Girl Seven

by Hanna Jameson

  With an exasperated sigh, she walked out of the room. I followed her and instantly spotted the group of men she was referring to. It was impossible to miss them, even with the club this crowded. They were making more noise than everyone else put together and I didn’t recognize any of them.

  Onstage, the Chinese girl was doing some contortion act, on her knees bending over backwards until the top of her head touched the floor. I could do that easily, I thought, but no one likes a show-off.

  I watched Daisy flirting with the irritating drunkards and kept an eye on them, willing them to cause more of a scene. I held back, trying not to catch any eyes and become occupied by work until I’d had the chance to go upstairs.

  Now I was here, actually doing it, my worry about getting caught far outweighed any guilt I felt towards Noel or Ronnie. Ronnie hadn’t done anything wrong, but I realized I had zero problem with screwing over Noel a little. All I needed to do was think back to his voice on the phone, speaking as if he suddenly didn’t know me, and didn’t want to...

  Bastard.

  What did I care if a couple of Russian upstarts took some cash from someone who was rich enough to have offered to keep me in a flat of my own more than once?

  I’d always turned him down though. I hated the idea of being owned by somebody like that.

  ‘Eh, sweetheart, can we get some ales over here?’

  ‘We don’t have... Wait.’ I waved a hand vaguely in the direction of the voice.

  ‘Hey, are you deaf, sweetheart?’

  ‘Why don’t you call me sweetheart again?’ I snapped, meeting the eyes of the dick sitting at the table to my right. ‘I’d really like that.’

  He shut up and I moved back and leant against the bar.

  Daisy was pretending to laugh along with one of the men: the youngest-looking guy with one of those stupid moustaches that had come into fashion in the more tragic and happening parts of the East End. She leant across him to get some empty glasses and he grabbed her ass. You almost couldn’t blame him.

  ‘Hey!’

  She slapped him with surprising strength. He pushed her. Glasses dropped.

  I ran towards them and caught the words ‘Crazy bitch!’ screamed into Daisy’s face before I grabbed his arm, twisted it up behind him and almost put my boot-heel through the back of his knee.

  Daisy kicked him again, for little reason. ‘Fucking touch me...’

  Even the girl onstage hesitated to stare at us.

  ‘Go get Ronnie,’ I said, and pushed the guy away from me on to the floor. ‘Now get the fuck out and take your friends with you.’

  Daisy winked at me and made an upstairs gesture to another of the girls nearer the stairwell.

  ‘Who the fuck are you, bitch?’ one of the others sneered at me, trying to help his friend regain his footing. Their eyes were bleary and aggressive with gin or Bacardi or whatever it was I could smell on them.

  ‘I’m the one who could break your face before my boss even gets down here to throw your sorry ass out,’ I said, leaning in. ‘So run along.’

  I left Daisy watching them with a smug smile and her hands on her hips, running over to the door to the stairwell as the Underground’s second manager, Ronnie O’Connell, came storming through it.

  He was well over six feet tall, so I barely even fell into his eyeline. He could tuck me under his armpit and carry me around like a clutch bag if he felt like it. He scared me, Ronnie. He scared me much more than Noel ever could.

  I slipped through the door before it had even shut and sprinted up to the deserted corridor and the open door of their office. I wasn’t prepared for the wave of nerves that hit me when I got there. In a million different mental scenarios Ronnie came back up and found me, his olive-skinned face and cruel brown eyes full of anger and suspicion, and asked me, ‘What the fuck are you doing in here?’

  Argh, fuck, come on.

  I ran my hands along the underside of the desk but it seemed too obvious. Noel kept the place so ordered that there wasn’t enough clutter to take advantage of. He emptied the bin twice a day. There was no dust on any of the surfaces. I tried to search for an object that I’d never seen move, that neither of them touched.

  There was a printer under the desk. It looked prehistoric compared to everything else in the room. I knelt, stuck the recording device behind it and switched it on. It had something like four days of battery life. Even if they did have to print something they wouldn’t find it unless they were looking.

