Wildest of All

by P. K . Lynch

  ‘What you doing, man? You told us you weren’t gay,’ Maura said, ducking backwards.

  ‘I’m not. But there’s nothing wrong with being gay,’ she replied, confused by their hostility.

  ‘I never said there was,’ Maura replied. ‘But we’re not.’

  Sissy was suddenly aware of an oppressive dark cloud of shame hovering right above her.

  ‘Well, what the fuck was all that about then?’ she asked.

  ‘We were just trying to give you a massage,’ Katie said in a quiet voice. ‘We like how it feels.’

  ‘Oh Jesus, you’re bloody children,’ Sissy told them, scratching at the hairs on her arm which now prickled like a rash. She rubbed vigorously, trying to distract herself from her mood’s crash-landing.

  Shouldering Katie aside, she pulled the door back and left them behind. The guy with the yellow feathered headpiece continued to admire himself in the mirror, rolling his hips and pouting. Sissy brushed against him as she headed for the door – hey careful, bitch – she flipped him the finger. They meant nothing, these micro-aggressions. Everyone knew what was important. She made her way through clusters of over-wrought clubbers who populated the corridor between the dance room and toilets, trying to shake off the memory of Katie’s worried face. She focused on the sensation of cutting through the air, aware of every new shape made as she filled up her space, intent on bringing back her rush. She slammed the swing doors open into the main room and gasped in the hot, salty air. Stalking the edge of the dance floor, she found Rik entangled with Noah. She grabbed him by the shoulder and yelled into his ear.

  ‘I need another pill.’

  He broke off the kiss. His eyes roved over her head, pupils as huge and black as the universe. Moisture glistened across his forehead and above his lip. She slapped his arm.

  ‘I’m here. Look at me.’

  ‘None left,’ he shouted.

  ‘What? How’s that possible?’

  He shrugged and fell back into Noah’s waiting arms.

  She weaved through the room. Bodies were clumsy and sweaty now, banging into her as she went. The bass was too loud, like a sonic boom blasting over and over, it reverberated in her stomach, making her nauseous. The air was tinged with aggression, the men more muscly than before. They looked at her with disdain, confirming everything she felt about herself. No crowd-surfing now.

  A mass of energy caught her eye. A constant trickle of people moving in and out of the darkened area under the stairs made her think of bees in a hive. She edged closer, mimicking the focus with which everyone came and went. No party atmosphere here, only the serious business of getting high.

  ‘Can I help you, darlin’?’ The voice was so close, she had the impression of feeling, rather than hearing, the words. She turned and was momentarily confused by the familiar pale face of Fame grinning at her, his gold tooth appearing black as a sapphire in the club’s gloom. He wore a chequered black and orange pork pie hat with a cream-coloured baseball jacket, the sleeves pulled up to his elbows. A gold chain hung round his neck and rested on top of the white vest beneath.

  He wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her towards him.

  ‘Fancy seeing you here.’ He bent to kiss her but she gripped his upper arms and pushed back.

  ‘You working?’ she shouted.

  He cast his eye disparagingly around the room.

  ‘What else would I be here for?’ he sneered.

  ‘Got any pills?’

  He looked at her warily.

  ‘They’re just for me. I’m not working.’

  ‘How many?’

  She handed him money and loitered while he collected her order. He returned and slipped her a small bag which she opened straight away, retrieving a pill and swallowing it.

  She was aware of Fame taking her hand and saying something in her ear, but he was too quiet and she had to ask him twice to repeat himself. Then something scratched her palm. She looked down to see a neatly folded twenty-pound note kept in place by his thumb. He was speaking again and this time it made sense.

  ‘You wanna get with me?’

  Laughter exploded out of her. She didn’t mean to offend, but he walked away with his shoulders rolled forward, his head low. For the first time she felt something for Fame that wasn’t rooted in disgust. She was struck by his vulnerability – it must be lonely work being a straight dealer in a gay club. She made a mental note to check in with him later but for now she had to dance.

