Authors: Josie Clay
He was lower – his boastful tyres slashed and festooned with hitherto forgotten belongings – pan scrub pants, sieve-like bras, an old plaster picture frame and a paperback, The Horse Whisperer, its pages pushed into the albumen of several dozen eggs which had been hurled against the windscreen. The gluey stink had cooked in the sun, drawing clouds of bluebottles.
Also on the windscreen (in case the message wasn't clear), a photo: Remy and I, our heads together, sea in the background at Camber Sands, our only day out. But worst of all, 'bitch' sprayed across the door panels and the bonnet, with a frivolous, sooty afterthought trailed around the sides of the flat bed; it stood out nicely on the pea green paintwork. Frances had tracked me, also in socks.
“Nobody deserves that” she said sombrely.
“I do” I said.
On closer inspection, the tyres had only been let down. We scrubbed at the egg which had set like enamel and dribbled through the grill onto the engine, leaving the cab stinking of brimstone for weeks. The graffiti unshiftable so I decided to spin it ...M8 had the same idea.
“It could be cool” she said. I thought it might intrigue Nancy.
Frances had a long planned travel commitment. I ran her to Tottenham Hale in the 'bitch
-
mobile' as she embarked on the first leg of her journey to South America with her friend, Pixie. I helped her on with the armchair sized rucksack, almost toppling her, and she cried quietly into my neck.
“Be safe” I waved.
The train doors packaged her.
“Love you” she mouthed, placing her hand on the window as she was conveyed far away.
'I'm leaning on the lamppost on the corner of the street in case a certain little lady comes by'...'Fuck it!' I couldn't get that tit's annoying song out of my head ...round and round it went. In the future, this would be known as an 'earworm'.
The ‘bitch-mobile' parked
surreptitiously, invisible from number 12, but near enough to afford me a clear view.
The house ablaze and unabashed in the evening. Nancy trudged a triangle from cooker to fridge to sink. The blue aura of the TV flickered in the living room, silvering Sasha's hair as she zipped about like a demented muppet. Nancy materialised in each landing before the bedroom light came on. Now every room in the house illuminated, except for the study, which glowed in the subdued radiation of a computer monitor – Todor must be there.
I liked to think I was watching over them. An insane thought puffed up in my chest like the fan of a peacock. I could knock at the door, I was just passing...'Oh me, oh my, I hope that little lady comes by'.
But that would vex her, possibly even frighten her – I'd become frightening.
Congratulating myself on my resolve, I angled the car into Hazel Road and parked outside UK Polski Sklep. I deserved a reward, a bottle of dusty whisky – Pole's favoured vodka.
Safely ensconced in the bed/living room, I drank, wrote a bad poem and cried, placing club upon heart and spade upon diamond.
Oh God Nancy, please ...it's so raw. You've put me in a box, shut me in the wardrobe, all our music
...how can you be so cruel? I'm still here, resonating with your song. One day you'll sing to me again. When we are altered, you'll realise no-one loves you like I do ...the only one to ever look at you point blank.
'Hey Minnie Mouse!' I glimpsed my reflection in the patio windows of a house in Hackney, ridiculous in shorts, bra and Blundstones. Mobile at my ear, finger jammed in the other, blocking out a passing police siren.
“Carol Lumley, how the fuck are you?”
“I'm very well, m'dear. I have news”.
Carol was an old friend who worked in the tax office and wrote plays in the evenings. “Clive Dennis Lance Hammond” she said. “That's him isn't it?”
“Carol, are you about to do something unethical?”
“Absa-fucking-lutely, darling. Listen, he's been a very silly boy. He's paid no income tax and worse, no VAT. Our Clive is in big boo-boo trouble – it won't be long before the bailiffs move in ...poor diddums”.
Carol's gloating shocked me, although I couldn't help but enjoy the way my blood fizzed satisfied.
“But how come?” I said “His trucks are everywhere”.
“Not for much longer, darling. That's what happens if you run before you can walk”.
She loved talking in sayings.
“God”, I said, “talk about comeuppance, I...”.
“Confucius, he say” she interjected, “sit by the river long enough and the dead bodies of your enemies will float by. In short, what goes around, comes around”.
“Crikey, well thanks for that, but don't get yourself into trouble on my account, will you?”
“Listen Min, I'm working for the man, my pleasures are few and far between ...look after yourself Minnie Mouse”.
Chapter 3
Apparently, we were going to 'The Ducking Stool', a dripping venue between the arches near London Bridge.
Santa had managed to hoodwink me, enticing me to her flat with the promise of a quiet evening, some food ...relaxed ...low key. It would usually begin tolerably enough, me munching bean sprouts and uncorking wine, while Santa marched about, pulling various pairs of trousers on and off, phone constantly clamped to her ear. Narrowing my eyes suspiciously when I heard her say
“Yeah, the girls are meeting here at nine ...laters”.
“We're going out aren't we?” Pouring myself a tumbler of wine as if it were squash.
“Oh come on, Min” she nudged me coaxingly. “it’ll be good for you, maybe meet some new people, you know, have a laugh...”.
Hastily zipping up her jeans, she skidded to the intercom, intercepting the first buzz. There would be six more before nine o'clock.
