The Pink Cage

by Derbhile Dromey

  “You’re becoming a woman now,” he said in a gruff voice. “You need to know these things.”

  Matthew’s dry, clinical explanations bore little resemblance to what I was experiencing; they only served to further stoke my curiosity. I kept studying the diagrams, even when Matthew wasn’t there. My fingers left an imprint on the thin, gauzy pages. As I examined them, I felt Jazz’s hands on my skin, even though he wasn’t there. His phantom touch bewildered me.

  Jazz noticed my new shape too. His touch became more certain, more insistent. When he touched my buds, they became hard, the way they did when I touched them. And the sensation of pleasurable pain was greater. He ran his hands over the jutting curve of my hips and stroked the silky skin on the inside of my thighs. A hard, hot object pressed against me; I didn’t know what it was, but it caused heat to travel through me, spreading outwards from the depths of me.

  Jazz’s shape was also changing. His face began to lose its roundness and the sun turned it a warm brown colour. Hair began to sprout on his body, thick, springy hair that had a different texture to the hair on his head. Dumb-bells appeared in his room, lent to him by one of the boys he worked with. Matthew showed him how to use them and he practised with them every day. He didn’t like me to be in the room when he practised. The results of his efforts were pleasing. Though he was still soft in the middle, there was a new hardness in his arms; muscles rippled under his skin. My own arms were pale twigs compared to his. His legs were harder too, from moving around all day on the apple farm. His new muscles made his skin taut, as it stretched to accommodate them. And his voice was deep now, like Matthew’s, but with less gravel. I mapped the changes with my fingers, during our night-time interludes.

  Warm air circulated through the DJ Shack, moisture-laden air which covered my face with droplets of water and turned the dust on the floor into mud. The smell of creosote was stronger than ever. I was listening to Love Sex Intelligence, by The Shamen, a new record which Jazz deemed worthy of a one-off withdrawal from his apple farm funds. Jazz came in as I was resetting the record. The scent of apples mingled with his usual smell.

  “This is a good one,” I said to him. “It’s about sexual intercourse, isn’t it?”

  “You’re such a weirdo, you know that?”

  He gave me a playful punch on the shoulder.

  “How do you know about that stuff anyway?”

  “I’ve been studying it,” I said with a flourish, my chin jutting outwards.

  “You’re such a know-it-all,” he snapped.

  “It’s all in Matthew’s books. I can show you if you don’t believe me.”

  Jazz scuffed the ground with his foot.

  “Do you want to see them or not?”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  I sped to the house, retrieved the books and ran back to the shed. When I returned, Jazz was still standing in the same spot. The record was finished, but the needle remained in the groove. We returned to the chairs and I found the pages. Neither of us said a word as we looked at the diagrams.

  “Wow!” said Jazz. “They’re way better than the ones in my science book.”

  “Matthew always says the best way to gather information is from a live specimen.”

  Jazz’s head snapped up.

  “What do you mean?”

  His voice was thick. I stood up, leaned against the wall, lifted my skirt. My knickers fell to the ground. Only the sound of Jazz’s ragged breathing broke the silence.

  “You shouldn’t,” he said.

  In the silence, his voice was magnified. I stayed still, entranced by the unexpected tingling that spread through me. Jazz didn’t look away. Instead, he stood up and began moving towards me with slow steps, until he was in front of me.

  “Can I... can I?”

  I reached out and guided his hand under my skirt. He stroked the pearl-smooth surface, then burrowed into the folds of skin underneath. The skin began to throb and the tingling intensified. The hard hot object pressed against my hip. Tumescence; I knew what it was now from Matthew’s book. Jazz kept rubbing me, his fingers moving back and forth, soft at first, then harder. Hot liquid spurted out of me. My lips parted and I sighed. Jazz made a strange grunting noise and took his hand away.

  “I have to go,” he muttered.

  He ran out of the shed and slammed the door. I stayed where I was. Warm waves crested over me. When they began to recede, I lifted my hand up to my face and examined the liquid. In the semi-darkness, my fingertips glistened.

