by Ben Elton
A BROTHEL, BIRMINGHAM
The girl above was ten years old. Her smile shone out like a beacon of hope, her eyes flashed with such energy and promise that people felt happier about themselves merely standing in her gaze. Here was a life on the brink of splendid things, a life force ready to illuminate any world it chose to conquer.
The girl below was a hundred if she was a day. A century’s worth of pain had dulled her sparkling eyes and sunk them in their sockets like two small graves.
The girl above had freckles on her nose, rosy cheeks and ribbons in her shiny, red-flashed chestnut hair.
The girl below was ghostly white and sickly. Light as air. Her ribs showed through her pale skin. She had not menstruated for six months.
The girl above was ten years old.
The girl below thought that she was probably not yet eighteen.
‘Think of the sunshine, Jessie, remember the sunshine. We used tae love the sun.’
‘The sun never shines in Scotland, Jessie.’
‘Yes it does, it shone on us. Remember, the display? Three handsprings an’ a full flying somersault. Flip flip flip whoosh! And everybody cheered! We were on after the fire brigade and before the brass band, and then we were in the band too! We threw our marching uniform on over our leotard and played ‘Scotland the Brave’ and ‘Ali’s Tartan Army’! Remember the crowd, Jessie? Remember the sun? It shone on our coronet and on our epaulets. Hold on, Jessie! Hold on! It can shine on us again.’
AN OXFAM SHOP, WEST BROMWICH
When Ah awoke after the first sleep Ah’d had in some time Ah knew that Ah was through the worst. Ah knew that Ah was clean for the first time in many months and that if Ah had any chance o’ survival, that chance was now. And so Ah set about makin’ ma plan o’ escape. Ah knew that there was no way o’ gettin’ out the front door, it was locked and barred an’ a madam sat there twenty-four-seven with a couple o’ the boys loungin’ wi’ her. Some o’ the rooms where we took the clients had windows, but they were screwed down tight. Ah reckoned that the only way out was through the skylight in our attic.
‘Mornin’ times we was often left pretty much alone up there, an’ Ah resolved tae have a go the followin’ day. Ah would ha’ gone there and then but Ah’d slept too long and it was time taste go tae work. As Ah trooped down those stairs tae ma wee shag gin’ room Ah swore that it would be the last time Ah’d make that journey. Ah swore that Ah’d be out o’ that house or else die in the attempt.
‘Well, somehow Ah makes it through the next twelve hours an’ once we’re all back upstairs again Ah waste no time. Of course the skylight was bolted shut like all the other windows in the house. Ah’d have to break the glass. Ah turfed poor Andie out o’ the bottom o’ our bunk bed and dragged it tae beneath the skylight. I reckoned there’d be less noise if the glass could fall ontae the top mattress. The other girls all just watched me with a kind o’ stupefied fascination as Ah gets up ontae the bunk, wraps a blanket round ma fist and waits for the next car tae come by in the street below with its windows down and its drum and bass cranked up big time. Sure enough, it wasnae long before the usual booming fills the air. Yo motherfucker! Yo what motherfucker! Yo bad motherfucker! And as it gets real close I smash ma fist at the glass in order tae break it, which is no’ so easy as it sounds, in fact. Ma first blow cracks the glass but no’ much more than that, so’s Ah have tae wait for the next street disc jockey tae cruise by. It’s agony, Ah can tell ye. Me thinkin’ that maybe one o’ the boys has heard the crack or mebbe one o’ the girls will freak out and scream. But neither o’ those things happened and after three more efforts Ah’d cleared out all the glass from the opening and was ready tae do ma runner. ‘Ah’m off out o’ here,’ Ah says tae the girls. ‘Anybody comin’?’ But o’ course none o’ them dared, because they were all too monged. Jus’ like Ah could never ha’ done it if not for the week Ah’d just spent detoxing. ‘Right then. See yeze,’ Ah said, and I’m up ontae the roof leaving the girls wi’ a hole in their ceiling wi’ the rain pissing through it.
