by Helen Walsh
Her Dad.
An ugly swill spills into my guts. I should go and get Jamie.
I would have.
If I had not been within such close proximity to her warm narrow arse, so perfect and inviting. If she hadn’t turned round with tears in her eyes and said what she said. If she hadn’t asked me not to stop.
‘Pleathe don’t thtop that. Pleathe.’
That’s what she said. I swear. And her eyes they were soaked with so many conflicting emotions – fear, guilt, relief, yearning, all struggling to gain momentum but the yearning burned hardest of all.
Take me, her eyes were saying, take me. So with gentle hands I take her.
I ease her skirt up over her slim hips and pull down her knickers. I cup a cheek in each palm, two tiny globes, and pull her apart gently. Her tiny fawn-coloured hole nestling under a diaphanous veil of ginger down hits my eyes like a soft explosion – unblemished and soft, and too lovely to encroach. Even my tiny slim fingers. That would be wrong. That would be violation. So instead I let my tongue press against the warm skin of her arse hole. I can smell the wetness beyond, ready to swallow me. Slowly I release my tongue in her and her snuffling subsides into an affirmative moan. I plunge deeper and feel for her cunt lips. I tug on them softly, rubbing them between the tips of my fingers, making her dribble all over my hand and all down her thighs. The beak has erased all reservations now. This feels good and right and natural, and as my tongue snakes her cunt and laps her eager hole I abandon myself to the depravity washing over me. I suck hungrily on her flaps, burying the whole of my nose inside her, devouring her, smelling her, swigging on her wetness, wanting to be as far up her as possible. She tastes of teenage fanny. Treacle – warm sticky treacle, unsullied by spunk and rubber. Lovely young fanny. I slide my tongue back up and all over her tense little arse, dipping at her hole again. Her sphincter pulls like a whirlpool and there’s a soft strain under my tongue as it reaches and stretches, deep, deep inside her. And now I begin easing my fingers in her cunt, one by one,’ til apart from my thumb, my whole fucking hand’s in there, wearing her tight young fanny like a glove puppet. Never felt a fanny so tight before. So tight and wet. And noiselessly she moves with my hand, rocking to and fro, swallowing it like it’s the most normal, natural thing in the world. And this is what gets me. My whole cunt just floods at the sight of her, this young slag, loving it, loving the whole thing, just letting me do whatever the fuck I want. That’s what gets me. She’s part of this – she’s letting me. And as the beak takes holds of me, my thoughts trip out to some dark sordid place and I’m helplessly thinking about her father’s coarse lumpish hands feeling her too, feeling the wetness between his daughter’s legs, inhaling the sweet odour of fresh cunt. I begin to fuck her really hard and soon she’s shuddering and the whole of her insides are contracting and spasming around my hand. She comes wildly, all over me and I jam my hand inside my saturated kickers. The beak has stripped my fanny walls of all feeling but my clit is on fire. A few strokes and Jesus I’m going to come, I’m going to come with my whole hand inside this dirty teenager who is letting me. She’s letting me do this to her.
My orgasm is muted by the chemicals and I withdraw from her feeling empty and cheated.
I pull my dress down and I remember the camera in my bag. I need a picture of her cunt. Wet and spent. I need to see this sight again. The flash goes off and the camera whirrs and dies. She looks round and her face has me gasping again. It’s wide open with terror and shock and hurt. She buries her head in her palms and slumps to the floor
No! She loved it!
She did – she enjoyed it.
You made her come. She came. And now she’s killing herself with all the weapons she can turn on herself – guilt, self-hatred, denial. But she did enjoy it.
I let myself out and catch a glimpse of my face in the mirror which is all flushed with regret and sex. I wash my hands which are drenched in thick fanny paste and blood. I dry my hands on my flanks and walk outside into a blast of music and flashing lights and everything in my head is safe and calm once more – but my cunt still aches and burns with unslaked orgasm. I trace our table through the sea of bodies. Sean and Jamie’s heads are bobbing about in conversation. Mally and Kev are nowhere to be seen, but Billy has materialised at long last. He throws me a big wave. The stinging in my cunt intensifies, so it is almost impossible to walk. I locate the men’s toilets which are situated on the other side of the room and skulk into a cubicle where the air is stained with the smell of weed. There is no lock on the door, so I stand with my back against it and yank my dress to my hips. I come quickly with the image of her young exposed cunt emblazoned on the insides of my eyelids. Not a very nice orgasm at all. Just a necessary purge.
