He took his jacket off and put it round her. She could feel the warmth of his body close behind her.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?”
In her head she agreed.
“My own little part of the city.”
She turned around and could see him now. It was hard to tell in the light what colour his hair was but he was tall and his eyes were smiling. Butterflies danced in her stomach.
“I’m Paul.”
“Lena.”
There was sparse golden-brown stubble on his chin, with a hint of red; it rubbed against her cheek as he put his arms around her.
“If you invite everyone you’ve ever met and offer enough drugs and booze, someone interesting always shows up,” he said, hazily.
She wasn’t entirely sure what he meant by that but it made her smile nonetheless.
Chapter Four
Annie sat on a stool facing him, a trolley of food beside her.
“You should eat something. Keep your strength up. Just nod to let me know you’re not going to start screaming again.”
Paul snarled through the gag and fought to free himself from his binds.
Annie burst into forced, theatrical laughter. “Oh, please! Is that supposed to be intimidating?” She bent in close. “Are you nodding?”
With resignation he moved his head up and down. She pulled his gag down and he flexed his aching jaw.
“The ropes are hurting. I can’t feel my hands.”
With the first show of concern he’d seen from her, she bounced up from her seat then began carefully examining his hands, which were strapped to the arms of the chair. She felt around the rope on both sides; it was slack enough for her to fit two fingers under.
“Wiggle your fingers.” He did. With an air of authority, she kneaded one of his hands, like a doctor. Then she checked the rope around his ankles. “They don’t feel cold.”
She did another check of his hands and feet, then sat back down on her stool.
“They seem OK. See, I used hemp rope, the softest on the skin, and the Prusik knot, which should ensure the rope doesn’t tighten. You shouldn’t be too uncomfortable.”
“Well I am.”
“Just keep wiggling your fingers and toes and let me know if it gets any worse. We don’t want your circulation cut off.”
He sighed angrily in protest, resigned to the fact it was pointless.
Annie resumed the feeding, picking up the bowl of soup from the trolley. She put the spoon to his mouth, steam rising before him. He shook his head.
“Eat.” She forced some into his mouth. It burned his lips and he yelled in pain. Ignoring him, she dipped the spoon into the soup again.
He pursed his lips tightly. She tried to force the spoon in anyway, knocking his tooth in the struggle, pouring most of it down his chin.
“Eat.”
Paul turned his head away from her.
“Suit yourself!” she snapped.
The spoon clinked against the ceramic bowl as she dropped it impatiently. She stood up, knocked her stool over angrily and marched across to the armchair, which she sank into, pulling her knees up to her chin.
Paul saw an opportunity while his gag was off. “Look, I think you need help,” he said in the gentlest voice he could muster. “You need to contact someone. Is there a doctor, a friend that can help?”
“I’m not the one that needs help, Paul,” she seethed. “I’m not the one tied up, sitting in a pool of my own piss.”
He dropped his head.
“A grown man who allows himself to be tied up by a fifteen-year-old girl. You are pathetic, Paul.”
He looked her up and down suspiciously. “You’re not fifteen,” he said.
“Oh no?” She smiled with satisfaction.
“Don’t be stupid.” He shook his head.
“Wouldn’t be the first time you’ve had to explain the nature of your relationship with an underage girl, would it?”
He exhaled in exasperation. “What are you talking about?”
“Would it, Paul?” Her eyes bored into him.
“You’ve got the wrong person,” he said, worriedly. “Look, if something happened to you, you should talk to someone about it.”
“Don’t lie to me, Paul,” she hissed. “I know a lot more about you than you think.”
His mind was spinning in confusion. It didn’t seem like she was bluffing.
“Of course I’m not fifteen. But it’s interesting to know you can tell the difference.”
“What does that mean? What does that mean?” he raged angrily.
On her way out the door, she flipped the switch, plunging him into darkness again. Paul’s shoulders slumped; he was too tired now to even bother shouting.
Chapter Five
Lena lay awake, her eyes fixed on the thin streams of light leaking through plastic slatted blinds that hung crookedly in a window frame she didn’t recognise. She’d lain like that for some time, in a stranger’s bed, not wanting to move; her body sore and dried out, her tongue thick and oily with the taste of vodka and ash. The slightest movement set the room in motion.
The light fell in stark stripes across the thick blue duvet wrapped around her. A sweet smell of aftershave lingered in the cover’s fabric. She remembered waking briefly to find him lying next to her. But there was no one there now. There was no way of knowing how long ago he’d left.
Just in her eyeline on the floor beneath the bed were her trainers – the familiar white toe scuffed, the plastic seam loose along one side, the pair placed carefully together. Beside them, her drawstring bag. Her jeans and top she was still wearing. But, as far as she could see, no jacket. She must have left it lying somewhere. She guessed she would get it later. She sank into the pocket of warmth she had captured beneath the duvet. It was going to be a long, cold journey home. A small ripple of dread ran though her when she thought of the scene at home. Jason angry. Her mum worrying. It was hard to tell which way it would go: welcomed back with open arms, or full-blown neighbours-calling-the-police carnage. Both seemed equally good. Or bad.
