my lips, expecting a pair of lovers eager for privacy. What I got was two people I’d been more or less at war with for months, and the shock of fear that hit me was anything but pleasant. It was nothing to theirs – Biggy’s face a mask of utter terror as Lilitu reared, clawing at his chest, her jaws snapping at his face. He ran, and so did Snaz, smack into the giant wheelie bin, her forehead on the handle, and she was down, clutching at her face and begging not to be hurt as Lilitu lurched forward.

  I pulled on the lead with all my strength, yelling at Lilitu to back off. She did, reluctantly, growling, her front legs braced to attack. I knelt, put my arm around her, stroking her behind the ear, and slowly her muscles began to relax. Snaz did not look good, her face creased up in misery, her hand clutching her bloodied forehead. The moment Lilitu was calm I went to her, reaching out, only to have my hand smacked away as she found her voice.

  ‘Fuck off, you psycho bitch! What are you doing here? This isn’t your ground! I’m not fucking doing anything to you, am I?’

  She burst into tears, still swearing at me, but brokenly, then just sobbing as she tried to pull her hair away from the cut on her head with one trembling hand. Biggy was nowhere to be seen, and as Snaz tried to stand her legs gave way under her. I swore under my breath, feeling out of my depth and wishing my head wasn’t spinning so badly. I reached out to her again, because it was the only thing I could think of to do, and she was crying really bitterly.

  This time she let me touch her, and I helped her to her feet. It was only then that she saw my piece. A flicker of surprise crossed her face but quickly changed to pain. Her cut was bleeding quite badly, and even in my drunken state I could see she needed help. It was more than I could give except to get her somewhere she wasn’t likely to be accused of vandalism, or me.

  I had the sense to keep close to the wall as I helped her to the road. She let me, leaning quite heavily on my shoulder, but tried to push me away as we reached the street. I let go and she staggered a bit, sitting down heavily on a low wall. Biggy was still nowhere to be seen, or anyone else. Snaz looked as if she was about to keel over.

  ‘Look, have you got a mobile?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘A number? I could call your parents . . . or someone.’

  ‘No! Dad’d fucking kill me!’

  ‘I . . . I’d say you fell or something . . . I don’t know . . .’

  ‘Look, just fuck off, leave me alone . . .’

  ‘No, I can’t! Do . . . do you want your hoodie?’

  She looked up, out of tear-stained eyes, as if I was completely mad. I shrugged and pulled off the hoodie, wrapping it around her shoulders. She was right, when I’d been up all the time myself the last thing I’d have wanted was my parents to know. There was nothing for it but to get her to an A and E as fast as I could.

  ‘Come on, I’m taking you to casualty.’

  ‘No. Fuck off!’

  I ignored her, helping her back to her feet. For a moment she tried to resist, then gave up abruptly, leaning her weight on my shoulder. It was all I could do to walk, but I couldn’t just dump her, and I didn’t dare go into a house for help so close to my piece, and stinking of beer and paint fumes. I made the end of the street, onto a busier road, and suddenly there were people about, looking at us, but not one offering to help. There were cabs, coming out from the city. I tried to flag one down, and a second, both driving straight past. The third stopped, a sullen-faced man who muttered under his breath about drunken sluts and dogs in the cab, but took us there.

  Casualty was packed, thick with the smells of vomit and disinfectant, people shouting, a hard-faced woman blocking the desk as she demanded that her son be seen immediately. There were different desks, signs everywhere, everybody hurrying about or busy. I stuck Snaz in a seat and joined a queue, took a number, got told sharply to take Lilitu outside by one person and to stay with Snaz by another. It was not how I’d planned my night.

  What it did do was keep my mind off Michael and Stephen. By the time casualty had patched Snaz’s head up and we’d got out of the hospital I was so tired I could barely stand up. She left me with a grudging thank you and I made my way back to All Angels to collapse onto my bed. I was asleep in moments, and didn’t wake up until well into the afternoon.

