Special, p.12
Special, page 12
She pulled out the long blade and ran her finger down the blade. It was so blunt that all it left was a red mark like a fold on her skin. She shoved the knife into the side of her hip, the fat bit she hated but no one else ever saw. It didn’t connect; the cloth of her trousers was gettting in the way. She pulled them down and picked up the knife again, gripping it in a proper stabbing motion like murderers were supposed to do. She raked it deep and hard into her hip.
The pain made her eyes water. She looked down. The knife had been too blunt to go to the bone, but blood was beginning to seep out of the cut. Wimp, she thought. Cant even do that properly. Fucking wimp. Coward. Cant even give yourself what you deserve. Stupid fucking cow. All the frustration, all the weariness at bullying herself into how she ought to be, all the wormish tedium of her hate, all of it went into the knife. She shoved it back into her skin again and again down and down, plunging at herself.
The pain was immediate, a pure, straightforward kind of hurt. It felt right. It felt better.
. . . Friday
There was whispering in the dusk and a high-pitched squeak. The light from a torch wavered over the ceiling.
‘Lipstick,’ someone was saying. ‘Lipstick. Over here.’
Ali rolled over and pulled the covers over her head. Underneath the bedclothes she had a book. If they would just shut up, she might actually be able to get some reading done. Someone shuffled past her on the way to the bathroom, clutching a bag of make-up.
Ali turned on her side and watched Caz applying mascara. Her hair was pinched back in a blue headband and her lips rumpled awkwardly as she concentrated. Ali found herself riveted by the delicacy of the little brushstrokes, their gentleness and patience, when all she knew of Caz was not gentle or patient.
Caz clipped the mirror compact closed and ran a finger over each eyelid. She caught Ali’s gaze and smiled before Ali could look away. ‘Does that look OK?’
‘Amazing.’ With the torchlight shining sideways on her face, Caz seemed transformed: darker, older, elegantly menacing. ‘You look about eighteen.’
‘Excellent.’
Jules came back into the room. She had spent over an hour making herself up, but the mascara and the lipstick against her pale ungrown face seemed more garish than Caz’s efforts. Jules looked like a simulated woman, thought Ali, not like a real one. The dress she was wearing fitted so closely it looked as if it had been painted onto her.
‘Shit.’ She bent over and waved her hips in Caz’s direction. ‘Can you see my knickers in this?’
‘Yes. Never bothered you before.’
Jules straightened up fast. ‘You ready?’
Hen reappeared in the doorway. She had done what she could to wake up her face and had put on a pair of tight black satin trousers. She alone seemed unsure, neither as nervy as Jules nor as purposeful as Caz. Standing there by the door she hesitated, as if she might have been about to say something.
Jules gave her a quick visual strip, no more than a split-second up-and-down movement of the eyes. In that one glance she took in Hen’s attempts at eyeshadow, the earrings knocking diffidently at her cheek, the curveless hips, the way she kept jamming her hands in and out of her pockets. Hen’s legs were better than hers and her face—though white with nicotine and fright—was perhaps a little prettier. But her clothes were reassuringly terrible, and what should have been a cleavage was now no more than a sallow breastplate. Her hand trembled as she lifted it to the cross around her neck.
‘You look nice,’ Jules said smugly.
Hen stared at the floor. ‘So do you.’
Izzy was under the bedclothes again. Ali could hear the faint hiss of her Discman.
‘Iz? Iz?’ Jules prodded at Izzy’s foot. The hissing stopped and Izzy surfaced. ‘Will you look out for us?’
‘Yup.’ She plunged back under the duvet.
‘Ready?’
Hen shrugged deeper into her jacket and nodded.
Jules opened the window and swung one leg out.
‘Go,’ said Caz. ‘Hurry up.’
Jules slid out of view.
Caz followed her, reversing out of the window, catching her foothold on the brickwork below. ‘Cover for us,’ she whispered, slipping down beyond the window ledge and out of sight. Ali heard a faint crump as she hit the roof of a car. She waited for a minute, listening to the darkness, and then pulled the covers back over her head.
+
‘Shit,’ Jules was saying. ‘Heels.’