As soon as they'd all tramped up, we all tramped down again and I found myself in a cab, wedged between Santa and a rare beast – a Tory dyke. My leg cringing away from her chunky, floral print thigh and spiteful perfume. To me, the word 'Thatcherite' had always sounded like a euphemism anyway. I allowed my chewing gum to sit on my tongue until mint filled my nostrils.
The lager and gum had formed an unpleasant amalgam, which I fished out and pinched between my thumb and finger, scouting about for somewhere to put it. Holding it aloft, buffeted by bodies, I hated this, flesh everywhere, making the dance floor undanceable and the bar unreachable. Hundreds of us, thousands, where did we all go? If only we could form this army in the day.
Shouldering through the pint-thrusting throng towards a space I'd spotted behind a sofa where the unbroken machine of music was at least three decibels short of merciless. The constricting corset of social phobia tightened around my torso. I was so weary, faces eddied before me on a manic carnival ride. Since I'd found no suitable place for the chewing gum, I popped it back in my mouth. A sharp nudge to my arm, sending a splat of lager to my boots. I cast my eyes down, scowling. The nudger pinched me, but as I turned to confront my tormentor my irritation shifted to amazement.
“Surprise!” Candy shouted at my ear.
“What are you doing here?” I yelled back.
“Same as you, probably”. I could just about hear her and I watched her mouth as it described the words 'shall we?' Her plucked eyebrows rose even higher on her forehead, then she smiled and said it all.
I met the cab driver's stare in the rear view mirror as Candy molested my thigh, bringing her hand, with each sweep, ever nearer my crotch.
“Your place or mine, babe?” she breathed in my ear, giving my lobe a tug with her teeth.
“Have you got alcohol?”
“Yeah baby, and charlie” she said, gyrating her hips.
“...yours then”.
She continued her treatment, her thumb inevitably pressing the seam between my legs. It was at that point I knew I didn't want her to touch me; tonight I would be stone butch.
Her flat, above a hairdresser's in Liverpool Road. I blasted away the latent curl of perming solution with a fat line. Eryka Badu emoted in the background as we tested tongues and I released her rather endearing breasts.
“No” I said, as her hand skirted my groin. She looked affronted but her vanity was soon restored when I whispered “I'm going to fuck your brains out”.
After my first volley, she lay on the sofa, one foot over the back, the other on my thigh, touching herself ostentatiously. I felt nothing other than a faint nausea at the sight of her belly button piercing, I drank and watched her fingers. While I chopped out two more lines, she ran a huge black dildo across her tongue and dipped the tip in the cocaine, setting it on the coffee table as we snorted.
“How old are you?” I said. “And don't make me guess”.
“Thirty six” she replied.
“And your parents don't suspect?”
“Nah, I'm a career woman, innit”.
She writhed at me again so I took up the dildo and played it between her engorged labia.
“Do it babe” she moaned.
I stuck it to her hard, her appetite rapacious as she assumed increasingly debasing positions, contorting herself around the bludgeon, squelching rudely ('sauce on the wrap?'). Jack-hammering into her, aware I was hurting her but that was precisely what she wanted. I could relate to that.
Leaving her sticky and swollen.
“Stay babe” she’d said.
Walking home past the dark house in Palladian Road, Candy's alien musk re-flowering on my fingers as I wiped away my tears.
At home, waiting for the dawn. From aces to kings, all cards aligned, indicating I would see you today. You won't see me though because I'm vacant. Did you calculate the falling time ahead? Why did you make me fall? We could have just fucked, but you told me I was the one. You changed the tides within me and you promised me always, silly bitch. You were out of your depth weren't you, Nancy? So saving yourself, you pulled me under. I understand and it makes me love you more.
Today was October and the drug had let me off sleep for this night. Autumn was the best time, despite its suggestion of winter, which was the worst. The sharp light, coupled with the silver air stirred my sentience. Watching from outside myself, abstract and atavistic, I marched down Palladian Road, heading for 'Yummington's' to fetch my customary Saturday treat – a brie and apple bagel and fresh orange juice. Trying hard to regain myself. The house, still quiet.
'Go away'. Anorexia draping herself across my lap, pleased with my hollow stomach, she wanted to keep it that way. I decided to eat in, in case I was tempted to throw my breakfast in a bush on the way home. Biting adulterously into the bread, I monitored the street for a curly catch.
The volume around me increasing, as people seated themselves in twos and fours. A bolus of bagel diplomatically edged around the tumour of loneliness metastasising in my throat. Home, I must go home ...I am ridiculous.
There was activity so I slowed my pace to take in the tableau which was audible from the neck of Palladian Road. Nancy sitting on the steps, Nikolai across her knees, Pieta fashion. But rather than a lamenting mother, it was the child who was dolorous, bucking and screaming in full blown tantrum. One of his little boots bouncing down the steps to the pavement as a chubby fist clenched around a hank of Nancy curls and pulled down unsparingly, prompting her to bark his name in formidable fortissimo.
My eyes shifted to the Saab, where Sasha was regarding me glumly from the back seat. I lifted my hand to wave but found myself cocking my index finger in backwards beckon. She grinned and wiggled her little digit in collusion. We smiled at each other and wiggled good-bye. That would be the last time I saw her as a child.