by Paris Lees
But what guz up must come down. Now listen, I’ve done some walks of shame. But there’s rough an’ there’s rough, d’ya know worra mean? An’ as we head into the daylight, I catch a glimpse of Lady Die, an’ oh God, it’s like two different people. She sez, “What ya starin’ at me like that for?” So I’m like, “I’m not bein’ funny, babe, but ya look like an absolute bastard.” She sez, “Ya should look in a mirror sometime”, but mine’s dirty so I try someone’s rear-view mirror. It’s bad. I barely look like a human bein’, let alone a girl. Ma makeup’s rottin’ off, there’s lines where I’ve bin sweatin’, an’ ma eyes are all smudged. I try an’ tidy ’em up a bit, but Lady Die’s goin’, “Oi, come here. Get away”, an’ right as I’m thinkin’, What is ’er friggin’ problem? I look through the window an’ there’s a family of four sat inside, starin’ at me in horror. I go, “Oh sorry. I din’t see ya”, go to get up, then fall over. It’s two in the afternoon. It’s a wonder I’ve not bin locked up by now.
When I catch up wi’ Lady Die I sez, “I can’t be doin’ wi’ this”, but she’s just like, “Just act normal.” But we’re not normal, are we? Not by a very long stretch o’ the imagination, an’ that’s at the best of times. I just wanna get away from the club before people start comin’ out. I don’t want everyone who thought we were beautiful seein’ us in the daylight. It’s a real Cinderella moment, this. I’m like, “Come on, let’s go to a toilet an’ sort oursens out.” So we go to the shoppin’ centre an’ wash our faces in the ladies loos. God knows what we must’ve looked like, but there’s no way I’m gerrin a train back to Nottingham without sortin’ mysen out. We do look a lot better for it after though, so we go an’ nick summat warm to wear from Jane Norman – or as I like to call it, Jane Normal, coz the clothes are dead borin’. We must be the least inconspicuous shoplifters in Britain, but I reckon we get away with it coz shop assistants are too busy tryna work out if we’re trannies. Serves ’em right, if ya ask me. I hope it gets taken off their wages. I gorra turquoise jacket that shows off ma belly an’ Die gorra a black cardigan. She’s very classy sometimes, Die. Almost ladylike.
Now we’re in the smoking carriage, pretendin’ to sleep. We actually did have enough money to get tickets, or at least I did, but we’ve skanked it anyway. Why pay? We just pretend to be conked out when the ticket man comes coz Die sez they’re not allowed to touch ya. We can’t look that bad though coz the guy sat opposite stuck up for us when the ticket man started shoutin’, an’ he wun’t have come to our defence if he thought we were transsexuals, would he? But now he’s gerrin off at Loughborough. I wanna say thank you. Ya know, show ’im how grateful we are, but I don’t wanna risk the inspector comin’ back, so I just whisper, “Farewell, ma hero.”
Sincere
Comedown don’t even cover it. We go to Peter’s coz we’re runnin’ low on fags – not to mention money – but we can’t sleep, so we call Fag Ash. She’s wi’ Liam an’ Nikki, an’ all them lot. They’ve not bin to sleep either. Fag Ash guz, “The only way to stop a comedown is to come back up again”, an’ I can’t argue wi’ that so we tell ’em we’ll get Peter to drop us off in a bit. I don’t really wanna see Liam, but I can’t go home like this, canna? Peter sez we look like we need droppin’ in a cattle dip, an’ makes us jump in the shower before we can sit on ’is new settee. He’s goin’, “Are you sure you want to go back out? Don’t make yourselves ill.” An’ I’m thinkin’, I’d have gone back to Mammar Joe’s if I wanted all this. I go, “Peter, I know yer as old as ma mammar, but d’ya have to sound like ’er?” an’ instantly regret it. He’s only bein’ nice. “Fine,” he sez. “Thou can do what thou likes”, which means he’s pissed off. Me an’ Die start gerrin ready. I don’t know why we are the way we are, but we are.
