The fire is out of control. Hooded figures jump up and down as the flames dance higher and higher into the pink sky. From this angle they seem to be running in and out of the flames. Their faces shine with colour. I approach very slowly, my heart beating hard. Just as I get close enough to feel the heat on my face something damp is grabbing at my shoulder. I whip round and look straight into the eyes of a goldfish. Five foot seven give or take a bit. The scales on its face are burnt black and it’s wearing those enormous black sunglasses like Bono wears. Looking down, its tail fin is just visible sticking out the bottom of its grey tracksuit bottoms. I try to scream. I look across at my feet that have turned into a fish tail. I am finding it hard to balance. The fish’s mouth opens and closes as he draws nearer. I move backwards but don’t want to fall into the flames. The barbecued fish man is going to swallow me hole. I try desperately to move my fin but it flops about uselessly. I lash out at the fish’s head with the palm of my hand, it makes a horrible wet slapping noise that ricochets around the courtyard. The kids stop jumping and stare. Its skin feels slippery yet weirdly solid as I paw at its face. I pinch the fins that lie flat against its forehead; tiny scales come off on my fingers. The stench of a filthy river overwhelms me.
I jolted upright and looked to my left, my clock glowed ten am. My mouth was as dry as a bundle of hay left out in the sun and my heart was still somewhere up near my mouth. I coughed, cleared my throat and then slowly pushed my legs out the side of the bed and stood. I walked like a very old woman. Like a very old woman carrying a bag full of bricks on her back. If I hunched further forwards, towards the ground I felt less pain but then waves of nausea rippled up from half way up my body. It took an age to get from the bedroom into the kitchen. Even worse than the nausea, I realised as I shuffled forwards staring at the floor, that I remembered nothing. My brain had quit functioning just after Mum and Dad had driven away. I looked into the kitchen. The table was a complete mess covered with empty tins of beer and a khaki coat I didn’t recognise was slung over the door. I put my finger down my throat as I lent over the sink that was piled up with plates covered in tomato ketchup. The nausea was so bad, I knew from experience the only way to move onwards and upwards was to get it out, perhaps then my memory would return. I was conscious of making a truly terrible noise, like a pig being strangled but it had to come out, nothing could stop it now. After about a minute it was over and I stared straight ahead, then switched the tap on washing the sick all over the plates and away down the drain. The pain in between my eyes was unbearable.
Drink and I were no longer natural bedfellows.
‘You okay?’
I span round to see a small person standing in the kitchen doorway wearing nothing but a pair of stripy brown boxer shorts and terry towelling socks with the Nike tick up the side. I stared at the ticks intently, trying not to look at the small child’s body. It was wrong to have a small child in the house with hardly any clothes on. A child with skin as grey and translucent as a snail. I looked up, my eyes still watery but I recognised the face now.
It was Stephen.
‘That sounded terrible,’ he said as he sat down at the kitchen table, shook one of the cans and then started rolling up a cigarette, ‘Do you always make that noise when you’re chucking up?’
I still couldn’t speak.
‘What …?’ I didn’t have a chance to finish because I had to run into the bathroom and be sick again.
This time I tried to make as little noise as possible.
‘Do you want a cup of tea?’ Stephen shouted as I pushed the door shut with my foot.
I could see my reflection in the toilet bowl. A long piece of drool stretched from my chin into infinity. I didn’t answer. All I could think about was that I was a disgusting paedophile and that in all my days of drinking I’d never done anything as terrible as this. But then as I flushed the loo I realised I was actually fully dressed and still wearing my shoes so if anything had happened it could only have been fumbling and Stephen hadn’t been in my bed when I’d woken up so perhaps things weren’t as bad as I thought.
‘Why do you only have this weird sugar?’ he asked as I wandered back into the kitchen, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.
He held up a Café Jingo box of sugar cubes that I’d stolen. I didn’t reply. Perhaps if I didn’t speak to him, he didn’t exist. Perhaps he was only as real as the giant face sucking fish.
‘I thought you said you didn’t get hangovers,’ Stephen said jollily as he set down a steaming cup of tea in front of me, ‘Milks off by the way. Oi Dan do you want anything?’
Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, Danny walked in with a towel wrapped around his middle clutching my Wombles Annual under his arm. He then walked towards the kitchen cupboard, scanned the contents, helped himself to a packet of Wholemeal Digestives and walked out again. Following him into the front room, I was confronted by what looked like a site of a major burglary. The cushions from the sofa were all over the floor and one of the curtains had been taken off the rail and used as a makeshift blanket. The TV was facing the wall and all the wires had come out the back. Balancing on one arm of the sofa was one of my copies of Vogue, the model’s teeth had been coloured in black and someone had written ‘Wanker’ across her forehead. A huge cigarette burn was on the side, a flannel placed on top to no doubt stop it from travelling further down the arm. I stood in the doorway limp like a puppet with its strings cut. I waited for the puppet master to make my mouth move up and down so I could speak.
‘Have you ever hooked up a Playstation to your TV?’ Danny shouted putting the Wombles Annual down and sitting down cross-legged on the floor.
‘No I haven’t,’ I said and walked out again.
I sat down at the kitchen table and took a sip of tea which helped counteract the horrible acid that was scratching at my throat.
‘What’s going on?’ I asked as calmly as I could manage.
‘This morning Danny and I thought we’d go down Whiteleys for a couple of hours, then we’re going see if we can get the Playstation working.’
‘No no no no no,’ I said my voice growing louder and louder.
Stephen put his hand on my shoulder.
