Disconnected

by Sherry Ashworth

  “No, not at all.”

  I didn’t know whether to believe him. Then Spence came back.

  “Have you explained?” he said to Taz.

  “He has,” I said. “Thanks for the drink.” I got up, a little unsteadily. “Don’t worry about me,” I said. “I’ll get a taxi.”

  To Taz (5)

  The worst thing was thinking that you didn’t trust me enough to tell me you thought you might be gay. I’d imagined we were so close you could have told me anything and not been afraid of my reaction. If you’d broken it to me gently, it wouldn’t have been such a shock. I would have been taken aback, I guess, but I would have got used to it. Honest. But finding out in the way I did left me spinning. One minute you were straight and fancied me, the next you were gay and fancied Spence. Well, OK, not gay but bisexual. Yes, I was upset, and it took some getting used to. I was hurt by the fact that you hadn’t told me sooner. Did you think I was so straight and boring and narrow-minded I could never have accepted that you were confused about your sexuality? You made me feel our relationship had been a sham, that you didn’t trust me. That you didn’t like me as much as I liked you.

  So I felt a fool, a proper idiot. Firstly, for not sensing the fact you were different. Then for just about everything that had happened that night. For my bizarre idea that you would want to sleep with me. For the fact I was crazy enough to set you up. For not realising as soon as Spence walked in the flat that he was gay – that should have been startlingly obvious. But I guess I’m just not used to stuff like that. And for going to Satin with you and never picking up for one moment that I was out of place, unwanted. I felt stupid, and betrayed. Angry with myself, and angry with you. And lonely. Because without realising it, you had become my best, my only true friend.

  But lonely isn’t a big enough word. It was more than that. I felt cut adrift. I’d left my old life and thrown in my lot with yours. Because you were so different I felt that just by being with you, I was different. That I was saying something about me because I chose to be to your almost-girlfriend. But now I was back where I started. A failed rebel. A rebel without courage. A rebel without you.

  Sorry if this sounds over-dramatic, but it was what went through my head initially. Later, some time later, I saw my initial reactions had been selfish. I was angry, I was betrayed, I wasn’t taken into your confidence. So I tried to think about you, and why you never had the courage to tell me you were bisexual. I guess it was easier for you to compartmentalise your life. It’s easier to be one person at a time. When you were with me, you were one Taz, with Spence, another. With your parents, I reckon, another. A good way to live, because as soon as you get fed up with one side of yourself, you can morph into another. Multiple personalities. Several lives in one. It’s naïve to think that anyone is just one person, that there’s a real you. What is real? You can only exist in one moment, and then that moment is gone. And there’s a new moment, a new you. And you can’t even say you’re the sum of all your parts, because you can never be all of your parts, all at once.

  I guess I was glad to have at least one side of you. Maybe that was all you could ever have of anyone. Maybe relationships start going wrong when you want all of someone.

  So I could see it from your point of view. I’d succeeded in rationalising the situation.

  But the funny thing was, I still felt angry, stupid and betrayed. That was why I didn’t get a taxi that night but went to Victoria Gardens to see if Mac and Steve and Bex were there. So in a way, it was because you let me down that I met Jan. A direct line connects you.

  Look at me. I’m Cat, sometimes Cath, sometimes Cathy. And I’m Catherine too. No one can have all of me.

  To Jan

  That was the night I first met you – the night I walked out of Satin, rejected.

  I made my way to Victoria Gardens, noticing that the streets were quiet, much quieter than Saturday. The people in town had a shifty air, as if they should have been at home in front of the TV or something. I knew there was a good chance Mac and everyone might not be in the Gardens but I didn’t want to think as far as that. I just wanted to walk, to move away from what had just happened.

  Got to the Gardens. There they were. Just Mac and Steve. I quickened my pace, my mouth preparing itself to smile. Steve acknowledged me with a nod. I sat by them.

  “Where’s Taz?”

  “Somewhere or other,” I said. Even though he betrayed me, I wasn’t going to split on him.

  “You two had a row?”