I plonk myself down next to Billy. He’s all over me about the schoolies.
‘D’you get photies?’ he’s going. ‘The lads was saying you’ve got some boss photies and that.’
Jamie is biting hard on his bottom lip. Sean’s gaze is stabbed with sex.
‘Have fun?’ says Jamie, his eyes burning moodily beyond me. I leave him to it – I’m not getting in there, with him. Whatever it is that’s eating him, he’ll come round. I take a cigarette from a nearly empty packet and Sean leans forward and produces a flame. Our eyes crash above the long slick flame and tear into each other for a second. Jamie sees it, susses it. He’s on his feet.
‘I’m off,’ he smiles – but it’s a hollow smile.
I suck myself away from Sean’s gaze and turn and face Jamie.
‘Early start and that,’ he winks, slipping his jacket on.
Sean looks at his watch and offers a sympathetic smile. Billy tries to blag him to stay for one more but he says goodbye, sweeps his eyes over me in one last, crushing strafe and is gone.
I leave moments later. I have to sort this out. He won’t have gone far – the Lobster Pot no doubt or the taxi rank at worst. Outside, the temperature has dropped right down and the air hangs sharp and raw in my lungs. The city shimmers across the horizon, luminous and majestic. The streets are filled with familiar detritus – giddy voices, broken glass, fast food packaging and the drunken lurch of sodden bodies. I travel quickly against the flow, drinking in every pulse of my surroundings. I head up Church Street and pause at the junction with Hanover, unsure whether to try left or right. There are no cabs, only a long, disorderly queue. Jamie is nowhere to be seen. I wait. I reach for a smoke and realise I’ve left my bag in there. Fuck! Just can not be arsed turning round and going all the way back for it. Billy’ll look after it, for sure. I didn’t have any cards on me and I’ve got enough in my coat pocket for a few drinks and a cab home. I wait some more but then the cold takes hold of me and I’m fucking off Jamie for the warm, dingy safety of a pub.
I head up towards the Cathedral. The Nook’ll still be serving, I’m certain of it.
It is. It’s buzzing with solitary drinkers all smoking with gusto. I wrestle my way to the bar, feeling myself sucked into a dozen conversations. I settle patiently beside a man with a bull neck and beady eyes. He clutches his glass tightly to exaggerate the muscles in his arm. I order a shot of Jameson and a pint of Stella. I stand at the bar, drain the whisky in one slick gulp and order another. I rest it on the bar and stare at it, allowing it to be weakened by the melting ice. The man with the bull neck gives me a benevolent grin. The Jameson seems to have softened his face a little. I ask him to watch over my drinks while I go the bog. He beams back a big soft smile. I lock myself in a cubicle, wanting that clear chemical feeling back. I squat on the cold, dank floor and scoop out a voluptuous bump with a key. And then another one for good luck. It hits me immediately, stamping out the whisky swoon and replacing it with something bigger and more beautiful. I check my kite in the mirror, pull a few moody pouts then return to the bar. I buy a packet of Embassy from some scabby faced bag head that’s doing the rounds. Two quid – can’t complain I s’pose. The crowd at the bar has dispersed a little now and the man with the bull neck
has struck up conversation with a barmaid. Feeling all lovely and gregarious I offer them both a cigarette and tell the barmaid she is gorgeous. She smiles coyly but the eyes are too assuming and I feel like snatching the compliment back. I tune into their conversation for a while but it’s nothing – going nowhere so I look around for other conversations to latch onto but most of them are too far gone for an inquisitive third party so I just stare at my fathomless golden pint, so placid and beautiful. Too beautiful to disturb. I smoke a couple more fags, leave the pint untouched and leave. I say good night to the man and he drags my gaze down to the foaming lager and shrugs his shoulders dejectedly. On Upper Duke Street I latch onto two paraffins and walk with them as far as Hope Street where I pause to offer them a pound. One of them informs me with a befuddled face he’s not homeless. The other just stares at me with these big see-through eyes, like some switch has flicked off inside for good. I shrug my shoulders and insist they keep it anyway.
