by C. J. Skuse
‘Oh god.’ She leant towards the table, head in hands.
I zipped my bag tight and put it back underneath. ‘You don’t remember anything else?’
‘I was wet. And you pulled off my dress. I woke up in a bath towel.’
‘It was raining. I wrapped you in that to keep you warm.’
‘You looked after me. Thank you.’
‘Totes welcs.’
‘Did I fall over? I remember a wet floor. Cobbled stones.’
‘That was in the hotel bathroom, Marnie.’
‘No, I was outside. I saw you and a guy.’
‘I pulled him off you.’
‘Rhee, tell me everything, please. I need to understand this.’
‘You were going to have sex with him.’
‘Oh no—’
‘But you didn’t. I took you back to the hotel and put you to bed.’
‘You’re sure he didn’t touch me?’
‘No. I wouldn’t let him. Now wipe it from your mind, okay? Nothing happened. We had a boring time, saw a boring show and communed with boring old women. It’s over.’
‘You’re such a good friend.’
‘You better believe it.’
Wednesday, 14th November – 27 weeks, 3 days
1.The two wiry, over-animated drug addicts waiting for methadone at the pharmacy – insectile creatures without socks, sniffing like their nostrils are forever trying to catch the merest fleck of heroin on the air.
2.Jittery woman with the huge nostrils in the shoe shop – she spent as little time serving me as possible before retreating to the safety of the jauntily-angled slippers in the window, rearranging ones which didn’t look quite jaunty enough.
3.Sandra Huggins.
Jim and Elaine spent the morning showing me their photographs from the Lake District – all 308 of them. Tink was in every shot – perched on a rock, walking in the woods, sitting next to Jim in a country pub. Cuddles with Elaine on the boat on Lake Windermere. She was ‘as good as gold’ apparently.
Got a new midwife – she’s about nineteen, has green hair and is covered in tatts. She’s called Whitney or Tiffany or something, and had just passed her exams so obviously she’s been assigned to me. Far too jolly for my liking. She gave me a blood test today – I’m a bit anaemic but ‘nothing to worry about.’ She said I should be eating more foods with iron in, more Vitamin C, eggs, pulses, leafy green veg.
‘Anaemia,’ I repeated after her. ‘That’s quite a nice name isn’t it?’
‘For a baby?’ said Bitch Midwife. ‘I’d say that was tantamount to abuse!’
‘What are your kids called?’
She included props with her answer – a pendant opened to reveal a picture of two toothless darlings. ‘That’s Chantelle and this one’s Braydon.’
‘Mmm,’ I said. ‘Lovely.’
‘Have you got any names in mind?’
‘Mmm, I’m going to have four girls and I’m going to call them Violence, Anarchy, Mayhem and Pandemonium.’
She laughed. ‘So which one’s this then?’
‘Have to wait and see, won’t you?’
Oh and my Cardiff kill has hit the newspapers. Cop a load of this …
THE FAMILY of a man who died in Cardiff city centre at the weekend have paid tribute to him.
The body of 22-year-old Troy Shearer was found by a passerby in the alleyway off Baker’s Row in the early hours of Sunday, 11th November. A Home Office Post Mortem has confirmed that Troy died from multiple stab wounds to the chest and neck.
Troy’s mother, Melanie Samways, paid tribute, saying: ‘Troy was a much loved son. His whole family is completely devastated. He was a real character and if you met him, you would always remember it.’
Detective Chief Inspector Lauren Merton said: ‘This was a tragic way for Troy’s life to come to an end after just going out for a good time with his friends. His death has left his family understandably distraught and our condolences of course go to them during this tremendously difficult time.
‘The investigation continues at pace and we still want people to come forward with any information they believe may assist our inquiries.’
What a saint, eh? I imagine Troy worked with homeless people in his spare time or volunteered for the Make a Wish Foundation. Only the good guys ever seem to die.
Nipped into Tesco on the way home. Bought a box of frozen eclairs. Didn’t even wait for them to thaw.
Friday, 16th November – 27 weeks, 5 days
1.People who touch me unannounced.
2.Middle class white people who have barbecues and invite me to them.