Them lot are all round Adam’s, Fag Ash’s mate. He’s a makeup artist. He works at Mac an’ has all ’is stuff with ’im, so I ask ’im if he’ll sort me out an’ he sez, “Yeah, of course, I’d love to have a go on that face”, which Fag Ash don’t like one little bit. While he’s doin’ it I start tellin’ everyone about what a great time me an’ Lady Die have had in Leicester, although I din’t say owt about the thing wi’ the toilet brush. I exaggerate a few bits, too, to make it sound even better an’ annoy Fag Ash, which it does. She always takes the bait, that one. She’s like a fuckin’ carp. I go, “Ah, it’s a shame ya din’t come, babe. But ya looked like ya were havin’ so much fun wi’ that guy when we left.” Although I shun’t have set ’er off really coz then she starts bein’ dead passive-aggressive an’ there’s this awkward atmosphere, so Adam sez, “Right, let’s go out.” NG1’s dead again. Adam’s made me look like summat out of a sci-fi movie, wi’ silver eyeshadow an’ ma contact lenses. I went out as a boy on Friday, a girl last night, an’ androgynous tonight. It just feels appropriate, coz I don’t feel like a boy or a girl tonight. I feel like a cyborg, an’ I look like one.
We do some more speed, an’ it’s not that bad actually. Lady Die perks up – like a phoenix, risen from the ashtrays – an’ starts shockin’ out to Lisa Maffia. I would say, “God knows where she gets ’er energy”, but it comes in little white lines off the back o’ toilet seats. Dirty D an’ everyone else turns up an’ Fag Ash is still wearin’ the dress she had on on Friday, although she swears blind she’s bin home an’ had a bath. To be fair, if I had a dress like that I wun’t take it off all weekend either. She does ma ’ead in, but I do love ’er. She is funny. But then Lady Die sez she’s goin’ home coz she’s had enough. I sez, “Goin’ home? Had enough?” I’ve never known ’er to have had “enough” all the time we’ve bin mates, an’ she an’t bin home since 1999. But I’m buzzin’, coz I’ve actually outlasted Lady Die for once. Everyone’s tellin’ me I’m proper hardcore now. Fag Ash sez, “Let’s go back to mine.” They’re playin’ “Outta Space” an’ I’m feelin’ good, but then Liam grabs me by the arm as I’m goin’ to the cloakroom an’ sez, “Ya better not have said owt to anyone”, so I go, “No, of course not, Liam.”
The moment we get to Asha’s he starts windin’ me up though, makin’ me paranoid an’ that. There’s always someone like that at parties, tryna mess wi’ yer ’ead. Truth be told, it’s usually me. But I don’t do it the way Liam does. He takes it too far, till the other person’s genuinely freakin’ out. Like I am now. The rest of ’em go upstairs an’ I’m just laid on the floor in the livin’ room an’ can’t move. Liam’s the only one who stays behind wi’ me, an’ he’s goin’, “D’ya hear that?” an’ I’m like, “Hear what?” an’ he’s like, “Oh, it’s probably nuffin”, an’ all that crap. Yeah, yeah, Liam. I know what yer doin’. But even though I know he’s doin’ it on purpose, it’s still gerrin to me.
They come back down eventually. I reckon they’ve bin doin’ more coke an’ din’t wanna share it with us, which is a bit rude but I’m not even bothered coz I’m already wasted an’ Liam’s bin feedin’ me bumps of K. But where are ma fags? I’ve bin practically chain-smokin’ all night burra can’t remember when I last had ’em. I look in ma bag, under the chair, everywhere. I’m freakin’ out. Then Liam pulls ’em out the back o’ the sofa an’ sez, “Lookin’ for these, ya dickhead?” wi’ this cruel grin on ’is face. I try an’ snatch ’em off ’im, but he makes me beg an’ I’m too tired to argue with ’im, so I do, I beg. Like a dog. I spark up, take a drag, an’ I’m thinkin’, Why does he wanna make me look stupid? Is he jealous? Or does he just really hate me? But it tastes funny. I hold it up to gerra closer look, but then I feel this rush of energy, an’ ma eyes roll back into ma ’ead. I din’t understand what were happenin’ at the time, but I realize now that that were the turnin’ point.
Where’s Your Head At
We leave Asha’s an’ head towards Sneinton Market. I’m tryin’ not to walk too close to ’em without makin’ it dead obvious. Everythin’ they say seems scripted, like someone’s feedin’ ’em the lines. But who? A white van’s comin’ up behind us an’ I click: they’ve brought me here to have me
kidnapped. Someone’s gonna jump out an’ grab me an’ take me to Russia to work as a sex slave. The modern-day slave trade. I’ll never see ma family again. An’ all for the price of a packet of fags, no doubt. The van don’t stop. It were Nikki’s idea to leave the house. She were like, “I know, let’s go up ter the windmill.” All innocent, likes. Fag Ash guz, “Shall I wear ma pyjamas? Every other Paki round here does.” I’ve never heard ’er talk like that before. She tells everyone she’s Egyptian Catholic. It’s four o’clock on Monday mornin’. Where are they takin’ me? Where the fuckin’ fuck are they takin’ me? That’s what I wanna know. Fag Ash guz, “Why ya so quiet? Cat got yer tongue?” So I’m like, “Ya know what they say, babe, if you’ve got nowt nice to say.”