I walk up towards the Cathedral, in awe of the night ahead – an open canvas and a thousand colours in my pocket. I paint a picture. Deranged sex with a hooker, quelling the ceaseless burn and anguish in my groin – then hours and hours of coke-fuelled conversation with any willing participant. I continue up past the Cathedral and turn onto Huskisson Street where a shrill searchlight floods the busy street in its dazzling beam. People are everywhere, congregating in small groups. My first thoughts that this is a murder scene, right on the cusp of the red light district. I walk quickly towards the commotion, a strange knot of thrill in my solar plexus and I’m disappointed to learn that it’s a film crew, churning out TV’s latest tight breeches and décolletage classic. Hope Street and Percy Street, the mouldering lungs of my brassland, have been turned into a Dickensian slum. I contemplate walking home through Toxteth but then an idea enters my head.
I press the buzzer. There is no reply but I can tell by the jaundiced hue penetrating the curtains that there’s activity within. I step back onto the road, pick up a small stone and, losing my balance slightly, hurl it at the window. A couple of blokes in Oliver Twist garb wolf whistle as they pass me by. I shake my head, embarrassed for them. I lob another stone and the window gasps open. Our eyes crash awkwardly.
‘What d’yoh want?’
The voice is angry and as classless as ever.
‘It’s me Millie. Remember?’
The figure at the window casts a furtive glance over her shoulder then leans right out. Her hair is scraped back, accentuating the earthy jut of her cheekbones and the wild black eyes. She is thinner and more beautiful than I remember. My vulva is stinging for her touch.
‘Millie today, is it? Well yoll ‘ave toh fock off, whatevoh yoh name is. Do one!’
‘Oh, come on, let us in will you? It’s fucking freezing!’
‘Are yoh not listening, kiddoh? I’m focken busy.’
‘Too busy to spend the night with your favourite punter?’
Curtains flutter and part in the windows above and the haunted faces of decent folk glower down at me.
‘Ah’ve told yoh nice girl. Now fock off, will yoh – leave us be.’
She slams the window shut. I hurl another stone. It bounces back and falls to the road with a thud. I throw another and this time the window quivers with the impact. She re-appears at the door in a dressing gown. The one that I wore. Her eyes are pure eyeball, shot forward in her skull. My confidence takes a dip.
‘Sorry,’ I say, ‘I just wanted to know if you wanted some company. We don’t have to do anything. We could just have a smoke or something.’
She’s not having it though. Her head begins to twitch dementedly. Ok, one last stab, and I’m off, I’ll give up and settle for a mag. I try some humour on her.
‘Anyway, it’s the least you can do after giving me a dose.’
‘Get the fock out of e-yoh or I’ll rip yoh focking face off.’
She lunges forward and I turn and run. Run and run. Past the gobsmacked film crew, down onto Catherine Street and straight over Upper Parliament street, deep into the Toxteth sprawl.
Jamie
Bang out of order, she is. Don’t know what gets into the girl – I really do not, la. It’s like as though she can’t let things get too smooth, too easy. We’ve had a hard time, we goes to Wales, we sorts it out, yeah? We half comes back stronger than we was before. So that’s like an open invitation to Mizz fucken O’Reilley in case any of us makes the mistake of thinking she’s a nice, regular girl that you could have as a mate and that, have a laugh with and come to rely upon – she fucks all that. She pure will not have none of it. Me? Nice girl, good heart, good soul – fuck off! I’ll show you! I’m dragging this poor kid in the bogs and I’m beasting her right in front of you just in case any of you thinks you knows us too well. Well, I’m fucken done with it, la. I’ve got my own priorities now, and they don’t extend to running after lil’ Millie whenever she wants a bit of attention. I’m in no way doing cartwheels for the girl anymore. She’s on her own. Finito.
CHAPTER 8
Millie
Toxteth has a dozen faces and just past midnight is my favourite. The streets are silent and empty of danger, peppered with inebriated old men, gleefully ambling home – letting life slip naturally away from them, with dignity and with grace. Even the huddles of guttersnipes which collect under street lamps like fireflies are placid and unsuspecting. All anticipation of violence and danger flees from their bodies leaving them slack shouldered and heedless. Toxteth is sleeping.
