Waving Not Drowning 19: Fly Away Baby Bird

Three weeks passed.
Every day the same.
Get up at four in the afternoon, check alcohol supplies, send Stephen out to shop, start drinking, Playstation, more drinking, burn Stephen’s tea, put Fleetwood Mac on very loud, have blazing row with Stephen as he wrestles Fleetwood Mac off the turntable and tries to put some electro brain warp crap on, then neighbours bang on the door to complain about the noise, sit on the sofa eating a Kit Kat and watch Stephen munching his burnt tea, more drinking, out for a walk at three in the morning.
Bed.
Oblivion.

Sometimes I felt so bad when I woke up I would stay in bed all day, calling for Stephen, my head pounding. When he didn’t appear I’d call out for Ruth, Mum, Dad, Orinoco. Sometimes Danny would come in and stand at the bottom of the bed staring like I was some eccentric circus exhibit. In my head, he’d become a creature of nightmares inexorably linked to the burnt goldfish, stolen handbags, fires, everything I wanted to keep Stephen away from. All he needed was a pair of horns.

The problem was I no longer had the strength to look out for Stephen. Why had I believed drinking would make me stronger? Now even he (my mutant ninja teen angel) was running out of patience. I’d promised him a better life and yet here we were right back where we’d started. Sometimes he’d help me hobble into the front room where we’d sit and play a game or two, he’d mix me up some Pear Pleasure, we’d eat Pringles and it felt just like the old days. Except now he was clearly Mother Bird and I was Pathetic, Needy Baby Bird. Then other times he’d leave, staying away for hours. I had no idea where he went.
Some nights I heard them down in the courtyard and tried to persuade myself that they weren’t laughing at me.

Meanwhile the stolen booty was changing, it wasn’t just handbags and purses. Now it was DVD players, IPods, a bicycle, then one day I came into the front room to find a puppy sitting miserably next to the armchair, surrounded by a puddle of pee. The next day he had gone. The flat had turned into a temporary storage facility for every young criminal in West London.

One morning, I got up to have a wash and the toilet door had gone. I spent a good few minutes walking round the flat looking for it, even opened the front door and searched the hallway but it’d vanished. Pinning up a dirty beach towel in its place was the only thing I could do to preserve a sense of modesty. But really, why bother? I never got dressed anymore, wore the same pair of saggy, grey leggings and oversized nightshirt day in, day out. The only positive thing was when I got undressed and looked down at my body, I realised I was thin. I had the MODEL FIGURE! Having always struggled with my weight, it should have been a silver lining. But the fact that it was now thin legs carting about a big heap of mess didn’t matter one bit.

The same morning that I noticed the door of the toilet had gone, whilst I was dry heaving, doing my ritual shout out into the big watery abyss, I noticed that amongst the various cigarette and joint butts floating on the surface, was something small and black. I lent in closer to get a good look, then recognised the familiar shape, I’d seen it before flattened out on the pavement. The fins, the small beady eyes. I called out for Stephen- luckily he’d got completely used to my incoherent ramblings and he’d got the loo brush and pushed the handle into the toilet bowl poking away at the disgusting soup until finally the thing emerged. Needless to say it wasn’t a burnt fish. Instead it was a small ball of brown hair, hair that I’d obviously pulled out of my head and then forgotten about it. Stephen had looked at me with an exasperated expression, increasingly he had no idea how to cope with this bewildered, scraggy woman who did nothing but drink, smoke, tear her hair out and imagine things.
But it wasn’t my imagination. It was an omen.
Like the last fish, it brought more bad.

About a week later, Danny invited us to a party.
I didn’t make that bit up.

In fact the idea of a party, of getting out of the flat for an extended period of time, meeting other people really appealed. I remember that now. And even though I was eating nothing but Kit-Kats and my teeth were permanently coated in sugary gunk, my hair coming out in clumps, I needed to throw myself back into the fray.

Woman cannot live on Kit-Kats and Schnapps alone.

So when Danny told me about the party, I thought it would be just the thing. It would be riotous, crazy, packed with young people off their heads on drugs and it would be the kind of place that a middle aged woman could easily get lost in. I’d be one of the crowd, able to dance, cut loose, feel something positive even if it was just for one night. And besides, perhaps there’d be other women there, women like me; crashed out alcoholics who’d given up their jobs, friends and families and adopted local teenagers. Perhaps we’d even form a support group. Once a week we’d all sit down together and make potato prints of burning goldfish and giant, salivating monster rats.