  OK, OK, come on.

  There was no sound from the stairwell.

  I stood up and tapped a key on his laptop. It restarted but asked for a password. There was no time for me to wait around and try to remember the name of Ronnie’s wife and kids, so I left it and crept out of the office.

  The door at the bottom of the stairwell opened.

  Shit.

  I turned and ran towards the end of the corridor. Everything else would be locked. There was nowhere else to go but out of the fire escape as quietly as I could, not even shutting the doors properly behind me for fear of making too much noise.

  I crouched outside the doors, steadying them with my palms to stop any slamming.

  Shit. Shit!

  My stiletto heels were falling through the metal grating.

  There was no sound from inside.

  I stood up and shut the doors fully with a small click.

  It was cold at the top of the building. I was suddenly conscious of wearing little more than underwear. Baring my teeth against the bitter breeze, I walked with difficulty down the spiral stairs and into the road running along the side of the club. I looked left and right but there was nothing to see but the backs of restaurants and bars, skips and rats. No people, thank God.

  With as much dignity as I could muster, shivering, I let myself back through the staff entrance and into the dressing room.

  The Chinese girl, taking off her make-up, frowned at me.

  ‘Why did you go outside like that?’

  ‘I just... really needed a cigarette. Forgot my coat.’

  I sifted through the coat rack and through the pocket of my leather jacket for my mobile.

  Why the fuck had I mouthed off to those guys? Was it fucking bravado or something? Had I thought it was clever at the time? Probably. Stupid bitch. Now that I had hidden the recorder the idea of potentially having Ronnie O’Connell out for me was terrifying, and very real.

  When I found my phone I shut myself in the grotty staff toilet, sat with my feet up on the seat and called Alexei.

  Someone had written ‘Question everything’ on the wall. Someone else had drawn an arrow pointing to it with the counter-question, ‘Why?’

  ‘Da?’

  ‘Um... Hello, it’s Seven.’

  Silence.

  I filled it with sarcasm. ‘You know, I’m fine. Thanks for asking. Um, I did it. I put a recorder in their office and it’s on. I think it lasts for a few days.’

  A pause. ‘Good. That is a good idea. More immediately, Noel Braben’s password is much more interesting to us.’

  ‘Well, obviously I don’t know the password to his computer or anything. I mean, I could guess but after a few tries I think you get locked out.’

  ‘You change your story?’

  ‘No!’ I swallowed. ‘No, I’m just saying that it’s not likely I’d get it right, that’s all. Look, I know I said I could but, to be honest, I don’t think there’s any way I could get Noel’s password. We’re not on the greatest terms right now and—’

  ‘Stop talking. I am not interested by what you have to say.’

  I faltered, thinking that he might have sounded happier with me after I’d given him the prospect of eavesdropping on Noel and Ronnie’s office conversations. ‘Well, you obviously are to some degree, because otherwise I wouldn’t have this number, would I?’

  ‘I am not interested by your excuses. If you do not find this password, things will be very bad for you.’

  ‘But it’s just not
possible.’

  ‘That is not my problem.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘A name! An address! You cannot get any of these simple things?’

  I listened for the sound of anyone waiting outside to use the toilet, and whispered. ‘These aren’t simple things, OK? I can plant a recorder but things like names and addresses and stuff... I’m probably not going to be able to do that. Sorry.’

  ‘Then things will be very bad for you.’

  His vocabulary wasn’t extensive enough to articulate in any more detail exactly how he wanted to threaten me, but I was glad of it. I got the message.

  I searched for the right words, but in the end all I could say was, ‘Yeah. Yeah, I understand.’

  ‘You will find something more useful to us. If you call us again with any other questions and no further information, I will tell you exactly how bad things will get for you, so that we have no more cause for time-wasting. Do you understand?’

  ‘... I understand.’

  He hung up.

  I realized I’d been holding my breath and exhaled.

  ‘Fuck.’