I flop down to the pavement and soak it all in. It’s bothered Dad for years that these mean streets hold no fear for me, but it is what it is. I can’t feel afraid when I know no bad will befall me here. I know that.
I dig in my pockets, scoop out the beak, take a finger nail’s, and spark a cigarette. I throw back my head and exhale way into the blue-black dome, aglow with pin-wheeling stars.
A gentle wind skids a newspaper to my feet where it flaps for a while then leaps off behind me. Time passes. I light another fag.
A belching black cab ruptures the dead calm, slowing to shed its load. Silhouettes stand and confer, then dart across the road, gone. The taxi pulls off, as abruptly as it arrived, swings a bend and is swallowed up by the night. Toxteth is silent once more. I take another bump, commit the night sky to memory then pull myself up.
By the time I hit Smithdown, I’m out of fags so I head for the Twenty Four Hour. Streams of students lumber home, flush faced and garrulous, laughing self-consciously in that stupid student way. They spill in and out of fast food joints like stunned bats, whilst on the pavements gangs of teenage girls in trackies and pyjamas, some no older than ten, lurk for stragglers.
The queue at the garage stretches out onto the road. There are students, scals and impatient taxi drivers but mostly there are teenage girls with faces tragically wise beyond their bodies. I march to the front and thrust a fiver into the hand of a young Somalian lad, chemically overconfident that he will not abscond with the money.
‘Get us twenty Marlboro Lights will you, please.’
He drags an exasperated eyebrow aloft but takes the money anyway. I wait for him on the wall and make eyes with a baghead on the skank – all bones and faded eyes, but the mouth and breasts still full and defiant. A hardened nipple strains through a fleece top, sending a shiver through my cunt.
‘Hey girl,’ she croaks, inching nearer, ‘Lend us a quid, get home and that?’
The wraith is unprepared for what comes next.
‘I can do better than that,’ I beam, ‘I’ll take you drinking if you like?’
A flicker of something enters her faded eyes.
‘Wha?’
‘We could go to that Jalons across the road there, have a laugh and something to eat. You fancy it? Come on – we’ll have a scream.’ Her face falls wide open.
‘You taking the piss?’
‘No! I’m asking if you fancy coming for a drink. You’re on your own. My pals have fucked me off. And being absolutely ho
nest with you, I really can’t face going home. I’ve just found out that my old fella’s got a … ah, don’t matter. I won’t bore you. But come on, what d’you think?’
‘Fucken mental,’ she interjects, ‘Off your fucken head.’
She’s on her feet now, scrutinising me with those glassy eyes. The realisation that she’s about to fuck off fills me with panic. I don’t want to go home. I want to stretch the night out forever.
‘OK – I’ll pay you,’ I whisper, ‘I’ll make it worth your while. Come on, we can go down to the park, me and you. I’ll make you feel nice.’
She thrusts her face into mine and I recoil at the stench of her breath. Her eyes seethe in their orbits. My chin slumps down to my chest and in my tummy I feel the gnaw and anguish of something bad and familiar.
She stumbles off, muttering and shaking her head, her bony arse jagging at her trackie.
‘Your loss,’ I shout after her, ‘Your loss.’
I delve in my pocket for a cigarette. I don’t have any. I’m about to go and join the queue but I remember the Somalian guy. I look up and he’s next to be served.
‘Fag buyer?’ I holler over, ‘Get me a top shelfie as well if you will. Club or Escort will do.’
My chest tightens with the effort reminding me how much poison I’ve poured into my lungs tonight. It’ll take days to recover from all that fagging – days. The whole queue is suddenly looking in my direction. Grinning at something behind me. A couple of lads wolf whistle. I snap my head over my shoulder, anticipating a newly acquainted couple eating the face off each other, but all I see is the empty road. And then it hits me. They’re looking at me. Why though? I dig my chin into my chest and concentrate on the floor. Moments pass. And then I’m wondering what the fuck I’m doing here and I’m up on my feet. A lad with dark skin strides over and hands me a pack of fags and I’m remembering again.