It might have been Danny’s brother that drove us to the party or it might have been Sir Ian McKellan. The truth was I was quite drunk by the time I clambered into the back of the car. Four other people piled in and the music was so loud that the seat shook underneath my knees and made my teeth clatter together making a noise in my head like china just about to shatter. I had trouble focusing. We didn’t obey the usual laws of the road. Red, orange, green. Each one meant accelerate.

‘Can you stop that?’ I shouted above the dreadful din; the sound of a hundred bin lids being smashed into one another with a demented automaton repeating 'Welcome to Dread Zone,’ over and over. The driver didn’t even bother answering, perhaps he didn’t hear. A girl sat in the front seat, when she turned round I realised it was Sophia, the one who’d been mean all those weeks ago. I had difficulty recalling why I didn’t speak to her but decided not to start now. Besides I could barely breathe. Stephen was sitting on my lap, marinated in Lynx and sickly coconut hair gel.
‘Where’s the party?’ I mouthed.
He shrugged and reached into the Spar carrier bag that was on the floor between his legs, passing me out a medium sized bottle of vodka. My heart did the same joyous leap it always did whenever it got a whiff of alcohol in the vicinity and I whipped the lid off and took a small sip, conscious that I didn’t want to drink it all at once. I needed to ensure it lasted until we got the party. I tried to visualise where I’d left my purse in case I needed to buy more when I got there. Usually it was Stephen who took care of the housekeeping fund (i.e. my bank card) because he was Mother Bird now and responsible for keeping the flat stocked up with booze, fags and fish fingers.

Then we stopped at some traffic lights (I almost choked with amazement) and I looked across into the next car. A couple sat all nicely dressed up, they probably had some quiet chamber choir type of music, definitely not the sound of China plates being smashed and at that moment, the woman looked over. You could see she was taking it all in; the battered Polo full of rowdy teenagers, the deafening noise escaping out the fogged up windows, the bottles of spirits being passed around inside. All in all it was a tidy depiction of teenage debauchery. Then she did a double take, looked me full in the face, then turned to her partner and said something. I didn’t want to think too hard about the kind of thing she might have said so took a large gulp of vodka and sank into the seat as we pulled away at full speed leaving the couple still stationary at the lights. But then for no reason I started thinking about Ruth and how she was probably sitting somewhere pregnant and alone, watching a reality TV show. And suddenly it seemed ridiculous that I was off to a rave. I rested my miserable face in my hands.
‘What’s the matter?’ Stephen said patting me gently on the shoulder.
‘I don’t want to go to the party,’ I said.
‘But we’re almost there.’
Then Danny leant forward.
‘Come on, it’ll be fun I promise,’ he said.
Something about the way he said ‘fun’ made me think the exact opposite.
I pictured doing that thing like they do on cop shows where you open the door and roll out whilst the car is at full speed. Trouble was, it had started raining and what with all the smoky fug in the car, I couldn’t see where we were. And besides who was I kidding? I could barely walk, let alone take an athletic leap out of a moving car and survive.
‘Calm down,’ Stephen said holding onto my leg as I fidgeted madly in my seat, ‘If you don’t like it, we can call a taxi.’
He handed me a cigarette out of his pocket. I nodded thanks.
‘Can you PLEASE turn this bloody awful music down?’ I said.
Stephen handed me a lighter and gestured to Sophia. As soon as the music came down to a tolerable level, I could breathe again. I opened the window a bit, enjoying the sensation of fine drizzle on my furnace-like forehead.

Ten minutes later we stopped outside an enormous tower block. The BOOF BOOF BOOF noise still echoing inside my head. We went down several dark, dingy hallways and then stopped outside a front door that had no number on the front and peeling orange paintwork. Danny knocked. Stephen excitedly hopped from one foot to the other. Out of the corner of my eye behind me I noticed the driver and Sophia had started snogging.