I didn’t want to go to Pin’s party. My in-utero Jiminy Cricket had sent a new batch of sluggishness, so while the spirit was at least half-willing, the flesh was fucked. Slept most of the day, washed, dressed, and around 4 p.m. made my way over on the water taxi to Temperley – the richest area of town.
The climb to her house almost killed me – Pin and her family lived in a mansion set back amongst the trees like it was in hiding. It was more glass than house – huge wide windows allowed a view of everything inside, so there was no excuse for anyone missing just how rich they were. Huge art sculptures on the landing, plush cream sitting rooms and a hallway the size of Jim and Elaine’s whole house. This was a money family and no mistake.
A young girl with inbreeder’s teeth and ears greeted me at the front door with ‘You can’t come in unless you’ve brought presents.’ She talked in spit with her nose in the air, like most posh kids do.
‘Hi Rhiannon, do come in,’ said Pin, lugging her bump along the hallway in a hideous oversized paisley playsuit and gold sandals. ‘Mulberry – can you ask Daddy to bring up some more Pinot Noir, there’s a good girl.’
Mulberry merrily skipped off like all rich kids do when they know they’re never going to have to do a day’s work in their over-privileged lives.
I crossed the threshold, handing her the bottle of value lemonade I’d brought along. ‘Happy Birthday.’
‘Thank you, darling,’ she said, holding me in a headlock and sticking a hairy-faced Clinique kiss on both cheeks. She scoped my burgeoning bump and held it at the sides. ‘You’re looking swell, Dolly!’
‘You can talk,’ I said, scoping her abdomen which looked like the wolf’s in that kids’ book where he ate the big rocks. And then she did something horrific – she pushed her bump against mine so they were touching.
Nausea ambushed all my senses.
What the hell is she doing, Mummy!? Get it off! Get it off!
‘Um, what are you doing?’ I awk-laughed, trying to breathe it out.
‘Clive?’ she called out. ‘Take a picture, darling. Rhiannon’s here.’
Clive, a small bald man in head-to-toe Blue Harbour and wicker shoes scurried around the corner with his phone held out like he was detecting something – in this case, a random humiliation opportunity for me.
‘Do the thumbs up, Rhiannon,’ Pin giggled, posing for the camera.
Oh Christ, not the thumbs up as well as the bump-to-bump. Click.
‘Aw, that’s great,’ Clive chuckled. ‘Rhiannon hi, sorry, we’re trying to get as many double bump shots as possible. We’re doing a collage.’
‘How wonderful!’ I pain-grinned, nausea abating.
‘Everyone’s outside, Rhee,’ said Pin. ‘We’ve done a barbecue as it’s still so warm this evening and we’ll be having a few fireworks a bit later on, hope you’re okay with that? Some people feel rather triggered by them.’ She rolled her eyes. I knew she was talking about Helen.
‘I don’t trigger easily, don’t worry.’
‘Do go out and mingle. I’m keeping an eye on my brioche.’
I knew the moment I stepped out onto the patio that I didn’t belong.
Lit by tea lights and fairy lights in the evening gloom, the garden was a cacophony of chatter and childish squeals. Mostly straight, white people stood around in groups or sat on lines of chairs like lazy, middle class firing squad
s, laughing Fwaar Fwaar and quaffing from fizzy glasses. There was an essence of horse about every face. A curly red-head with Bugs Bunny teeth struck up a convo about the thickness of the barbecue smoke as we were both coughing.
‘Did you see that bastard in China who fried the dog in a wok?’ I said.
‘Uh no, no I didn’t.’
‘It was disgusting,’ I said. ‘Do you know they do that in China? And Korea. They fry animals alive cos they think the meat’s tenderer.’
At some point during my continued rant about dogs in hot woks, she moved away. I was about to head over to the bouncy castle in the middle of the lawn where all the kids were playing, when I was collared by the Pudding Club, having some debate about immunisations.
‘I’m so worried about it,’ Scarlett said, stroking her bump. ‘Lodi wants the baby to, like, have his jabs because his uncle, like, didn’t and he’s got, like, autism. What do I do?’
Nev swigged her champagne. ‘We chose not to immunize Jadis or Alannah, and it never did them any harm. Doctors get paid for immunizing so that’s why you get scare stories. Kids are kids, they’re gonna get sick.’