  I took several deep breaths.

  ‘Fuck.’

  There was more anger coursing through my system than fear; anger at myself. I thought they would have been seriously impressed by what I’d done, and all I’d offered was sarcasm.

  Idiot.

  After staying in there for as long as I could get away with, I went and put my phone back in my jacket pocket. I hadn’t even had time to put my forehead in my hand and try to calm down when Daisy reappeared, swinging on the open door.

  ‘Hey, where did you go? Ron wants you to go upstairs and confirm what happened with those dickheads.’

  ‘Oh... Needed a cigarette.’

  ‘Right. Well, go on then. He’s got a proper mood on now.’

  For a moment, I wished that I was able to stomach alcohol. But then I composed myself and went upstairs, trying not to let any more emotion cross my face.

  8

  It was almost half three in the morning and I was sitting cross-legged on one of the club tables watching Daisy wipe the bar down. She had put more clothes on now the place was empty; a lumpy grey jumper with a Velociraptor and ‘Clever Girl’ splashed across the front.

  The floor was sticky.

  Daisy was talking about pornography.

  ‘You watch it too, right?’ she said, hopping up on to the bar for a rest. ‘This isn’t just me being a pervert?’

  I shrugged and lit a cigarette. ‘Yeah, I watch it. Sometimes I can’t be bothered though. Too much effort.’

  ‘But you know what I mean, right? You can never find a single decent fucking video if you’re a girl. It’s an outrage.’

  I threw the cigarette packet across the club at her and she caught it and lit one for herself.

  ‘Well...’ I said, inhaling. ‘Depends what you’re looking for.’

  ‘Don’t tell me you watch mainstream porn, it’s disgusting.’

  ‘Since when were you a porn hipster?’

  She flicked stray ash off her jumper and pointed at me. ‘Look, you, I’m not a hipster, I’ve just got taste, that’s all. You can’t seriously say mainstream porn turns you on? All the shit actors and choking and gagging and... you know, there’s not one genuine fucking orgasm in sight? The way they go on, you’d think we cum at the fucking sight of a cock.’

  ‘Yeah, but it’s for men, isn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t know what’s more insulting: that they don’t even consider me a proper customer or that men are turned on by those fucking amateur dramatics.’

  ‘What do you look for?’

  She played with her hair for a bit, giving some serious thought to her answer. ‘I just wanna see people fucking who actually want to fuck each other. It’s what porn is meant to be, watching people really enjoying a good shag! That’s where it’s all at: the amateur videos. The amateur lesbian videos, especially. That’s the only way you get anything quality.’

  ‘Didn’t know you were into ladies?’

  ‘I’m into all sorts. Cocks, cunts, tits, all of it.’

  ‘So everything’s fair game to you, then?’

  She took a drag and laughed. ‘Well, not ugly people. And I’m stuck with the fella, aren’t I, bless his heart.’

  I tried to imagine her watching pornography. I tried to imagine her with a woman. I stubbed out my cigarette in the ashtray behind me and motioned for the packet.

  She threw it back to me.

  ‘So... how’s it going with Monobrow?’

  I fiddled with my lighter. She was the only other person who knew, or who claimed to know. I had never actually confirmed anything or spoken to her about it properly. That way I could never be accused of lying.

  The silence was uncharacteristically tense for us.

  ‘I don’t think it’s going any more.’

  She nodded. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘He’s married; it was never going to go for long anyway.’

  ‘I think he really likes you, Kik.’

  I forced a smile, even though the mention of it all out loud was bringing the anger back. ‘He’s a prick... Actually, no, he’s not. He’s just... weak. Doesn’t know what he wants one day to the next.’

  ‘He won’t stay with her.’

  ‘He won’t leave her either.’

  ‘Go talk to him.’

  ‘Since when did you become a couples therapist?’

  ‘Just go to his house and talk to him! They’re dim, girl, they’re all really dim. They can’t take hints. Go talk to him.’