  Jazz burst through the door of the kitchen. The noise he made caused me to drop my book. His excitement was palpable.

  “You’ll never guess,” he said.

  “Not if you don’t tell me.”

  “There’s a party next week after we finish. Well, in the evening. There’s going to be a barbecue and a disco after. And they want me to do the disco.”

  Ora rushed over to him and flung her arms around him, even though her hands were covered in flour.

  “Oh, Geoff, that’s wonderful news,” she said.

  “Is it going to be a rave?” I asked.

  Jazz disentangled himself from Ora.

  “No, it’s just a kid’s thing. Just for a couple of hours.”

  But his smile belied his words. His teeth looked very white against his tanned skin. I stood up.

  “Could I go?”

  The smile left Jazz’s face.

  “It’s just not right,” said Jazz. “There’ll be, you know.”

  He looked at his shoes.

  “What will there be?”

  “You’re a bit young, Astrid,” Ora said.

  “No, I’m not. I’m almost a teenager. In some countries I could be married.”

  “I’ll tell you all about it after. And you can help me put my set together. I’ll need a hand.”

  I pulled myself up to my full height.

  “This is indeed a great honour,” I said, in my deepest voice.

  Jazz punched me on the arm.

  “Eejit,” he said.

  But he was smiling. I smiled too, a secret, knowing smile. Nobody was going to prevent me from witnessing Jazz’s first proper DJ set.

  As soon as Jazz came home each day, we raced to the DJ Shack, where we spent hours creating his set. Jazz tested mounds of records, most his own, but some belonging to his new-found friends. He used me as a sounding board, asking me which tunes I thought flowed best. I endeavoured to give him my considered verdict. Without prompting, I handed him records and pulled up faders. The set took shape, became a continuous rush and gurgle of beats, like a river flowing into the sea.

  When Jazz and Ora arrived at the car to load the equipment, I was already there, leaning against the boot. I wore a straw hat, a check shirt and one of my new pairs of jeans. My hair was arranged in its grown-up style and I wore a pair of dark shades which wrapped around my face. They were a present from Ora.

  “What are you dressed like that for?” Jazz said.

  “Don’t I look rustic?”

  “Oh yes, you do. You look lovely,” said Ora, sounding anxious but eager.

  “You’re not going,” Jazz said, his arms folded across his chest.

  Though his voice was still soft, there was a new tone to it, full of confidence and authority.

  “Yes I am. All good DJs need an assistant. That’s what you said.”

  I folded my arms across my chest too. Jazz sighed.

  “All right. Fine. But you’re to stay with me the whole time.”

  We ate the barbecue in a field, at a long wooden table. Ora presided over one of the barbecues and helped serve plates of food. Jazz’s friends began their usual tickling and punching routine.

  “Don’t,” I squealed.

  “Leave it off,” Jazz growled.

  But I
didn’t want them to stop. It felt good. Grown up.

  We ate juicy steaks, sausages which cracked in the middle and big floury potatoes. The food was delicious, but for once, Jazz didn’t eat much. He kept disappearing to check on his music and equipment. One of Jazz’s friends was supplying a proper DJ system, with huge speakers and lights. As I approached Jazz to see if he needed help, my path was lit by big revolving discs that flashed and spread pools of colour all over the field. The DJ system was perched on another long table. It was dusk now, almost time to begin, but there was no sign of Jazz. I called his name and a shadow emerged.

  “Are you ready?”

  “Yeah. I was just rigging the lights. There’s loads of requests already. Good thing most of the songs are on the set anyway.”

  “Cool.”

  “Time to go,” he said, with a loud intake of breath.

  His fingers hovered over the decks, zeroed in on a fader at the centre of the mixer. He pulled it up and pressed a button. The sound wobbled a little, then settled. A mellow trickle of beats leaked out over the field. People began to appear, the setting sun turning them into long-limbed shadows. It was hard to tell them apart from the trees which lined the field, keeping watch. They stood in black clumps, not moving.

  “Aren’t they supposed to be dancing?”

  “No-one dances at the start,” Jazz said.