Caz flapped at her. ‘Shut up.’ Both of them crouched down low and ran over to the plywood fencing at the edge of the lawn. Caz found a gap between the posts and wriggled through. Jules came through after her, and the two crouched down. The wood felt scratchy and precarious on their spines.
‘Hen. Where are you?’
A figure appeared from behind one of the shrubs, tottered through the darkness towards them and squatted next to Jules. ‘D’you think anyone heard us?’
‘Too late now.’
Jules pulled out a small metal tin painted with the face of Bart Simpson. She took out cigarette papers and a small lump of something wrapped in cling film. ‘God. Been dying for a spliff.’ She peeled open a cigarette and began arranging the tobacco along one of the papers. The wind scurried over her legs, picking at her hem.
‘C’mon. Haven’t got that long.’
‘It’s windy. Hang on.’ She was fussing longer than was necessary, she knew. Even in darkness she didn’t want to look at Caz. She held the joint up for inspection, covering the gaps in the paper with her thumb. A few stray flakes of tobacco fluttered onto the grass.
‘So.’ Caz turned to Hen, ‘who you planning to snog, then?’
Hen looked appalled. ‘Don’t know. Haven’t thought yet.’
‘What about Mutant Albino Freak?’
‘No way. God. No way.’
‘Go on. Must have fancied him just a bit.’
‘She did,’ said Jules nastily, lighting the joint and spitting bits of tobacco out the side of her mouth. ‘She was talking to him for ages.’
‘So? That doesn’t mean anything.’
‘And?’
‘He’s horrible. He’s albino, for fuck’s sake. If he had babies, they’d come out like little white rat things.’
‘Sweetheart, maybe think about babies a bit later. How about just thinking about snogging him for now?’
‘Didn’t like him.’
‘You don’t have to fucking like him, retard. You just have to snog him.’
‘This,’ said Caz, holding up the joint and glaring at it, ‘is pure Oxo.’
‘No, it’s not. It’s OK, that stuff.’
‘Smells like Sunday lunch.’
‘It does not.’
‘It does. Where d’you get it from?’
‘Sister. Said it was good stuff.’
‘How much did you pay her?’
‘Nothing,’ said Jules, lying.
‘Try.’ Hen took a drag and coughed theatrically. ‘Eeeuwrgh! Vile. That’s dried dogshit or something. You been had.’
‘Anyway,’ said Caz, ‘what about you? What was he called?’
Jules shrugged. ‘Bill. He was OK.’
‘Snog him?’
‘Course not. Were in the middle of a music shop, God’s sake.’
‘But you fancied him?’
‘He was OK.’
‘D’you like to fuck him?’
‘Might do. Not sure.’ Jules curled a strand of hair around one ear. ‘Bit bored of sex at the moment.’
‘Bored?’ Caz stared. ‘How are you bored?’
‘Just bored. All that snogging and spit and stuff.’
‘I don’t get bored of sex. I don’t find it boring.’
‘He looked hairy to me,’ said Hen. ‘Like he’d probably have chest hair.’
Caz laughed. ‘He got a hairy back, Jules?’
Jules curled her hair faster and faster. ‘Don’t know.’
‘Hairy men it’s like sleeping with a shag-pile carpet.’
Jules shrugged. ‘He’s OK. Not like I only fancy him, though. And he’s not as bad as Mutant Albino Freak.’
‘He wasn’t that vile,’ said Hen.
‘You do fancy him, don’t you?’
‘I don’t.’
‘Yes, you do. You just said you did.’
‘I didn’t. I just said he wasn’t that horrible.’
‘So you fancy him. Obvious.’
‘I don’t. I just talked to him.’
‘Don’t fight it, pet,’ said Caz.
‘God’s sake.’ Hen got up abruptly and stamped on the joint. ‘Let’s go.’
The three of them stumbled off into the darkness, down to the road. They stood for a while on the grass verge a little way down from the driveway. Cars came past in clumps, driving fast, their headlights flicking past the three girls.
‘Stick your thumb out.’ Jules poked Hen in the back. ‘Can’t see you properly.’
‘I am. They can see fine. Hate hitching.’