I’m usually up for stuff like this, but there’s just summat dead strange about how they’re talkin’, like they’re all in it together, plottin’ against me. I’m gaggin’ for a fag, but how can I when I don’t know what they’ve done to ’em? They’ve done summat to ’em, I know they have. They don’t smell right. I just don’t trust ’em. Liam’s the worst. He keeps offerin’ me more K but I’ve had enough. They can tell there’s summat up wi’ me. I’m sixteen years old an’ a shy girl for the first time in ma life. Lady Battenberg, where’s yer ’ead at? Trapped, Liam, in the incomprehensible maze. An’ you’ve fuckin’ put me here, ya ’orrible bastard. I run away.
They’re callin’ after me, but I just run an’ run. Ma legs are killin’ me, but I’d rather be killed by ma legs than than fall prey to their dastardly schemes. Schemin’, schemin’ witches, the lot of ’em! I don’t care what they think, I’ve gorra get as far away as fast as possible. I reach the top o’ the hill an’ the windmill’s hangin’ over me, creakin’ with age an’ God knows how many ghosts. Where’s yer ’ead at? I’m in a dark, dark town, Liam, on a dark, dark street. Ich würde lieber in der stadt wohnen. Learned that in German. An’ a little voice inside ma ’ead’s tellin’ me, you’ve gorra go to the city! Coz where am I, really? Like, really? Rottingham? Or Rome? I’m not even sure this is England, any more.
The sky’s purple an’ the moon is yellow an’ fat, pokin’ out from behind clouds of cotton wool like a picture in a children’s book. The wind’s whisperin’ through the trees an’ we’re in Victorian times, but we can’t be really, can we? Coz the houses wun’t look old an’ there wun’t be cars parked everywhere. Makes ya think though, don’t it? I keep to the middle o’ the road in case someone jumps out at me. Better to be safe than sorry. I look back an’ the coven of divas are chasin’ me, like zombies, vampires, callin’ me, but I’m too far away now. They’ll never catch me. When I look, they’ve gone. When I look again, they’re tiny ants. I could reach out an’ touch ’em.
When I were little, Aunty Ray had a book where these kids are tryna get to this fabulous city, but no matter how far they go, they don’t get any further. They walk for miles an’ miles, but the city never gets any closer an’ they keep passin’ the same bush. I can’t remember how it ended. I don’t think we finished the book. I wish we had, I wish I knew where to go. Is that another white van? I thought I’d be safe in the centre, but now I’m here I’m not so sure. Wait. What if it’s the same one? Oh God. It is. It has to be. No way is that a coincidence. There’s no such thing as coincidences. I don’t know what to do. I’ve gorra be safe here. It’s Nottingham. They don’t control everythin’! Do they? No, that’s bananas! Just stay where the cameras can see ya. Peter sez there’s cameras everywhere, these days.
I talk better when I’m off ma ’ead.
I can’t go inside the taxi rank. But I can’t just stand in the middle of Parliament Street, I look like Edward Scissorhands. There’s no way I’m riskin’ a taxi all the way home. They might be in on it. I know, it sounds farfetched. But it wun’t be that hard to plant someone an’ by the time I see he’s taken a wrong turn, it’ll be too late. I could get ’im to take me to the police station though, an’ if he don’t go straight there, I’ll just open the door an’ jump out. If he locks ’em, I’ll smash the windows. Kick ’em in wi’ ma Kickers. It’s not ideal, but we don’t live in an ideal world, do we? I can’t risk that white van comin’ back. What choice have I got?
It’s dead bright in the police station. The front desk’s empty so I press the bell an’ a woman appears. What the fuck am I gonna say? “I need to speak to someone. I think ma friends are after me.” She looks at me like I’m a freak an’ guz to find someone. There’s a camera in the corner. Green lino. Blue Monday. Big Brother. We’re live on Channel 4, please do not say fuck or bogger. Can’t get what it feels like for a girl out of ma ’ead. Now it’s the theme tune from The Bill. Oh God. I’ve just thought, What if they knew I’d come here? What if they’ve planted drugs on me? What if I’m doin’ exactly what they want me to do? An’ I can’t help but laugh. Coz you’ve gorra give it to ’em, really. They’re dead clever. But guess who’s even cleverer? I run out.