  His voice was calm, but there were vibrations in it. I picked up a record from the pile and handed it to him.

  “Maybe this will help,” I said.

  A white flash of teeth told me that Jazz was grinning. He inserted the record. A voice urged us to pump up the volume. There were loud cheers. As the beats built, the people began to move, their limbs waving, buffeted by imaginary winds. Midges burrowed into my skin, but I brushed them aside. As it grew darker, the lights became more visible. They turned into beams which bounced across the field, casting a glow over the crowd. Here and there, I saw splashes of colour, similar to the colours of the lights. The crowd turned into cartoon figures, paper-thin, insubstantial.

  The beats became more frenetic and the bodies formed strange shapes, trapezoids, hexagons, oblongs. All of Jazz’s numbered and lettered bands made an appearance, some of them unexpected.

  “Why are you playing that?” I hissed at Jazz, as the air filled with the sound of mice being heated in a microwave oven.

  “Got a request.”

  “But it isn’t on your set.”

  “Doesn’t matter. You’ve got to give them what they want.”

  There was a chair beside Jazz, but I didn’t sit on it. I took requests from the dancing figures as they emerged from the darkness. Under Jazz’s direction, I searched for the records he needed. Whenever he reached for a record, it was there, waiting for him. Apart from the requests, I forgot about the dancing figures. I just let myself be carried forward by the current of beats, which swelled as the set reached its climax. Jazz finished with The Prodigy, Everybody in the Place. As he pushed up the fader, I pressed a button and the bassline thrummed through the speakers. The limbs of the crowd flailed, made scissor motions.

  “Cool,” said Jazz. “I never thought of doing that.”

  As the song neared its end, Jazz pulled the fader down in a long, slow movement, letting the beats die away. The crowd filled the silence with cheers, which we heard from a distance. Jazz pulled me towards him and threw his arms around me. Everything disappeared. There was just the heat that rose from his body and the feel of his arms around me. Then he let go and I became aware of figures surrounding the decks, returned to their earthly form now that the lights were dimmed. They clapped Jazz on the back and hugged him. I stood to the side and let the lingering warmth of his touch seep into my skin.

  Martin the Merciless

  I swam to the surface. Light hammered my eyes. I squeezed them tight shut, flinching away from it. My hands fluttered at my sides and made contact with rough material. My dress. Why was I still wearing my dress? With my face buried in the pillow, I reached out for my shades. My hand hit something hard, which sloshed and wobbled. A glass of water. Where did that come from? My fingers clamped around it. I unpeeled myself from the sheet and brought the glass to my lips. The room tilted; my stomach tossed and heaved. My head was transformed into a bag of cement; it sagged under its own weight. The sips of water failed to wash away the orange drink taste that flooded my mouth. Mia’s side of the bed was empty. Unslept-in. The silence echoed. Where was she? Oh yes, Johno. She was clinging to a different rock, but her departure left no scar. I tried to retreat to my ice fortress, but Jazz waited for me there, pinning me down with his cold, quiet words, crushing my lips. I couldn’t keep him at bay now. The covering veil was torn away. Bile rose in my mouth and I covered it with my hand, swallowed it back.

  I sat up, looking for escape, my movements as slow and careful as an old woman’s. As I swung my feet around, something pierced my flesh, cut through the fog in my brain. It was the heel of my shoe. I moved my foot away and something skittered across the floor. An orange basin. What was that doing there? Think you’ve had enough. I bent over it and watched as a river of bile gushed into it. When I was finished, I sank to the floor and rested my head on my hands. My insides were emptied, raw.

  An eternity passed before I felt able to stagger to the wardrobe. The face that greeted me in the mirror was dishcloth grey. Behind my shades, my eyes wandered, unable to find their still point. I moved away from the mirror, from the spectre of myself in clown clothing. Hologram. White witch.

  I sank back onto the bed and flipped my phone open, filling the screen with Jazz’s face. I traced the full outline of his lower lip and typed the words:

  Got it on wit rock god. Shwd him wots wot.