‘Well, the first thing Ah does is slip on the tiles, o’ course. The weather was terrible and those tiles were fifty years old. There was moss and bird shite and anyway it was just like a film, ‘cos Ah’m slidin’ doon the roof, heading for the precipice. Ah’m in ma best practical clothes, selected specially for ma great escape: white wetlook plastic mini and pink spandex halterneck boobtube. Ah had shoes, white stilettos, o’ course, but Ah’ve had the sense taste tie them round ma neck wi’ a couple o’ rubber johnnies, so Ah’m in ma bare feet. Honest, that’s the best Ah could do for an escape kit, the most practical clothes available tae me. Ah reckoned that I’d stand even less chance in a frilly G-string an’ a leather bra wi’ holes cut out for the nipples. Anyways, Ah’m slidin’ doon this steep roof wi’ a gutter an’ a ledge opening out in front o’ me an’ Ah’m thinkin’, ‘Fine, this is me checkin’ out…except mebbe if…’
Ah could just get tae that chimneystack…‘ ‘Cos even as Ah slithered an’ scrambled for a hold Ah could see that if Ah were only descending about three feet along the roof to ma left Ah’d bang slap intae a big pile o’ bricks. Well, what do ye know, but all in a moment Ah applies sledging rules, the same rules o’ steering that Ah was such a master of when toboganning during ma real life. The trick with a sledge is tae drag your foot on the side that you want tae turn, ‘cos it’ll slow ye down and ye’ll drift that way. A lot of kids instinctively wanted tae bung down the opposite foot, like in a boat ye turn by rowing harder on the other side. But me, Ah always had a feel for it and could guide a sledge round every bump. Well, tumbling down that roof Ah manages tae stick ma hand an’ leg doon on ma right side and sure enough Ah sort of slewed across the tiles that way and came tae rest against that chimneystack, bashing ma head somethin’ rotten in the process.
‘So now Ah catch ma breath, and take stock for a moment. Ah’m almost naked in the pissing rain, Ah’ve taken all the skin offa ma right hand and knee, and I’m stuck on the roof o’ a five-storey detached townhouse full o’ men who will shortly be fixing tae murda me. But Ah’m free, for that moment at least Ah’m free, and as Ah look up intae the rain-swept wind and at the great grey clouds hurtling across the sky Ah want to scream for joy.’
THE THOMPSON HOUSEHOLD, DALSTON
Sylvie Thompson refused to look at the photographs of her daughter Jo Jo that Commander Leman had brought with him, but she wept just the same. Her husband Craig glanced briefly at one or two before pushing them aside and breaking down also. For some minutes Leman let them weep. There was nothing else to do. He had agonized long and hard over whether to show Jo Jo’s parents the photographs sent by her attackers. Under normal circumstances he would not have dreamt of doing so, but these were not normal circumstances.
Something inside Commander Leman had changed. He had come to a decision and in order to carry out that decision he would need help. Apart from his own wife and daughter, the people most likely to be prepared to help him were the Thompson family. This was why he had shown Craig Thompson the photographs of his unconscious daughter being brutally raped by four anonymous men.
AN OXFAM SHOP, WEST BROMWICH
Do ye know, for a minute there Ah was so content to be alone and feeling the wind in ma face that Ah actually considered jus’ sitting up there until I died of exposure. That wouldnae ‘a been such a bad way tae go, you know…At least Ah’d ‘a been alone. ‘But then the horror o’ discovery occurred tae me. They wouldnae let me sit an’ die. Any moment ma broken skylight could be discovered an’ one o’ those slavin’ bastards would pop up through it tae persecute me further. Well Ah knew right then that if that were tae have happened they would no’ ha’ taken me back alive. As Ah crouched by the chimneypot Ah absolutely knew that if Goldie an’ the boys appeared Ah’d just pitch masel’ straight offa the roof there an’ then. tae be quite frank, Ah was no’ unattracted tae the idea of one final glorious flight on the wind tae the ultimate freedom available tae a poor girl
wi’ nothin’ tae lose.
‘But then Ah thinks, ‘Come on, Jessie! Anyone who can get off drugs alone in a whorehouse can get off a fuckin’ roof, right?’ So Ah set masel’ tae edging ma way around the perimeter in the hope that I’d encounter a sturdy drainpipe. Well, ye don’t need tae be a DIY expert tae know that the advent o’ plastic plumbing accessories has made the shinning up and down o’ rooftops a far less common occurrence than it used tae be. The only old-fashioned metal pipe that remained on the building was sadly one that Ah knew tae run directly past the reception room window on the ground floor, then on down into the bin area at the basement, where the gang room was. If Ah went down that pipe Ah’d no’ be able tae get tae the pavement and instead would descend further, straight intae a trap, ‘cos the gate up from the bin area was locked an’ wired big time. Goldie didnae want any o’ his many rivals coming in at him through his gang room window.