  The events of the night before came back slowly: walking the streets getting drunk, painting my piece, Snaz and Biggy, the hospital. All of it seemed unreal, a good deal less real than my memory of the Satanic ritual, that was for sure. It had happened though. My fingers were still stained with paint and my head ached slightly. I remembered that I’d left the cans and wondered if I should go back, only to decide against it. The centre would be busy, or at least as busy as it ever was, and with the caretaker there it was quite possible my piece had already been buffed.

  It was worth it, the whole experience, and the more so if Stephen found out. The only shame was that I didn’t have a photograph. There was some money left from my modelling sessions, not much, but enough for a basic camera. I’d meant to treat myself, too, but so far I’d spent it on drink and cab fares. A camera was a good idea, and yet it was always possible that my piece would be left.

  I needed to do something anyway, because I knew I’d be brooding again in minutes if I didn’t keep my mind occupied. So it was down to my local retail estate for a ten-pound disposable camera, then to the centre. This time I approached casually, excuse ready to hand as I walked in at the front door. The business with redeveloping All Angels was still going on, in theory, although with inside knowledge from Stephen I didn’t need to do anything about it. I could pretend, and spent a while harassing the caretaker until he let me use his computer and printer to make a petition.

  He was not in a good mood, on the phone to somebody as I stapled my sheets together, pointing out that he couldn’t be there 24 hours a day. I asked innocently what the matter was and got a brief but heartfelt spiel on the problems of his job and his opinion of graffiti artists, especially the one who had defaced the entire back wall. It was exactly the excuse I needed. After making a few sympathetic noises I pinned my Save All Angels petition to the board with both my signature and his to start it off and walked around the back.

  My piece was still there, perhaps not quite so perfect in the cold light of day and without the benefit of several cans of strong beer, but still pretty good. The caretaker hadn’t followed me out, so I used the whole film up on it. I could understand the caretaker’s point of view, when someone else made the decisions but he had to do the dirty work, but there was no question in my mind that to have my piece removed was the act of a Philistine.

  I had it on camera, at least, and there was a website or two I could stick it on, just to make sure that it was seen by people who would appreciate it. Michael would, I was sure, and I wondered if it would be possible to bring him up before the piece got buffed. The answer was no, as I discovered when I went back in to get a coffee. The caretaker was mixing up a bucket of cleaning fluid. I had to at least try.

  ‘Why bother?’

  ‘I bother ’cause I’m told to bother.’

  ‘They’ll only do it again.’

  ‘Yeah, sure they’ll do it again. It’s not the first time either, but Mrs Goulding says it’s got to be done by this evening, so it’s got to be done by this evening.’

  ‘Mrs Goulding?’

  ‘Mrs Councillor Goulding. She’s coming here this
evening, for one of her meetings. Street crime, it is, and it won’t do to have that dirty great thing on the wall.’

  ‘I doubt they’ll even notice it.’

  ‘They already have. You can see it plain from all the end spaces. There’s Byrne coming and all.’

  ‘Oh, right.’

  ‘Don’t suppose you fancy giving us a hand?’

  ‘Er . . . no, sorry. I’m not really dressed for it.’

  He gave a chuckle, sarcastic and dirty too, his eyes flicking briefly to the hem of my skirt as he squeezed out the last of the bottle of cleaning fluid. I turned away, wondering if I should wait for Stephen. With luck he might turn up before the piece was completely buffed, and it would be so funny to tease him.

  The Jaguar pulled up no more than five minutes later, while I was still sitting outside sipping coffee. For a moment I caught Stephen’s face as he passed, and he saw me, but didn’t give so much as a flicker of recognition. I soon discovered why. There was somebody with him, a middle-aged woman with a face like a hatchet and an expression of cold severity. For a moment I wondered if it was his wife, but I’d seen her before, probably at the All Angels meeting. Sure enough, when he appeared from the back the caretaker addressed her as Councillor Goulding.

  She walked straight for him, brisk and purposeful, Stephen made to follow, then turned as he saw that I was approaching, looking shifty for an instant before he turned his politician’s smile on. Councillor Goulding had stopped to talk to the caretaker and was in easy hearing range, just adding to my sense of mischief as Stephen addressed me.