Helen was on it like a Scotch bonnet. ‘But you forget these vaccines are proven to do their jobs. There’s so many benefits.’
‘Like what?’ asked Nev.
‘It helps them fight disease, particularly measles. I remember one lad when I was a nipper got measles and he had to have all his limbs cut off.’
‘There’s no ’arm in it,’ I said, looking at them in turn – three witches stirring their cauldron.
‘Well quite,’ said Helen, all earnest-face, turning to Scarlett. ‘Get the immunizations done ASAP. It’s your duty as a mother.’
‘Are you going to, like, get it done then, Rhiannon?’ Scarlett asked.
I grabbed an elderflower pressé from a passing tray. ‘Um, no.’
‘You must!’ said Helen. ‘Why wouldn’t you?’
‘Cos I don’t care.’ I’m lying, by the way. Of course I care. But the thrill of watching Helen’s growing outrage was too tempting. I take my giggles where I can these days, since my little joy sponge took up residence in Wombville.
‘You MUST Rhiannon. This is your baby’s life we’re talking about.’
‘Then I’ll let the baby decide for themselves later on, I guess.’
Helen flushed. ‘No, you have to prevent it. It’s too late by the time they come down with anything. I’ve worked with hundreds of children over twenty years and I’ve never met one that’s been damaged from immunizations. I have met a few who were very ill due to not getting immunized though.’
‘Right,’ I said, quaffing my pressé. ‘Mmm, that’s refreshing. What time do the fireworks start?’
‘So you’ll have the shots done then?’ said Helen. It was not a request.
‘SIR YES SIR!’ I saluted, snapping my heels together, which garnered a few looks from other straight white folk and a sly smile from Nev.
Helen’s husband Jasper – a human streak of undercooked pastry if ever I’ve seen one – came scuffing over to say he’d left his ‘cardie’ in the Land Rover and could he have the keys cos it was ‘getting a bit chilly’.
The buffet wasn’t your Iceland Sliders or Kentucky bucket affair – it was all homemade blinis and dim sum and brioche buns of barbecued Wagyu beef, bone china dishes of the most middle class crisps money could buy – Chorizo and Opera House, Camembert and Yacht Club, Foie Gras and Golf Trouser, complete with flag labels. I hit it harder than a fat girl on prom night – sans any meat-based delicacies, obvs. Jiminy Cricket still no likey.
None of the conversations around the buffet table were particularly engrossing.
‘We tried goat’s milk but it made Giles ill so we went back to yak.’
‘Plum came first in the gymkhana on Rollo… such a scream!’
‘We bought a beach hut at Bude, only a hundred and fifty K, give or take. Bring the family once the Aston Martin’s out of dry dock.’
‘We use cocoa bean husks in our flower borders now. The whole garden smells like warm brownies in high summer, it’s DIVINE!’
‘Oh isn’t it awful in Syria? More Verve Clicquot anybods?’
If Craig had been there, we’d have found a quiet corner and kept to ourselves and made our own fun – play drinking games or taking the piss – but being on your own leaves you open to the elements on these things. A Davy lamp and a pickaxe couldn’t get me into any of these conversations so I headed along the stepping stone footpath to the lawns where the kids hung out.
I poked my head through the window of the Wendy house to find four girls playing with fake food and plastic cutlery.
‘Mind if I join you guys?’ I said. ‘I’m bored.’
‘Do you want to play Homes?’ piped up one kid with purple ribbons threaded through her corn rows. She was cooking at the plastic stove – a delicacy called Stone Soup.
‘Yeah go on then,’ I said, squeezing through the door which they all found hilarious. I sat down on a pink bean bag big enough for one buttock.
‘Have you got babies in your tummy like our mum has?’ piped up a little girl wearing glasses who was grilling mud pies.
‘Yeah, I have. You must be Nev’s daughters.’
Glasses nodded. ‘How did your baby get inside your tummy?’
Corn Rows smacked her sister’s arm. ‘You mustn’t ask that, Alannah, cos it’s rude. It’s cos the daddy and the mummy have a special cuddle and the seed is what squirts out. That makes the baby.’
Alannah stared at me open mouthed.
‘I’m Jadis,’ said Corn Rows. ‘And she’s Alannah.’ She pointed to two other girls dressing transformers in Barbie clothes in the corner. ‘That’s Calpurnia and Maude, and outside is Ted.’