  The cigarette was starting to taste stale. ‘Maybe.’

  She was right. It was obvious; I did have to go to his house and talk to him, but not for the reasons she thought. At the time, I was sure everything was going to turn out all right, somehow. It was never my intention for anyone to get hurt.

  That night I dreamt about Seiko.

  One of my earliest memories of Japan, and of my mother, was being taught to deflect a compliment. It was the done thing there, deflection; not being too good, too distinguished. Mum embraced that idea more than Dad ever did. Maybe it was because he was Japanese and she was the other? The westerner? Maybe she just wanted to belong?

  The playground was dark and sullen with humidity.

  I went to a pre-school in Toshima-ku where they were shocked I could speak their language, looking as anglicized as I did. I had the straight dark hair, the skinny frame and the demure voice, but I was still clearly the other. My dark green eyes gave me away, the sallow tone of my skin and exaggerated size of my lips and nose.

  Mum walked me inside the gates with an umbrella hanging off her forearm, and started talking to some of the other mothers in broken Japanese. They humoured her, told her it was excellent, when it wasn’t.

  I spotted the only girl I liked, Seiko, and she waved at me.

  ‘Kiyomi is looking beautiful, Helena,’ said Seiko’s mother to mine.

  She was a sweet-faced woman whose teeth were a little too big for her mouth but I thought that only made her look more friendly.

  ‘No, she isn’t,’ Mum said, smiling.

  ‘She is beautiful.’

  ‘No, she isn’t. Thank you.’

  It was an ongoing argument between her and everyone around us who disagreed. To this day, I was never sure who I believed was right. But it was the first thing I remember being taught so overtly, how to deflect. No, not deflect. Reject.

  Seiko told me I was pretty when we were both a little older, when I had moved back to Tokyo for the second time and when we were both able to understand what it meant. It was a relief, coming back to Japan from London at the age of fourteen. I preferred the way I wasn’t leered at. I preferred not having to plan my walks home around the whims of men and their constant over-entitled harassment.

  I used to think that it was here, and only here, in this one city, that I felt a profound sense of calm. Now I realized it wasn’t the place; it was she.


  It was she who started calling me Seven, because of the OCD that dictated I do everything in sevens. I turned lights on and off seven times. I blinked in groups of seven if I got agitated. If I scuffed my heel on the road I had to stop and scuff it another six times...

  But it was all knocked out of me over time, when we moved to London.

  Seiko had inherited her mother’s features: the wide eyes and wide smile. I felt less on edge around people with open faces, where motives and thoughts and emotions could play out. It was ironic, given that I had always struggled to move beyond two or three of the most basic expressions. My smile was crooked. The rest of the time, regardless of what was happening, I looked like undiluted apathy.

  We were standing on a bridge in the gardens surrounding the Meiji Shrine, watching the fish, a few years before we both discovered what it was to really get drunk. I wished that humans could stand a chance of looking like those fish, with their silver and orange scales. Sunshine was wasted on skin like ours.

  Tourists passed back and forth behind us, sometimes pausing to take photos. But it was so quiet here. Even in the tourist spots, it was quiet.

  ‘You’re so beautiful, Seven,’ Seiko said.

  ‘No, I’m not,’ I replied.

  Even though her smile was trying to appear sad, she never quite managed to attain it. There was too much light and hope in her face.

  ‘Sometimes I think trying to get to know you is like trying to see through the top of a forest canopy,’ she said. ‘You don’t stand a chance of seeing what lives up there or how it works, but occasionally you can hope that something comes falling down.’

  9

  The next day I went back to Tooting. I surprised myself. So long with no inclination to return and now I’d visited twice within a few days, without any major breakdowns. They didn’t have the power I’d expected them to, my old roads and buildings. I was sure I’d feel differently the closer I got to the flat though.

  It was warmer; more like a proper summer and not the sad excuse for a July I’d become used to in England. During the winters the cold didn’t bother me; it was the tragedy of the summers that made me miss Japan.