Once we got inside the same music that had been in the car was blaring out like machine gun fire. We went into a front room that was actually much tidier than mine. It might have had something to do with the fact that there wasn’t any furniture; just two enormous speakers, a DJ deck and an old ping pong table with lots of different bottles of cheap teenage alcohol that I immediately made a beeline for. It wasn’t quite what I’d expected but whilst I was here I’d make the most of it.
‘Not so fast!’ Danny said grabbing my arm.
‘I’m thirsty,’ I said almost begging.
My vodka was finished already; I’d needed more than I’d anticipated what with all the speeding and noise. He laughed, loosening his grip on my arm and then disappeared into what looked like a kitchen but could have been the bedroom because there was no readily identifiable furniture in there either.
‘It’s cool isn’t it?’ Stephen said guiding me towards the table.
‘What’s with all the graffiti?’
The walls were covered in multi-coloured squiggles and scrawls. All written in strange ancient teenage hieroglypics. A language I still couldn’t readily converse in.
‘We come here and practice,’ Stephen said.
‘Practice what?’
‘Our tags,’ he said.
I was too tired to get into a detailed anthropological study of graffiti culture and what it signified so instead poured myself a large glass of Thunderbird. There were two blokes on the sofa passing a joint back and forth. Another couple of girls sat cross-legged on the floor hunched over their mobiles. Where were the heaving throngs of dancing people? The gay abandon of being completely lost in a moment?
‘There might be a couple of others turning up later,’ Stephen said helping himself to a beer.
I looked at the booze table and did a few hurried calculations based on the various bodies in the room, their rough weight and height etc.
Perhaps it was better if it was a more intimate affair.

After about an hour of sitting on the floor staring up at the graffiti, rapidly getting drunker and drunker I decided I’d had enough. The music was like a sinister creepy crawly gradually gnawing its way through my insides. I wanted Wombles, Fleetwood Mac, a glass of Ribena, a hot water bottle, the sheepskin slipper socks my Mum had bought me for Christmas and most of all I wanted reality TV.

As I sat listening to music I didn’t understand with a bunch of people I didn’t understand (and aside from Stephen didn’t even like), I felt utterly alone. Standing up, I made my way to the door swaying a little and knocking over a can of beer, the contents of which quickly worked their way towards the bare feet of one of the stoned blokes on the sofa. He grunted, then went back to counting the exploding fractals behind his eyeballs. As I came out into the hallway, Danny and Stephen were huddled in the corridor. Danny was gesticulating wildly, both arms in the air.
‘Can we go?’ I said, ‘I’ve given it an hour.’
Stephen looked at me like he didn’t know who I was. Was he on drugs? Then he pushed past and ran into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. Danny looked at me, his lip curled into a half-sneer.
‘He just had some bad news,’ he said.
This time he looked me in the eye and didn’t look away.
He started walking towards me as I backed towards the kitchen.
I wanted The Wombles.
I wanted my Mum.
I promised myself that if God let me get home in one piece, then I’d go back to being a barista. I’d foam milk all day, grind coffee beans, wipe tables, I wouldn’t even bat an eyelid when the worker robots snapped because I’d forgotten their extra dash of whipped cinnamon nutty choc.

Soon enough we were back in the car. This time there was no music, Danny drove and Stephen and I sat in the back. Except Stephen had moved as far away from me as humanely possible without actually getting out of the car. Before we’d left Danny had pushed me up against the kitchen wall and just when I’d thought he was going to burn/knife/shoot me, he’d pulled away and started banging on the bathroom door. And all the time I’d stood like a big jelly in the kitchen, my heart pounding, my legs shaking but my feet glued to the lino, unable to move. Eventually Stephen had come out and Danny had pulled me roughly by my arm and yanked me down the hallway. Horribly sober I’d felt myself shrink. In reality Danny was only an inch or so taller but I felt myself cower next to him as he pulled at my arm, his nails digging in. Now I understood why he was leader of the West London under eighteen muggers posse. Just like when he spoke his voice fluctuated from a whisper to a shout, so his personality did the same, one minute innocuous, like any other monosyllabic boy, the next an angry man ready to...
Stephen said nothing as we went through lights red, green and gold.
‘It wasn’t much of a party,’ I said trying to lighten the atmosphere.
Then I caught sight of the London Eye on the other side of the river. I could feel the low level internal shudder as my blood starting protesting, rebelling. This time I had to get out. To hell with my lack of athleticism. Something about the atmosphere in the car told me it was that or something much worse.
‘I want to get out,’ I said trying to control my jelly-shake voice.
Stephen stared straight ahead.
‘Where are we going?’ I said shaking his arm, trying to shake him out of his zombie stupor but he simply turned his back and opened the window a fraction. So without further thought, at the next lights as we slowed down to as close as we were going to get to a stop, I pushed the door open and jumped. I landed on my side, felt my thigh graze against the pavement but jumped up and was running.