Muffled voices carried thinly though the wall from the room next door. She wondered if his was one of them. Music too, dull and foggy in her ears, like her intake of colours and her output of thoughts. She watched the pattern of the light change, as the stripes grew and stretched and crept from the duvet to the floor. When they reached the opposite wall she decided it was time to get up and see.
Her first big move was to reach for her bag, an arm’s length away. The effort of lifting it from the floor to rest on her belly above the duvet brought her out in cold sweats. Next she rummaged weakly for her purse. Enough money inside for a half fare home. Her keys jangled; beside them, a mirror. She pulled it out and unfastened the clasp. After a quick glance at her reflection – the matted greasy hair, the powdery-grey mascara stains beneath her eyes – she snapped it shut and put it back, drawing the strings tight.
She swung her legs around, her stockinged feet resting on the sodden, cigarette-singed carpet. Taking a few moments to steady herself, she slipped on her trainers, rose from the bed, then delicately made her way out into the hall. Her feet squelched through soggy patches of faggy water spilled from makeshift bongs and beer that had leaked from the trail of half-empty cans.
The hall was empty, the lights were off and there were no windows. The only light was coming from a door off to the right, slightly ajar. As she moved quietly towards it she could hear voices over music on the other side. She tiptoed up to it and stopped to listen.
“You used to be allowed to be a quiet person,” a voice, local but well-spoken, was saying. “Now it’s all like, ‘Oh no, he’s that quiet boy. He’s quiet – I wonder what deep-seated issues he’s dealing with.’ Social skills? How about I demonstrate mine on you and next time you want to talk about social skills I poke you in
the fucking eye. I blame Tony Blair, with his big-toothed smile and dynamic personality. I’m growing up in an era of all style and no substance.”
“Do you think he’s read any of these?” a second voice responded.
“Who? Paul? Probably uses them for roach,” the first answered with flat disinterest.
“The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People? Eh, I don’t remember the habit of chibbin’ people that don’t do what you want. Eh, know whit ah mean, man?”
“Maybe they hand a copy to everyone leaving prison. To motivate them to become better criminals.”
“Well, you should be careful what books you give to people. Can be dangerous.”
“Education. Education. Education.”
Lena pushed open the door and entered. Two necks snapped towards her, one looking over the back of a two-seater couch, the other on hunkers beside a small bookshelf, one hand discreetly putting a book back between the others. Both faces were moulded into the plasticine smiles of people caught saying something they shouldn’t. An awkward silence followed.
“I’m looking for my jacket,” she announced and had a quick glance around the room. Her head was pounding, the cramps in her stomach wringing her insides out. Paul wasn’t with them.
“Another survivor. I didn’t know there were any more of us left,” said the one at the bookshelf with fake joviality as he retreated to the beanbag on the floor. In his late teens, he was dressed in trackie bottoms and a hoodie littered with bomber marks where hot coals had rolled out of a joint and singed the fabric.
“You look about as rough as I feel, doll.” The one looking up at her from the two-seater didn’t sound as well-spoken any more. He leaned over the back of the couch and passed her the joint he was holding. Long-haired and wearing an old Iron Maiden T-shirt and jeans, he had an unappealing, plooky quality. His skin was oily, with small breakouts around his forehead and chin, and he looked as if he hadn’t grown into his long limbs yet.
As she took smoke into her empty stomach, lights started flashing; everything became pale, her gut lurched. She grabbed a seat in the free armchair beside the couch. She could feel their eyes on her. The one on the beanbag patted his knees. “There’s a free seat right here if you want.” They sniggered. She chose to ignore them.
A third lad was sunk low on the couch. He hadn’t looked up as she came in. He was small, wearing a hat pulled down to his eyebrows; thick, milk-bottle specs poked out timidly from underneath it, as if he were a turtle emerging from its shell. He didn’t move but stared at her with enormous spaced-out brown eyes.
“You hook up with Paul last night?” asked the one on the beanbag.
“What?” Her ears were burning. She looked around the dishevelled room and spied what might be her jacket bundled up in the corner.
“You sure you know what you’re getting into?” the plooky one said under his breath.
“Remember. Don’t wear black eyes,” said the timid one.
Her heart began to race as she shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “Sorry?”
He indicated the space under her eye. “Black… smudged under your eyes.”
The others laughed loudly. The spacey turtle guy stared on in drugged confusion, his eyebrows and the top rim of his glasses disappearing under his hat, the hint of a grin on his face.
Lena tightened her arms around her stomach, trying to ease the cramps. The last time she’d eaten anything had been at lunch the day before. The clock on the wall said two. The game was over. It was time to go.
“If you ever fancy going out some place decent—”
The buzzer went and they all jumped to attention. “That’ll be Paul.”
The plooky one shot up and left the room to answer the door.
Lena held her breath in anticipation.
“Forgot my keys,” boomed a voice from the hall. She recognised it from the night before.