  She turned to enter the heaving mass of bodies, a thousand souls casting themselves around to the rhythm of the DJ’s beat. She searched for a way to enter, to find her space and begin her journey to the centre of the universe, but whenever she saw a way forward, bodies would close together and reject her advances, cutting off her route. He looked around for the last person who had been decent to her. There he was, leaning against the wall, keeping watch over the deals being struck beneath the stairs. He was small and wiry and had an aura of don’t fuck with me about him, but all she remembered was his loneliness, and all she could feel was how lonely she was too. He noticed her looking and ramped his ‘I don’t give a fuck’-ness up a notch. It was all the invitation she needed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Woman

  ‘Yeah, yeah, but what’s your actual name?’ she said.

  ‘You know my name. What you give me such a hard time for?’

  ‘I’m giving you a hard time because no one on this earth calls their beautiful newborn baby Fame, that’s why.’

  ‘Aw, you think I was a beautiful baby. You’re right. I was. I mean look at me now. I’m proper fit. Feel that.’ She did – despite his skinniness, Fame was ripped. ‘I must have been the most gorgeous baby they’d ever seen.’

  ‘Babies aren’t born like that. Don’t try telling me you don’t spend most days in the gym. Do you even have a job anyway?’

  ‘Yeah, I’ve got a job. You know I do. You’ve seen me do it.’

  ‘So, you’re just a dealer? It’s not just something on the side that supplements your proper job?’

  ‘No, it ain’t just something on the side that supplements my proper job. It’s my job, innit. Don’t use big words with me, woman. I ain’t impressed.’

  She liked that he called her woman. She was a woman. She rolled onto her tummy and snorted the next line, though really, why did they call it snorting? That sounded like something a pig would do, noisy, messy, whereas the powder slid neatly up her nostrils. It glided.

  ‘I’m not trying to impress you. Ow, don’t,’ she said in response to him slapping her backside.

  ‘Don’t tell me what to do,’ he said, stretching into the space she vacated. ‘I be king of my own place.’

  ‘You be king of Pascal’s place, mate, only when he ain’t around,’ she said, mimicking his London accent.

  She was up now, prowling Fame’s living room, stepping over ashtrays and bottles and used condoms. ‘Where’s my fucking clothes?’

  ‘Don’t be giving me no back-chat, princess,’ said Fame. ‘Not when I bring you back to mine and give you all what I’ve got.’

  She paused and turned to him, a look of exaggerated incredulity on her face.

  ‘All what you’ve got?’ she said, punctuating her mockery with a forward motion of her head, much like a chicken. ‘All what you’ve got? You’re fucking kidding me. And English is your first language? What a fucking joke.’

  ‘At least I am fucking English,’ he snickered. ‘What are you? Some Scots bitch moving into my country, my bed, taking all my fucking drugs. Don’t think I haven’t noticed. People in glass houses, mate. You ain’t in no position to judge me.’

  He chopped out some more lines while she continued to stalk the room.

  ‘What you looking for anyway?’

  ‘My clothes,’ she sighed. ‘Where are they?’

  A rush of tiredness stole over her. She wrapped her arms around herself and began to shiver. Weak sunlight streamed in through the venetian blind and
sloped across her body. Hundreds of tiny hairs stood erect on her skin. Casting her eye around, she could only see his jeans and shirt lying where they fell a few hours earlier. Confused, she reached for a cigarette and poured more beer. Fame sat bolt upright, sniffing deeply, making sure everything went as far in as possible. Then he stood.

  ‘Don’t you be worrying about your clothes. You don’t need them just now.’

  He placed one hand gently on her shoulder, pushing her down.

  ‘My clothes – ’

  ‘You don’t. Need them.’

  At some point, maybe days later, her clothes appeared again. She left him kneeling on the floor rolling a joint, nodding along to whatever music was streaming through his headphones.

  She followed the flow of people to the tube but resisted being swept down the stairs and stood blocking the way, aware she was committing the ultimate London crime but unable to move her feet forward. Move, she told herself. Get on a train. Go home. But there was no home. Commuters streamed around her, elbows and bags jabbing as they passed. There was no home. No place to go. No one waiting. No point to anything.