‘Golden rule of hitching—’ said Caz. ‘Soon as you light a fag, a car comes along. Works every time. And buses. And taxis.’ They stood in silence for a while, sticking their hands out when a car approached and swearing softly when it swished on past. Finally, they heard the sound of gears changing down and turned round. A dirty red Ford van was stopping in the lay-by a few yards ahead. All three of them ran towards it.
‘Probably a rapist,’ said Jules.
‘Or a mad axe-murderer,’ Hen said, out of breath and giggling.
The driver wound down the passenger window. Jules saw glasses, a scrappy beard, a neglected sort of face. Can’t get raped by someone wearing glasses, she thought. She had a sudden image of a staring-eyed maniac pausing to remove his spectacles midway through a psychotic axe-attack. Maybe rapists wear dentures, she thought. Or braces. Or hernia trusses. Maybe rapists have blond pubes. She started snickering, tight, in the back of her throat.
‘You wanting a lift?’
Jules nodded. ‘Just to Stokeley.’
The man shovelled a layer of tabloids and spanners onto the floor. ‘Get in.’
All three of them squashed into the passenger seat. It was uncomfortable; Caz had Jules’s elbow digging into her hip, and Hen’s foot was crushed by Caz’s shin. None of them, it was clear, could think of anything to say. The driver seemed as discomfited by the three girls, with their thick feral reek of perfume and their naked clothing, as they were by him.
‘I’m Steve,’ he said, fingering the side of his neck. ‘Hi.’
‘Hi,’ they said simultaneously.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Pub.’ Caz spoke into the back of Jules’s jacket. ‘Cross Keys.’
Hen giggled. They drove the rest of the road in silence.
Steve let them out by the side of the road. Jules watched him drive off. ‘Fuck. Weirdo.’
‘You kept laughing,’ said Hen. ‘You set me off. Was fine until you started.’
‘Had the weirdest beard.’
‘He was just a bloke. The only reason he was weird is we never see blokes.’
‘People with beards are child-molesters. He was going to kill us.’
‘Oh yeah? Why?’
‘The spanners. Definitely. For hitting people with. And he had rope too.’
Hen stared. ‘You have a sad, twisted imagination. So why didn’t he axe-murder us, then?’
‘No time. Come on.’ She set off at a run, giggling.
Caz pushed open the door of the pub. It had recently been refurbished and was now decorated in a pragmatic shade of nicotine-yellow, while the comfortable chairs had been taken away and replaced with uncomfortable ones. On the walls were a selection of chain-store hunting prints and three blurred instamatic snaps of the landlord laughing at a party a long time ago. When they walked in, two women sitting by the bar turned to glance at them. One of them put her hand up to her mouth; Jules watched her fingers, barnacled with gold rings, flick just once in her direction. The barman was watching a sitcom and did not turn round.
Caz placed a proprietorial arm on the bar. ‘D’you want?’
‘Vodka and Red Bull,’ said Jules.
‘You?’
‘Get it in a sec.’ Hen was watching the room at the back of the bar. ‘Just go and see if they’re there.’ She darted into the darkness.
Jules felt the half-turned glances of the women, saw the whited glimmer of their eyes. She stared straight ahead. The way they were looking at her, she knew what they were thinking: little tart, silly little slut, all done up like a party trick. She picked up the drinks and walked past their table with her head up high and her hips waggling from side to side, perfectly brazen. Fuck you, she thought, half drunk on nerves. Fuckyoufuckyoufuckyoufuckyou.
In the gloom of the back room she could see a huddle of men in the corner. Hen was standing in the doorway, twiddling one of her earrings and smiling fixedly at a spot just above their heads. The boys had their arms folded and were watching her.
When Caz walked in, one of them laughed softly. ‘Things are looking up.’
‘Hi.’ Caz pulled out a stool.
The one who had laughed leaned forward. ‘I’m Higgs.’
‘Sorry. Took ages to get here,’ said Caz, bumping her chin against his. ‘This is Jules, and that’s Hen.’
Higgs gestured to the others. ‘Adey.’
Mutant Albino Freak inclined his head and smiled.
‘Yves.’ A thickset boy with poky eyes and a stringy neck. ‘And me.’ He gave a little bow.