I’ll stay here till seven. It’s ten past six now an’ it’s startin’ to get light. This bench were the safest place I could think of. Look, there’s Fag Ash on the corner, wearin’ glitter an’ a big pink wig, handin’ out flyers on New Year’s Eve. “Pink party, pink champagne,” she’s tellin’ ’em. I’d never heard of it before. An’ look, there’s me across the road, gerrin felt up by that guy who looks like the one wi’ the funny eye from So Solid Crew. I din’t know anyone were watchin’ till the headlights come on. Sandstorm blarin’ out. That ’orrible queen who cun’ believe ma eyelashes were real. My lashes! My sandwiches! My rules! I don’t care if I sound like Eliza fuckin’ Doolittle, Peter.
I used to be scared of Bananaman when I were little. I din’t like ’is voice. The boy eats a banana an’ turns into ’im, an’ I just hated it. Still sends a shiver down ma spine. All sorts can happen when you eat a banana. No, never look someone in the eye while you’re chewin’ on one o’ them. Everyone knows that. I’ll be safe here though. Lookin’ back. Over ma shoulder. I’ve got that song in ma ’ead. Coz I keep lookin’ back. Over ma shoulder. When I’m not inspectin’ the fags, that is. They’ve bin dipped in summat. Marks all over ’em. Yellow, gold an’ green. Are they the colours from Karma Chameleon? I’m not sure, but it’s all connected, innit? I wish I’d bin around in the eighties. Human League’s from Leicester. The things that dreams are made of. Twenty-one seconds to go.
Maybe it were poppers. Or GBH. I’ll have to go an’ get ’em tested in the cold light of day. But tested for what? When enough people start movin’ about I’ll walk up to Vicky Centre bus station an’ catch the 45 to Old Mother ’ubbard’s. Brimful of Asha. She’s like the old woman who lives in a shoe. Hannah Bailey’s dad drives that bus sometimes. I make ’em laugh, I do. Ah do. We laugh our ’eads off, we do. Off our ’eads, we are. Coz sometimes, just sometimes, you’ve gorra laugh – or else ya cry. But what if it’s the same thing?
Mad World
Why would Mammar Joe try an’ poison me? I can’t stop thinkin’ about it. I went to the doctor’s but he don’t believe me. Maybe he’s in on it too? I know, I know. I’m bein’ ridiculous. He sez there’s nowt to worry about so I guess I’ll just have to wait an’ see, won’t I? He don’t think I’ve gorra heroin addiction, though. He just looked at me gone out when I sez that, like I were mental or summat. He probably just thinks I’m an attention-seeker. Everyone else does.
Smanfa cried when she saw me. I sez, “Don’t start, I’m menna be the attention-seeker – even Doctor Finchley sez so. It’s an official diagnosis now.” I don’t look that bad. But she seemed genuinely upset. Fuckin’ idiot. She were wi’ Nicola coz they hang out all the time now, they’re even goin’ on holiday together next month. I’ve not bin invited. So that’s nice for ’em, innit? They can go on about how bad drugs are, an’ how fuckin’ superior they are for not takin’ ’em. Smanfa sez I look really ill. No shit Sherlock! Sez I look dead skinny. I don’t think it’s as bad as what she’s makin’ out, but it is pretty bad, if I’m honest. I’ve got spots al
l over ma face an’ ma skin’s grey. I’ve got massive dark circles that makeup only seems to make worse an’ ma eyebrow bar fell out last night. I were on the futon at Mammar Joe’s watchin’ Who Wants to be a Millionaire? an’ I just felt summat drop into ma soup. The skin’s wore so thin it just split open. I’m literally rottin’ away.
Ma lips are cracked no matter how much water I drink or how much Vaseline I put on ’em. The thing that’s most scared me though is summat Smanfa din’t even see. After she left I looked in the bathroom mirror, an’ the back of ma throat were black. Not grey. Not green. Not brown. Black. I look dead. I thought I were hallucinatin’ at first, but I weren’t. All this black phlegm an’ bruised tissue. I cun’ even show Mammar Joe. She’s dead worried about me too, but I feel quite distant from ’er, actually. I know she’s on ma side really, but I’ve just not felt right round ’er since the other day. Yeah, I know, why on earth would Mammar Joe poison me? I know I’m goin’ mad. But I’m just not sure I can trust ’er one hundred per cent. Smanfa looked at me like I worra ’eadcase when I told ’er that, but ya can never trust anyone completely, can ya? Look at Harold Shipman.