  She had money in the bank, but it wouldn’t last forever. Even so, she wasn’t inclined to go into work, or look for another job. She also knew it was likely Pascal would ask her to leave the flat when he returned. Even if he didn’t, she couldn’t stay there if she had any self-respect.

  There had to be some of that somewhere.

  She spent the days between Fridays travelling around museums, something she hadn’t done since her parents had taken her to the big galleries in Glasgow. Memories of silly poses with dinosaur skeletons and stuffed apes overshadowed the serious portraits she stared at now, trying to locate the genius that warranted their public admiration years after their creators had died.

  Walking down a narrow street on the edge of Soho, she was surprised by the sound of live music coming from a dingy-looking bar. It was late afternoon and most of the bars were quiet, preparing for the imminent onslaught of drinkers from the abundance of local media offices.

  Stained-glass windows marred her view and for some reason her feet wouldn’t carry her through the blue-painted door. Instead she leaned against a black railing and enjoyed the old-school sounds of the bodhran and fiddle.

  Her phone beeped. It was a text from Fame telling her Jason wanted her to work on Saturday night. She deleted it without replying. Another text came through telling her he was throwing a party at his flat on Friday night if she wanted to hook up. She had no intention of going, of course, but at least it was something.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Wild

  The party consisted of eight or so people crammed into Fame’s tiny living room, all of them greedily focused on the coffee table where the powder was. The music was low, a secondary consideration, and the mood jagged and insular. This was all completely obvious to Sissy, who stood observing the group from the living room’s doorway.

  In a way, they reminded her of the losers from the call centre.

  All she had to do was walk over to Fame’s laptop and change the music, but why should she? Let them spend their time scurrying around in a mediocre high. If they didn’t appreciate the magical power of music, then they didn’t deserve to crest any waves.

  Fame stood at the window talking to a tall, slim girl, while he rolled a smoke. At one point, his hand dipped into her mane of hair and flicked it from her neck. She tilted her head back and laughed, and put her hand out to take a pill from him before slipping it in her mouth. Their little secret.

  Sissy walked over and squeezed herself between them.

  ‘Hello there, motherfucker,’ she grinned, highly amused by her own outrageous greeting. ‘Where’s mine then?’

  Fame raised his eyebrows, roll-up hanging off his bottom lip. He lit up and inhaled deeply before replying.

  ‘Sissy, this is Joanna. Have you two met?’

  Sissy turned her attention to the blonde. Fucking Joanna.

  ‘Nice to meet you,’ she said, and turned back to Fame with her hand cupped for treasure. It arrived in the form of two white pills. She was pleased. She would have settled for one.

  ‘Would you like some of my water?’ Joanna offered, but Sissy shook her head and took a swig of beer to wash them down.

  ‘I was just saying,’ Joanna said, her voice languid and mellifluous. ‘I was just saying about the trees.’ She indicated their view out the window to the street below. ‘The trees are so lovely. All the colours. I love autumn, I really do.’

  Fame grinned. A goofy sort of half-laugh escaped him as he agreed that he, too, loved autumn.

  ‘A time of change, innit,’ he said. ‘A time of possibility.’

  Joanna nodded profusely. ‘Totally,’ she said. ‘Totally.’

  ‘Oh, bullshit,’ said Sissy.

  They turned to her, expressions of shock and hurt on their faces, like she’d just lobbed rocks onto their sandcastles.

  ‘Fucking autumn,’ Sissy scathed. ‘Who could love autumn? Only an idiot. You want to talk about the colours? The yellows and browns, the oranges and reds? Did you not stop to think that everything’s just dying?’

  ‘Fuck off, Sissy,’ said Fame, uncertainly. Joanna looked worried, which spurred Sissy on. ‘Think about it. Someone punches you, you get a bruise. It goes all the colours of autumn, doesn’t it?’

  Joanna nodded, beginning to smile at what she perceived to be a poetic analogy.

  ‘But actually it’s just damaged skin.’

  The smile dropped and Fame rolled his eyes.