  The words looked hollow on the screen and filled me with that grey, Sunday-morning sensation of waking up on grubby polyester sheets. I deleted them. I stood up and ripped the dress off of me. The material tore. I bunched it in my hand and shoved it into the bin in the corner. Gulps of water fortified me as I struggled into my ski suit; I willed the liquid to remain in my stomach.

  As I pushed open the door, I heard a babble of voices. My head tightened. The Cabbage Patch Kids stood in their phalanx formation, talking and laughing as they waited for the bus. Their laughter was alien. As I reached the bottom, the babble began to fade, creating a vacuum. Oh yes, last night. Snatches of conversation began to play in a loop... can’t handle a proper woman... hate to interrupt your Greek tragedy... neat label for you to hide behind... invertebrate... tired of fighting... tired of fighting. The last sentence snagged, like a CD fallen victim to scratches.

  They were loitering, blocking my escape path. I rammed through them. Shoved them aside like skittles. The babbling rose again, increased to the level of a dull roar. In the midst of it, I detected a shrill nasal whine. Not even an apology. Well, she needn’t think she’s coming back next year. The words swirled in the air, but they passed over me. I was drowned; the water was closing over my head.

  Mia and Johno stood closest to the door, nose to nose, whispering. Well shot of her, stupid bitch. Jazz’s sweet-and-sour breath blew into my face. My stomach heaved. I reached for my trusted store of Latin verbs, but only one came to mind: amo amas amat. To love. Generic.

  Outside, cold air blasted into my face, but failed to lift the fog from my brain. A wave of dizziness passed over me; the world was tilting on its axis. I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes. After almost a week, I still wasn’t accustomed to the light; it bludgeoned me with its hammer blow.

  “Oi, sleeping beauty.”

  My eyes jerked open. Martin was standing in front of me. His decibel level was off the scale this morning.

  “Ready to be bested?”

  “I don’t think skiing will be possible for me today.”

  I injected my voice with as much dignity as I c
ould muster. Martin leaned in close to me.

  “Don’t think you’re getting off that easy,” he said.

  His voice was low this time, but its message was clear.

  The grey lady’s room was different from all the other rooms. It was a soft room. The carpet was the colour of Mrs O’Brien’s vegetable soup when she put carrots in it. There was a fireplace, but it didn’t make the same sound as the fireplace at home; there was a hiss, but no crackle. A table stood by the window. Its legs curved at the top and it was covered in pieces of paper, like Matthew’s, except that these papers were in neat piles. A cup stood on a little mat at the edge, but it didn’t have any coffee in it, only pens. There were no curtains, but there were blinds on the windows, so the room looked a bit dark even in the daytime. The light came from two lamps on either side of the fireplace.

  I was only in the grey lady’s office twice. She was the grey lady because her hair was grey and she always wore grey dresses. The first time was with Mrs O’Brien and the brown lady. I wore my pink dress and pink hair slides to match. The hair slides were a going-away present from Mrs O’Brien. They didn’t hurt, but they stuck to my hair. I kept reaching up to touch them. My dress smelt of washing. The material was stiff and made my skin itch. The grey lady sat at her table, under the window. Mrs O’Brien and the brown lady sat opposite her, on two pink armchairs. I leaned against Mrs O’Brien’s armchair. Mrs O’Brien ran her fingers through my hair. The grey lady asked me if I wanted something to drink, but I said no. Cups clinked on saucers. Conversation floated over my head. I got up and wandered over to the fireplace. There was a small table next to it, covered in green balls. I wondered what the balls were for. There was a round space in the middle of the board. When I pressed it with my finger, I found a little hole where a ball was supposed to be, so I moved one of the balls into it. It was heavy and made a clacking sound. But now there was another space. I kept moving the balls to try and fill the spaces. The clacking sound they made was satisfying. Holes kept appearing, no matter how often I moved the balls. Before I reached the end, one of the balls slipped out of my hand. I crawled on my hands and knees, but couldn’t find it, so I went back to Mrs O’Brien’s chair. Words floated down towards me and became stuck together. The warm air made my eyes droop.