Higgs was the best looking, no question. Hen glanced at them all from under her hair and sat speechless, swinging her earrings to and fro. The one Jules had met in the music shop wasn’t there. She felt disappointed; she hadn’t liked him, but at least he was familiar.
‘Eve?’ she said. ‘Thought that was a girl’s name.’
Yves rolled his eyes and looked up at the ceiling. ‘Bo-ring. French, actually. Y-V-E-S, like Yves St Laurent.’
Jules examined him. ‘You don’t sound French.’
‘Mother comes from France. Parents have an apartment in Paris.’
‘WooOOoh. Ve-ry fancy.’ She took a heavy swig of her drink. ‘I’ve never been to Paris.’
‘Like London, except the women are better-looking.’
‘Yeah,’ said Higgs, ‘like you really know.’
Yves shoved at him with his free hand. ‘Fuck off. Tosser.’
Jules looked down at the pattern on the carpet. It was sticky in places, and her shoe came away with a faint ripping sound. She remembered being in her father’s car last holidays. He’d just finished giving her older sister Claire a driving lesson and had offered to show Jules how the controls worked. Jules had sat in the driving seat holding tight to the steering wheel, unable to move either forwards or backwards. Her feet had trembled above the pedals for so long she got cramp. The view from the windscreen seemed so huge, the potential so overwhelming. She’d had to lose her temper just to keep from crying. It felt the same now. She couldn’t remember—if indeed she had ever known—which instruments might keep her safe and which might cause her harm. She couldn’t remember how boys worked. And yet she had to do this just to prove she wasn’t a lesbian; she had to do this because it felt so wrong. She took a gulp of her drink, and some of the liquid spilled down her top. She dabbed at it surreptitiously, hoping they hadn’t seen.
Caz put down her drink and took off her jacket. The boys admired her chest.
‘You look . . .’ Higgs stopped, ‘um . . . very well.’
‘This?’ Caz looked down at her red top as if seeing it for the first time. ‘Ancient.’
‘Lovely pair—’
‘Fuck off. Don’t suppose any of you boys might have any drugs on you?’
‘Caz!’ said Jules hoarsely, ‘Shut up.’ She glanced at Hen for support, but Hen was busy gazing away into the middle distance, twitching her foot against the table leg and swinging her cross from side to side. Adey seemed equally dumbstruck.
‘Nah. Ran out ages ago. Sorry, mate. You could always go and ask out there.’
‘A man’s job, I think.’
Higgsy laughed. It sounded forced.
‘Adey?’
‘Not really in the mood.’
‘Balls. Never not in the mood.’
‘God,’ said Jules, ‘we got so stoned before we got here.’ She jabbed at Caz for support. ‘Didn’t we? Wasted.’
A silence.
‘Amazing. So needed to get stoned, that fucking exercise stuff . . .’ She tailed off.
She remembered, too late, that Caz was different in the presence of men. She held a glass differently, her nails clasping the neck in an elegant diagonal. She swivelled her foot differently, so the boys could see her cut-throat heels. She laughed differently, not as she did when alone with Jules, but low and sweet and disturbingly suggestive. Jules had seen her with men three or four times, and every time it was the same. Every time it made Jules feel younger, and more lonely.
Hen wasn’t helping at all. She was just sitting there gazing sometimes at the carpet and sometimes at Adey, too anxious to commit to speech.
‘What you doing round here?’ asked Higgs.
Jules shrugged. ‘Some stupid activity thing. We’ve finished exams and they don’t know what to do with us till the end of term so they make us walk halfway round the country. Boring.’
‘What were the exams?’
‘GCSEs.’ She hoped it sounded guileless.
‘How many?’
‘Ten. Mathsfrenchphysicsgeographychemistrybiologyenglit englangfood’n’nutcomputing.’
‘What’s food’n’nut?’
‘Food and nutrition. How to bake a lemon meringue pie for a retard’s tea party.’
He turned to Caz. ‘What did you do?’
‘Twelve. Minus food’n’nut, plus Spanish and German.’
‘Right spod, you are.’
‘I can do other things.’
‘So they say.’
Jules looked down at her empty glass and wondered if she had to pay for the whole table or if it would be possible just to get a refill for herself.