  I shook my head. Steve and Mac seemed a bit down, not their usual selves. I didn’t feel I knew them well enough to ask why. Steve was singing something slow to himself, tapping his foot on the asphalt. Mac just stared.

  I looked around the gardens. Saw a man asleep on a bench, an overcoat over him. You were on the bench almost but not quite opposite us. When I looked at you, I noticed you were looking at me. Big embarrassment. So we immediately averted our gazes.

  Then I thought it was odd to see a girl by herself. I don’t think I’d have stayed in the Gardens if Mac and Steve hadn’t been there – I don’t like being alone. The fact you didn’t seem to care made me think something had happened to you. Maybe you’d been thrown over by some bloke, had a row with him. Or maybe you were a junkie waiting for your supplier. You were my age, but you had a look that made me think you might be older. I noticed your long hair and its centre parting, the fact you were wearing a skirt, and your three-quarter-length sheepskin coat, a rather tatty one. It was far too big on you. You were listening to a Walkman too.

  It was rude to stare, so I stopped paying you attention. Instead I told Mac and Steve I had some booze with me. I brought out the vodka. The bottle was still over half full. There was a stirring of interest. I passed the vodka between us. I was aware that you were watching us closely now.

  “Who’s she?” I asked Steve, who was sitting next to me.

  “Dunno. She’s been there half an hour or so.”

  You still had your eyes on us. I knew you wanted some of the drink and I couldn’t see why I shouldn’t offer you some. I didn’t feel sorry for you. It wasn’t that. I felt that you were one of us, and it would be wrong to leave you out. Also, I wanted to find out what you were doing there. And I wanted to cheer myself up, to forget about what had just happened to me. It was still quite early, just after nine.

  I got up and walked over to you.

  “D’you want to join us?”

  You looked up at me and grinned.

  “Yeah, all right, then.”

  You sat next to me on the bench and I noticed how thin your legs were. So thin that I didn’t even feel jealous in the way you always do when you see a girl thinner than you. I wondered for a moment if you were anorexic – there was a girl in our class once who had an eating disorder. Your sheepskin coat stunk. It was musty and old. I passed you the vodka and you took a long, grateful slug from the bottle.

  “I’m Cat,” I said.

  “Jan,” you said quickly.

  I noticed you held on to the bottle. I didn’t mind. Maybe you needed it. I wasn’t going to ask you any questions ’cause I knew that could be scary. I just hoped you’d talk. And to my surprise, you did. A lot of it was f-this and f-that, which I wouldn’t have thought so much of, if it was coming from a bloke. And don’t worry, I won’t repeat all your bad language here – it will give totally the wrong impression.

  “These your mates?” you asked. Didn’t wait for an answer. “They’ve been here for ages. Don’t do much. I’ve been listening to Queen Latifah. She’s top. I’m not saying I don’t like blokes doing hip-hop – Dr Dre is cool and that, and I like Snoop, but she’s wicked.”

  Your words came out like machine-gun fire, like your mind was working faster than your mouth. You still hadn’t let go of the vodka but I didn’t care. I just couldn’t work you out. From the outside you looked like you might be homeless or something, or someone from one of those really bad housing estates that are in the local papers all
the time. And your voice was coarse and aggressive. But what you were saying struck me as clever, as clever as anything I’d read or heard. So I had to re-assess you. I wanted to keep you talking.

  “But what about the violence in rap? A lot of it is against women.”

  “Yeah, right, I know that.” You carried on with the vodka. “But it’s like, you don’t listen to the words in that way. You listen to the music too. The beat. And it’s like, you’re one who’s rapping. You don’t listen and think, this guy would beat me – you think you’re doing it to someone else? Like you think of someone you hate when you listen to Snoop.”

  “I suppose I do,” I said, interested.

  “Here,” said Mac. “Pass it along.”

  Your eyes darted in his direction. I noticed you flinched. Very reluctantly you handed me the bottle. I gave it to Mac and Steve who took some. I had a mouthful myself then passed it back to you. For some weird reason, it felt as if it was yours now.