  ‘Think of – I don’t know – a fucking broccoli,’ Sissy continued, with equal amounts of conviction and relish. ‘You buy it in the supermarket and it’s gorgeous and green and lush, right? Then you forget all about it and discover it a week later at the back of your fridge and it’s turning yellow. You don’t then fucking think, oh, how lovely, how fucking autumnal is my broccoli, do you? No. You think, fuck this, that’s too manky to eat. Into the bin it goes. One-fifty wasted or whatever. Autumn is the year DYING, you stupid fucks. It’s a fucking miserable time. And there’s those eejits who pay thousands to go on holiday to see it actually happening in, I don’t know, Maine or California or somewhere. It’s happening on your fucking doorstep, eejits. Like, right under your skin. All of us. Dying all the time.’

  Somehow she’d been derailed from her original point, but it didn’t matter. She was just as passionate about this one.

  ‘You’re cheery, aren’t you?’ Joanna quipped, sending a sly glance to Fame which enraged Sissy further.

  ‘A fucking realist is what I am. Sometimes I feel I’m the only one. Look at you lot all crashed out and swimming in bliss. You don’t know, you don’t know.’

  How to understand the truth of everything.

  ‘I look at all these people around me, all of them milling around, going to the pub after work, or the shops at the weekend, all of them just wittering away, frittering away their time, and I remember what my dad said, all right? He said people are stupid.’

  She allowed a short pause for the profundity of the statement to sink in.

  ‘I’ll admit, I thought he was out of order at the time for saying that, but what did I know? He was right. I wish… you know what I wish? I swear, what I wouldn’t give to sit down with him now, adult to adult, and tell him how fucking wise he was. I’d give him all the respect I didn’t give him when I was a kid. I mean, think about it, right? Look at it from his point of view. To die when your kid’s just seventeen is shite. You’ve had all those years of sleepless nights, your freedom gone, thousands of shitty nappies, having to be super patient as all the meals you’ve cooked get moaned about or chucked on the floor or whatever – I mean, wee kids are hard work. And then they grow up into cheeky fucking teenagers and all they bring you is stress because they’re so much fucking smarter than you, you know? And you’re just an old man, a joke to them, and then puberty leaves and their hormones finally calm the fuck down and they turn int
o something resembling an actual halfway decent fucking person, and then just as they’re about to leave home, go to uni, get a job, whatever, begin their own life outside of the home, and just as you’re about to get your own life back – wham. A fucking blood clot strikes you down. What a fucking fucker. Do you hear me? Do you know what I’m saying?’

  No one was listening. Fame and Joanna had melted away to join the main group. It enraged her. Such stupid fuckers all hunched over, look at them, not a shred of dignity between them, all scrabbling for the next joint, line, whatever. What did they know of life? Most of them were older than she was and had no idea of what was really important, or how swiftly their circumstances could change; how the world can pit itself against you in a single second. They had no idea of what it is to endure heartbreak, to be abandoned by those who should look after you, and somehow emerge stronger, find the will to rise above it all. All they cared about was their next high. Their ignorance was disgusting.

  Approaching the table, she elbowed her way in and took the rolled-up note from between Fame’s fingers.

  ‘What the fuck?’ he said, but by then she was hoovering up what was meant for him. ‘That was fucking mine!’

  She tossed her head back and wiped her nose with the knuckles of her free hand. She threw the note onto the table and stood up.

  ‘Hey, watch it, man,’ said somebody, aggrieved at having to move back to let her through.

  The room crackled with hostility but she didn’t care. She stepped over pairs of legs, lifting jackets and bags, searching.

  ‘I can never find anything in this place!’

  ‘What are you doing?’ Fame asked, as he followed her around the room. ‘This is not your fucking stuff, so why don’t you put it back.’

  She shoved a jacket into his chest. She didn’t want his stuff. He was stupid to think so. He barely warranted acknowledgement. She stepped round him, making sure her shoulder gave him a good thud as she did so.

  She went through the other rooms, the hallway, the kitchen; Fame’s irritating presence behind her the whole way, his voice bleating on. In the kitchen, she poured herself a large measure of rum and sipped it slowly, eyeballing Fame, daring him to utter a wrong word, make a wrong move.