It was raining hard and impossible to see. Disorientated I tried to decide what direction to take. Embankment Station was boarded up, the road under the bridge looked dingy and besides they could catch me up in the car so I started running for the steps leading up to the bridge, not looking behind to check if anyone was following. I was pretty sure that the car was still sitting at the lights, the back door still open. I took the steps two at a time, no Olympian but I giving it my best. It was only when I reached mid-way that I heard someone coming up behind. It was like one of the horrifying slasher films except this was real and I could only hope that they didn’t have any saws, hatchets and drills. In desperation I pulled one of my high-heeled shoes off, turned around and threw it at whoever was behind. I heard a thump, the sound of someone whining but I carried on up the steps. A wino was waiting at the top, wrapped in an enormous yellow poncho, his arms held out to the sides like my very own guardian angel. But he proffered no help and simply held out his hand for change so I hobbled past, one leg about two centimetres shorter than the other but with no time to take my other shoe off. The ground was wet and uneven. I could hear the footsteps growing louder.
‘Stop!’
My chest felt ready to burst.
‘Stop!’
I turned around and Stephen was about fifty metres away, further behind him stood Danny. Both had stopped, Stephen was waving one arm in the air; Danny had one hand on the railing, the other hand behind his back. The rain was blowing directly into my face and into my eyes.
‘Why did you do it?’ Stephen shouted.

Everything inside sank. I’d hadn’t even had a chance to tell him. And that meant Danny knew as well. Whilst I was trying to think how Danny had found out and what he was planning to do about it, Stephen ran towards me. This time I stayed where I was. I had to explain things, couldn’t just run, I owed him. And besides what could he do? We were on one of the biggest, busiest bridges in London! There must have been security cameras everywhere and that wino had seen me, there must have been hundreds of winos that’d bear witness. I was patron bloody saint of the winos! I looked across to where I’d climbed up the stairs but there was no one there. I took a deep breath and wiped my nose on the back of my sleeve, waiting for Stephen to catch up. When he got closer his hair was slick with rain and coconut gel and he was carrying my shoe in one of his hands. Danny meanwhile hadn’t moved. Would anyone hear me if I screamed?
‘I thought you were my friend,’ he shouted.
Instinctively I held my arms up to protect my face but as soon as he was up close he turned away, his shoulders shaking. He clutched the railing next to me. Then I looked down at the ugly brown river swirling below. Danny started to walk towards us. I wrapped my arms around Stephen who was now crying.
‘Don’t come any closer or I’ll push you in!’ I said looking back at Danny.

I’d acknowledged the plan, the fight was on,one of us was going in, maybe two, maybe three. I was torn between trying to stay where I was or running for my life. In that moment, Stephen span round and grabbed at my arms, like he was trying to pull them up over my head.
‘You should have told me!’ he cried.
A bubble of snot blew out of his nose, he angrily swiped it away and continued to push me up against the railings.
‘Don’t’ I said, ‘Please don’t.’
Then he let go of my arms and punched me in the chest. We’d had play fights before and if he’d wanted to he could have hurt me properly but nevertheless this punch was enough to make me lose balance. And suddenly Danny was behind Stephen and I felt us both being crushed up against one another, then Stephen was pushed off to one side and both my feet left the ground. I clawed at Danny, trying to scratch his arms, neck, face but I was now almost at a right angle and falling backwards.

For a second I saw Stephen, his eyes full of fear, he snatched at the bottom of my cardie,then he grabbed my hand. But he could never hold me up and next a heavy weight almost wrenched my arm out of its socket.
Everything speeded up. I saw him fall out the corner of my eye.
And I'd let go.