Paul bounced into the room, light on the balls of his feet like a boxer, and placed two bottles of Irn-Bru and a bag full of chocolate and crisps on the table. “Provisions!”
A flurry of hands grabbed for them.
“Everyone, this is William.”
The eyes of the room fell on the larger figure that had followed Paul into the room. Simian features and ape-like arms. He sat on the arm of the couch where the elbow of the plooky one had been resting.
Paul squashed into the armchair beside Lena and winked. The fresh smell of the outdoors that still clung to him came to her in wafts. The small finger of his right hand gently caressed the outside of her thigh.
She noticed how his presence invigorated the room. Both the conversation and the atmosphere changed. It took her a while to realise it was because they were showing off to him. Paul must only have been eighteen or nineteen, the same as them, but the rest behaved like children around him.
“So, are ya used to all the open space yet, Paul?” ventured the timid one.
“Six months? Didn’t even sweat it. Fuck. Three cooked meals, Sky TV, as much PlayStation as you could handle; had everythin’ I needed.” Paul leaned forward on the seat, so she could see only his back and the side of his head; she watched him intently as he commanded the room. “I tell you, the best week was in the infirmary, didn’t even have to get out of bed. Just rang my little bell, hot nurses came runnin’. Extra ice cream, know what I mean?” He grinned and winked, this time to the room, and she suddenly felt herself cheated.
“What were you in there for? Shanked?”
“Nah. Repetitive strain injury.”
“Too much Grand Theft Auto?”
“Too much wanking. Baws like watermelons!” Everyone laughed as Paul gave a demonstration to illustrate how heavy.
Lena watched as they hung on his every word. Even as he mocked and insulted them. She pulled her knees up to her chin and waited for a good time to leave, drawing the least amount of attention to herself.
“Cunt got what he deserved though,” Paul mused to himself.
“Messed with the wrong guy,” the one from the beanbag said, not so confident now.
“Someone eyes up your bird, what’re you meant to do?” Paul said with a thinly veiled threat, then sat back on the chair and reached his arm over the back, behind Lena.
“Hit him o’er the heid wi’ a ginger bottle and shove him in front of an oncoming taxi.” William’s voice rumbled like an ogre’s.
The room broke into uproarious laughter. Nervous and forced and resentful. Paul’s eyes were a blazing burst of energy.
“I heard it was because he called you a poof.”
The misguided comment silenced the group. William clamped his hand around the back of the plooky one’s neck. Lena watched the colour drain out of his pimpled face. Beside her she felt Paul’s muscles stiffen.
“What did you say?” growled Paul as he rose to his feet.
The plooky one tried to gulp the words back, his tone conciliatory. “Must’ve got it wrong.”
There was an awful moment before Paul spoke. “Guess you did,” he sneered. “How else could I have been fucking your maw?”
Everyone burst into laughter again, like a valve relieving the tension. Everyone except the plooky boy, whose ears were glowing red, agitation burning his face.
They started to disperse not long after. Lena found that it was her jacket crumpled in a ball in the corner and she gathered her stuff, finding comfort in surrounding herself with the familiar, resigned to going home.
“I thought you were going to stay longer?” Paul spoke quietly, out of earshot of the others. He gestured for her to wait while he showed them to the door. “Just give me five minutes. I need to speak to William.”
She hovered, unsure, then went back to her seat as they all left the room.
When he came back he placed a see-through bag packed full of pills and powders on the table. It was just the tw
o of them and the room was quiet. He sat down on the couch and patted the seat beside him. Almost against her will she found herself moving onto it.
“Are you feeling OK?” He laid the back of his hand on her forehead. “You’re pretty pale.” His voice was full of concern. “I think your blood sugar’s low. When did you last eat something?”
She shook her head miserably.
He got up and reached for the Irn-Bru. “Here, drink some of this, it’ll make you feel better.”
He poured some and gave it to her along with a packet of salt ‘n’ vinegar Discos. She took them. He smiled.
She looked into his face, the one she remembered staring out over the resting city. His fair hair was long at the back and formed curls at the nape of his neck. His skin was light brown, the kind that would go dark in the sun. His eyes, depending on the light, were green, brown, sometimes black. One eyelid was slightly heavier, as if one eye was open to the world while the other, narrowed, scrutinised it. Searching his face now, it was impossible to find any hint of malice. But for a horrible second in the midst of his bragging, its twists and contortions had made it a ferocious face, one she could imagine looming menacingly from a dark street corner or in the shadows at the back of a bus.
“You think I’m an asshole?”
“I don’t know.” She shrank back. Images of her mum waiting for her were going through her head, of Jason and all the commotion that would be unleashed when she got home.
His fingers ran though her hair. “You’re beautiful.”
“Don’t!” She pulled away.
“What’s wrong?”
She eyed him with mistrust. When other people said that, it was never meant as a compliment. The boys at school. It was always delivered with a sneer, with the expectation of something in return.
“You are,” he said, and in his earnest face she found no reason not to believe him. She felt the contour of his cheek and the sickness inside her melted away.
S K Paisley Page 3