Ted, dressed in a Thor outfit, complete with hammer in his belt loop, seemed to be sucking a garden snail from its shell.
Jadis handed me a cup of air and a plate of plastic chicken with weeds. I said I was veggie and she swapped the chicken for a ping pong ball.
‘That’s unicorn poo,’ she said proudly.
So we played Homes – and I did a roaring trade in hair plaiting and first year curse words and then following a quick make-up sesh, where they all ended up looking like replica JonBenéts, they put on an impromptu catwalk show up and down the footpath. We then went on a bug hunt in the orchard. I haven’t enjoyed a party so much in years.
But there was an incident.
So, during our bug hunt, I noticed Alannah had disappeared. Ted the Snail Sucker had seen Pin’s little shit of a daughter Mulberry put a worm in her hair and told me she was crying in the Wendy house.
I poked my head through the window. ‘What are you doing in here?’
She sniffed, brushing her Bratz doll’s hair.
‘Wanna talk about it?’
She shook her head and carried on brushing.
‘Okay… so wanna do something about it?’ She scratched her little green face. ‘I think Mulberry needs to be taught a lesson, don’t you?’ She held out her forearm – felt tip pen scribbled all over it. ‘Did she do that?’
She held up her ankle. More scribbles and the words –
Your ugly
‘Right, that little bitch ain’t taking any more of your sunshine. She puts a worm in your hair, you put a snake down her knickers.’
Alannah giggled behind her hand. ‘She draws on your ankle, you tattoo her face.’ She giggled again. ‘She hurts you, you kick her in the face and yell “Not today, Satan.” Okay? No. Bloody. More. Repeat after me.’
‘No buddy more.’
I heard my name being called from beyond the Wendy house and looked up to find Marnie, walking hand in hand across the lawn with old Wifey McBeaty. He was as I had imagined – tall, stocky, blond Hitler-youth buzz cut and no neck. He was pushing the pram and wearing the same as all the other men – crisp pastel Polo shirt, cargo shorts and deck shoes. He didn’t look like a wife-beater. He looked like an estate agent. For the Thi
rd Reich.
‘I have to go cos my friend’s here. Go back and join the bug hunt. Put the bugs back when you’re done, okay? Don’t let Ted eat them.’
Me and Alannah fist bumped and she scuttled off as Marnie and Tim reached the Wendy house. Marnie looked good – no signs of Cardiff remaining. A mask of fresh make-up, clean hair and new dress. She had clearly taken my advice and wiped last Saturday from her mind.
‘Hey Rhee,’ said Marnie, leaning in for a hug and an air kiss. ‘This is Tim. Tim, this is my friend Rhiannon.’
I got a small but definite squiggle of excitement in my stomach when Marnie called me her friend – she’d done it three times now.
‘Nice to meet you,’ we both said, shaking hands.
So this is the man who stopped you dancing and calls you every five minutes and won’t let you do anything ever, I thought.
His handshake was as stiff as a shark’s fin. He clutched a bottle of masculinity in the other hand. ‘What’s she been saying about me then?’ he asked. Mancunian accent. Damn, I like Mancunians as a rule.
‘Oh, she never stops talking about you,’ I said, bending over the pram to look at Raph, sleeping soundly.
He nuzzled Marnie’s ear. ‘That’s nice, babe. How’s your pregnancy?’
‘Laugh a minute,’ I smiled, quaffing my pressé.
We talked about all things baby at length – Tim seemed fascinated by it, whereas I was bored. He also seemed obsessed with divulging all of Marnie’s secrets when it came to embarrassing episodes during her pregnancy.
‘Did she tell you about the time she wet herself in the queue in Marks & Spencer’s? God that was funny, wasn’t it, love?’
Marnie blushed. ‘Not at the time, no.’
‘But she had terrible constipation in the later stages, didn’t you? Do you get any of that?’
‘Not at all,’ I lied, sensing he was trying to embarrass me. ‘Most days I could shit through the eye of a needle.’
That wiped the smug smile off his face.
‘I’m going to pop in and see if Pin wants a hand with anything,’ said Marnie, blush burning holes in her cheeks.