  “Listen,” you said. You passed me one of the earpieces of your Walkman and I put it in my ear. We listened to Queen Latifah together. I liked it. It was raw. When Mac and Steve got up to go I didn’t mind. I was slightly pissed, I liked you, I liked the music and everything felt cool again.

  I wondered then if I could probe a little.

  “D’you live round here?” I asked.

  “Yeah – not far – with my mate Sally. She’s all right.”

  So you weren’t homeless but it sounded as if you’d left home.

  “Are you at college or…?”

  “No.” This briefer answer told me to lay off for a while. I volunteered some information about me. I told you I was at school but it was pissing me off. I thought you’d look down at me for mentioning school – it has to be the saddest word in the English language – but you didn’t. You started one of your rants again.

  “School? Yeah – crap, isn’t it? Except for English. I liked my English teacher. He read us these brilliant poems and then we had to, like, write our own. He said, make up your own rules. A poem has to have rules, he said, but you can make them up. So I used to do these crazy things, like write poems all round the edges of the page, and colour in the rest black or something. And he freaked and said it was good. Really good. And then sometimes he just read us stories. Good stories. There was one, once, about this kid who built a cart or something – no, his Dad did, and then he went down the hill in it and some bus ran him over. It made me cry. Mr Shepherd, he was good at reading. Yeah.”

  I wondered if you had any GCSEs but it’s not a thing you can ask. Even though to everyone I know it feels like such an important thing. By now I was happy to let you have all the vodka. I reckon that was why you had so much to say – you were getting completely leathered. I wondered if you were an alcoholic, only you seemed a bit young to be one. An alkie was an old bloke, reeked of beer, hunted around in bins and staggered around the town centre late at nights, or sat in the Gardens looking wrecked. The vodka was making you higher by the minute.

  “I like it here,” you said. “They leave you alone here. It’s, like, the only bit of town like that. Well, some of them leave you alone. But you meet some right bastards. Your mates seem OK. D’you come here a lot?”

  “Yeah, I do,” I said.

  “I’ll see you again, maybe.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I’d like that.” I was telling the truth. I’d found everything you’d said interesting. You were different to Lucy and Fliss and Toni and everyone. It also felt good to have a friend in the Gardens who was female. I got on with Bex OK but it felt kind of superficial. You and me, Jan, we were sitting sharing a Walkman and vodka and it was good.

  “I’ve had a crap evening,” I said suddenly.

  “Yeah? Why?”

  You were genuinely interested. I told you about discovering Taz had a boyfriend, and how stupid I felt not realising. Though you were drunk and getting drunker by the minute, you listened attentively.

  “Queers are all right,” you said. “It doesn’t matter, him being a poof.”

  Your language shocked me. I only ever used the word ‘gay’, or ‘homosexual’ if we were having a discussion in class. But I liked the way you forgave Taz on my behalf. It helped me to begin to forgive him.

  I knew it was late now, and that I’d better be getting home. I guessed I should be able to get a taxi easily enough. You’d finished the vodka and I was beginning to worry about you. I thought it would be wrong to leave you completely out of it in the middle of the Gardens. You wouldn’t be able to look after yourself.

  “Hey, Jan, I’ve got to go,” I said. “Do you want to share a taxi?”

  For a minute I thought you were going to say yes. You looked pleased, grateful. Then your mind kind of stumbled like it does when you’re pissed.

  “No,” you said. “I got to be somewhere. But look, do you have any change?”

  I got out my purse. I only just had enough for the taxi and I said so, but gave you a couple of 20p pieces I found.

  “No, thanks anyway,” you said, and gave them back to me, not angrily, but like it wasn’t enough. I hesitated. Ought I to give you my taxi money?

  “I need the rest to get home,” I said guiltily.

  “It don’t matter,” you said. “I’m all right now.” You looked far from all right. You were fumbling with your Walkman as you tried to stop the tape and fit everything into your pocket. You hair hung over your face like a curtain so I couldn’t see your expression.