‘Consequently, Ah had no choice but tae take ma chances with a plastic pipe that ran down the back o’ the house tae the back garden. Ah say garden, but o’ course it was no more than a disgusting tip which was all tae the good as far as Ah was concerned, since Ah reckoned a pile o’ rotting mattresses would make a better landing pad than any lawn. So that’s it, plan made, get on wi’ it, girl, no sense hanging about, get over the gutter an gi’ it a go…Oh, ma Goad, have you ever launched yoursel’ offa the roof o’ a five-storey house? Jeez, but it’s high, Ah mean it’s really fuckin’ high. I sticks one leg over, then the other, an’ it feels like I’m on the edge o’ the world, then Ah’m hanging on the gutter with ma fingers and ma chin, the wind roaring up ma G-stringed arse, working one hand down onto the pipe, ma bare toes searching for the first o’ the brackets that attach the pipe tae the wall. And then it’s time tae put ma trust in the plastic. Plastic pipe. Plastic bracket, metal bolts admittedly but intae brick which I can see is old and crumbly. Hey, one thing a heroin diet does for ye is it makes you light. Ah don’t know what Ah weigh, but it was no’ enough tae tear a plastic pipe off a rotten wall, an’ Goad knows how but Ah managed tae work ma way right down that pipe an’ end up putting ma stilettos on amongst the stinking filth that characterizes the back garden of a crack whorehouse.’
THE LEMAN HOUSEHOLD, DALSTON
Commander Leman and his family packed the last of their bags into the family car before their drive to Cornwall. There had been a long list of people to inform about their planned absence from London. The milkman, of course, and the newsagent. Also the neighbours, who held a set of keys and had promised to keep an eye on the house. Anna’s Aikido tutor, her netball coach and her Spanish dance class. Christine Leman’s reading circle and her parents, who were regular Sunday lunch guests at the Lemans’, but who would be joining them in Cornwall for the last week of the holiday.
Jo Jo’s parents, Sylvie and Craig Thompson, had also been informed. The teenaged corpse that lay beneath the soil at the East London Cemetery had bonded the two families for ever with innocent blood.
‘Dad,’ Anna Leman said, breaking a silence which had lasted all the way to the M25. ‘Jo Jo was attacked as a warning to you, wasn’t she?’
There was no point even trying to deny it. ‘Yes.’
‘They wanted you to think that the same thing could happen to me, right?’
‘Something like that, yes.’
Once more the family fell silent as the slow-grinding bumper to-bumper miles crawled by. Finally Anna spoke again.
‘There’s a term they use in trauma therapy…It means completing a cycle, getting free of something by sort of finishing it…It’s an American term; these things are always American, aren’t they?’
‘Closure,’ said Christine Leman. ‘Yes, that’s right. Closure.’
‘Closure,’ Commander Leman repeated. ‘So that’s what it’s called.’
AN OXFAM SHOP, WEST BROMWICH
There was a hole in the fence, or more tae say there was a bit o’ fence round a lot o’ holes. Goldie had concentrated all his security measures on the walls and the windows o’ the house. The garden was anyone’s who cared tae piss in it or jack up their scag. Well, the hole led intae an alley between Goldie’s house an’ the next one, an’ round tae the front where Ah’d bin brought all those weeks or months o’ hell before. Ah didnae glance back. Ah had no idea where Ah was or where Ah was goin’ except that Ah was goin’ tae get away from that house o’ hell. Ah had no money at all, but when Ah saw a cab for hire Ah hailed it straight away.
‘ ‘Take us down town,’ Ah says, ‘an Ah’ll gi’ ye a blowjob.’ The bloke just shakes his head in disbelief and drives off. Funny, Ah’d bin down in the gutter for so long that Ah’d completely forgotten that there are people in the world who don’t deal exclusively in sex and drugs. So Ah had tae walk and Ah walked quickly too. Dressed the way Ah am there was no way Ah was goin’ tae dawdle on any street corners and get ma head kicked in again by territorial streetwalkers. That was the thing that had begun ma last round o’ misery.
‘What Ah decided Ah needed was a coat. Ah was cold and ridiculously conspicuous in ma whore’s uniform, an what Ah needed more than anything else was a great big coat. Well, that’s where ma story sits currently. ‘Cos if ye walk long enough in any big town you’re goin’ tae happen upon a high street, an’ if ye look about ye amongst the line o’ kebab shops, sari shops and junk shops, you’re goin’ tae find an Oxfam shop or the like. Funny thing, it’s always in the poorest streets that ye find the charity shops, in’t it? Rents are low an’ plenty o’ people want secondhand clothes, Ah suppose. Nonetheless, it’s always struck me as strange that it’s the poor that have to keep the charity shops open…Anyways, here Ah am, hen, penniless an’ in desperate need o’ a few bits o’ clothes, in particular a coat an’ some boots. Now the truth is that if ye won’t gi’ us anything Ah’m goin’ taste have tae just grab something and run, because it’s gettin’ on in the day now, an’ I can’t last a night out in a boobtube. So what do ye say?’