  “I’m all right now,” you said again. “Like, effing brilliant. I’m going to this party. All my mates are there. And my boyfriend who’s dead fit and he’s got this ring for me, he’s gonna ask me to marry him. But I’m late, so I’ll see ya, Cat. Thanks for the booze. I’ll see you again.”

  I was scared now as I thought you might be mentally ill. I’d heard my mum going on about care in the community and I knew that lots of mental patients were on the streets. Because that stuff you were saying about a party, it was crap and we both knew it. And I think I would have stopped you if you hadn’t got up then and walked away fast, determined, as if you wanted to get away from me.

  No, I didn’t feel sorry for you. I liked you, plain and simple. I hoped that by hanging round the Gardens I might see you again, like you said. You were someone I could talk to, if I needed. So I left the Gardens and went to hail a taxi.

  To Dave (3)

  So it was about then I began drinking more regularly. What I mean is, it wasn’t just when I went out. There were other times. Secret times.

  It helped that my parents were quite heavy drinkers too. But hold on – I’m not blaming them. If there hadn’t been drink in the house I would have found some elsewhere. It’s not as though it’s difficult to get hold of. It was just that having booze in the house simplified matters. There was still loads left from the party, and Dad had been on a trip to Germany and come back with even more. I took a whole bottle of gin and no one noticed it had gone. No one said anything. I reckon Dad thought Mum had drunk it and Mum thought Dad had drunk it. There was a kind of conspiracy of alcohol in the house. If Dad complained about Mum’s drinking, she could equally complain about his.

  And it was quite easy for me to go into the offie, different ones. My parents were always generous with money. They were proud to be able to give it to me, proud to be able to say that their daughter didn’t need to have a Saturday job – she was free to concentrate on her A-levels. Yes, I know that was a bit of a joke. But providing for their daughter was a big thing with them. And I had a special clothes allowance too; they put thirty quid a month in and I was supposed to buy my shoes, school clothes, stuff like that out of it.

  More of a problem was disposing of the bottles. Sometimes I wrapped them up in old supermarket carrier bags and put them in the wheelie bin. Or I’d take them to school and throw them in bins on the way. When I couldn’t be bothered – if I was too pissed at night – I put cans in an old rucksack I had and hid it in my wardrobe.

  I’d
drink beer, but mainly I liked spirits because you could hide them in things and disguise the taste. I kept a bottle of Coke in my bedroom. So some nights I would go to bed early and have something to drink. I’d bought some good music around that time – Queen Latifah. You’ve not heard of her? She’s wicked. I just listened to that and the drink cheered me up.

  Or another thing I would do – not every day, though – would be to pour some vodka or gin into a vacuum flask, and take it to school. Around lunchtime I’d go to the toilets and it was easy to slip into a cubicle and have a swig before lessons. It helped me get through the day. OK, so I admit I wasn’t just drinking to have fun any more. This was a new stage. But I know you won’t judge me. What’s so terrible about having a quick drink? Other kids smoked in the toilets and they were risking being caught. I wasn’t. And it’s wrong to drink and drive – I’d never do that, not ever – but drink and go to Geography lessons – there’s no law against it. And when you think about it, there are all these businessmen who go for business lunches – my Dad’s one of them – and they drink like fish, then go back to the office and work. I’m seventeen, an adult. So why can’t I? It was a bit rank, having to drink in the toilets, but I wasn’t keen on my friends knowing. Because they’d have been all concerned and would have split on me to a teacher, saying it was for my own good, which is what people say to justify interfering in your life. It was my choice to drink. I liked it. It helped me. When I drank I formulated all these plans about how I would leave school and get a job to earn some money so I could travel. Or even that I would start working again – tomorrow. Drink does that to you – it makes you feel capable of anything.

  So you won’t be surprised to hear that I dived into the toilets and had a mega-swig of vodka before the time my parents came in for the Meeting – them, Mrs Dawes, the Head, and me. They were going to sort me out once and for all.

  To Mrs Dawes (3)