Not surprisingly, the man gave Jessie a coat and some socks and boots, a jumper and five pounds from his own pocket.
NEWSPAPER LIBRARY, COLINDALE
The librarian stooped over the microfiche. ‘All this will be crunched down and digitized pretty soon. The entire library burnt onto a small cornflake. No need for me then, I imagine. You’ll be able to get what you want straight through your mobile phone.’
‘Yes. Absolutely.’
The librarian studied the screen. ‘You don’t know the name of this lecturer, sir?’
‘No, only the girl’s name: Samantha Spencer.’
‘Well, if it was a student-tutor scandal then I doubt that the girl would’ve been named. That’s always the way with these things. They can hang some poor man out to dry whether he did anything or not, while his female accuser gets to hide behind a mask of anonymity.’
‘Try a couple of buzzwords. Try ‘scandal’; ‘harassment’; ‘dismissal’; ‘ruin’.’
‘I’ve told you, sir, this is microfilm, not a computer database. You can’t just press the search button. The Cambridge Evening News hadn’t been digitized then. I’m afraid we’ll just have to use our eyes.’
The minutes ticked slowly by as the librarian trawled through the microfilm.
‘Ah, here’s something. Front page, too. Well, sex always is, isn’t it?…February ninety-nine. ‘Promising career ruined…Politics and Modern History’. This sounds like your man.’
The librarian pointed out the relevant pages on the screen and Peter settled down to read the sad story of a forty-three-year-old lecturer who slept with a student and paid a very heavy price.
The girl (19), who has not been named, brought complaints to the University Senate of continuous and unprovoked sexual harassment. Gordon Crozier (43), Professor of Politics and Modern History, did not deny that sexual intercourse had taken place on more than one occasion but strenuously denied that there had been any abuse, claiming that the relationship was consensual.
The girl ma
y not have been named, but the Right Honourable Peter Paget, MP, knew her name. Of that he was absolutely sure.
The accusations are of a particularly serious nature because of the girl’s claims that Professor Crozier used his position of authority and trust to force his attentions upon her. She felt emotionally coerced into sex and claimed that she was allowed to feel that her success at university would be affected if she did not comply. Professor Crozier has issued a statement saying that there was no coercion and that he and the girl had simply had a brief affair, which, while inappropriate between a teacher and his student, was nonetheless legal and entirely consensual. The professor points out that he is not married and that he attempted to end the relationship shortly after it began. It was, he claims, this rejection of the girl that led her to make her accusations.
By the time Peter had finished reading the article, the librarian had unearthed the follow-up story, which had appeared a month later. The Professor of Politics and Modern History had been dismissed in disgrace. He thanked the librarian and returned to his office, where Samantha was waiting to inform him that he had been summoned to the office of the Home Secretary.
FALLOWFIELD COMMUNITY HALL, MANCHESTER
I love touring. Always have. Right back to when I were a kid and I got the part of the Artful Dodger in a little regional tour of Oliver! Beat all the proper stage-school kids an’ all, and suddenly I’m stopping in digs in different towns and seeing the backstage of all these different theatres. How exciting was that? Then when I won Pop Hero and we did the package tour it were just totally mental and outrageous. Ten acts on the road together, fook me, talk about clash of egos…amongst the other nine, of course. I were above it even then, because it was so absolutely clear who were the boss. I’d got nearly as many votes as all the others put together. But what a laugh it was. Big artics out the back, loads of fat blokes with ponytails an’ arsehole cleavages humpin’ gear around. Screaming girls everywhere. Mind you, they were all about ten years old so that were no good. Besides which, I were knocking off two of me co-stars anyway, so that was sorted. Do you remember Sandi — the bird who covered ‘Save All Your Kisses For Me’ — how she come over all sweet and virginal on the telly? I’ll tell you what, that girl should get an Oscar for that innocent act she done…First and foremost it were her who really got me into coke. She come from this village in Dorset an’ from what she told me about it the local boozer sounded like South Central LA. It’s always the same, I reckon. Country kids do more drugs than city kids ‘cos they’re more bored, that an’ the drink-driving laws, right? Like you’ve got all these isolated country pubs an’ nobody can have more than a pint because the police are trying to earn a living entirely out o’ traffic fines. Well, what’s gonna happen? It’s obvious, in’t it, everybody starts taking drugs. Go in any olde worlde roast beef an’ warm beer thatched fookin’ alehouse in the country and you’ll find a heroin dealer playin’ darts with his mates.