‘There’s a really good game,’ he said gently, ‘You’re basically a giant millipede and then you get to bite off these caterpillar’s heads. It’s a bit childish really but…’
I interrupted him, ‘How did you get here?’ I said shaking my head, ‘Did I let you in?’
Overnight my flat had turned into some sort of juvenile detention unit. I made a vow never to drink again.
Or at least not for a week.
Danny walked back into the kitchen; at least now he was wearing his clothes and looked like he was ready to leave. He mumbled something. When he spoke he either gazed up at the ceiling, his eyes rolling back in his head or directed his mouth to the floor as if he was addressing a family of ants.
‘What did you say?’ I asked.
He took a deep breath, this time the volume was so loud it made my hair stand on end.
‘Wombles are shit’, he said , ‘why would anyone pick up someone else’s rubbish? It’s disgusting.’
He shrugged his shoulders, ran his hands under the tap, then patted the back of his neck with water.
‘If we all spent a bit more time behaving like The Wombles ,’ I said in my best Mary Poppins impersonation, ‘the world would be a much nicer place.’
Stephen laughed. Danny muttered something, it sounded like he was talking about ham sandwiches. He went back into the front room then returned with a yellow lead that looked like the one that had been hanging out of the back of my TV.
‘You’re the Champion!’ Stephen said excitedly, ‘All we need now is a connector!’
Then the two of them did this weird and complicated thing with their hands which looked like finger wrestling.
Danny yelped.
‘Aaarggghhh! My hands fucking killing me!’
‘Let me look,’ I said without thinking.
I got up to study it more closely. Stephen was also staring. The wound looked like it was healing but there was a horrible yellow crust around the sides where some infection had started. I went into the bathroom, grabbed some toilet tissue, soaked it in hot water and then told Danny to hold it over his hand. I then reached into the kitchen drawer and alongside a mountain of hair-bands, an empty roll of sellotape, a screwed up taxi number and a pile of Café Jingo serviettes, I found a tube of ancient Savlon cream. It was from my spotty teenage youth but disinfectant didn’t go off did it? Wasn’t that the whole point? I squeezed a bit onto my finger and then after wiping the wound again put a big blob on top. I then wrapped lots of kitchen towel around Danny’s hand. At least that way no more bacteria could get in. Both Stephen and Danny were quiet the whole time. I felt oddly satisfied with my responsible, cool adult behaviour. It was obvious that these two hooligans were bonding with me. I was like a surrogate mother. But then much cooler than that. I was like one of those older kids at school that knows everything but isn’t a complete geek, the kind who’s not only really bright but is also the one with the flashiest clothes. I was more like a trendy youth worker, in fact maybe that would be my next career move. I could tell they both respected me; I had an innate knack of getting on with everyone, no matter what their social background or how depraved they were.
I could be a role model, I could help them get their lives together.
Stephen leaned in closer, sniffing the back of my cardigan.
‘You smell like my Nan,’ he said taking a long drag from his roll up.
Danny whispered something to Stephen, then stood up, nodded towards me and left. I heard the front door slam behind him.
‘I’m going to have a bath,’ Stephen announced, ‘Have you got any bubbles?’
Did he think this was a B&B?
‘You’re going to have to leave,’ I said.
‘I really want a nice bath. Go on and I’ll help you tidy up in a bit.’
Stephen pulled a face that would have melted a Granny’s heart. Except he then released a burp and the smell of stale Special Brew filled the air. He stretched his arm into the air and took a sniff of his armpit.
‘Okay you can have a bath but then you have to leave. Haven’t you got a bath in your own house?’
He didn’t answer and slunk off into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. I hoped he wasn’t going to get up to anything disgusting in there. I would have to scrub the bath thoroughly once he’d gone. In fact I’d have to start cleaning up right now. Eradicating all the tiny floating particles of teenage hormone that were humming all over the place. I started by assembling all the cans (fourteen in total) and throwing them into the recycling box next to the front door. I shifted the TV back into its proper place and then got a cloth and tried to sponge the area around the cigarette burn but the burn had gone all the way through exposing the foam bit inside. I then tried to wrap the curtain round the rail but it kept falling down and balancing up on the window ledge made me feel sick again so I sat down and switched the TV on.
A fat woman was sitting in a cheap blue studio. The title underneath her head read: ‘You Lying Cheat: Take A Lie Detector Test or Get Out of my Life’. I stared at the woman’s bottom lip which trembled every second word. She was obviously going through some sort of personal turmoil but at that moment I would have changed places with her. I would have changed places with her and the unattractive bossy female presenter who was wearing the most unflattering camel jumpsuit I’d ever seen. In fact I would have changed places with all of the audience as well, most of whom looked like they’d been put in a mixer and ended up with the wrong features in the wrong place.
In three days I’d gone from a successful barista with a steady income, great family and friends (well one good friend counted as plural didn’t it?) to an alcoholic Madam who kept homeless and needy adolescent boys in her home. I imagined the old man downstairs picking up his tabloid with my face emblazoned on the front.
Ageing ex-barista’s drunken orgies with hoodie monster gang.
Or Lonely Alcoholic’s Lust for Teenage Flesh.
Then they’d interview my poor parents who’d stand outside our house, looking completely bewildered, not knowing what to believe and what not to believe. Then they’d speak to Ruth, at least she’d put in a good word, tell the press that actually I was an extremely bright girl but I’d just never had the right chances in life. That I could have had it all if only I’d settled down and got pregnant with a man who didn’t put on a stupid cockney accent all the time. Maybe then they’d interview someone at Café Jingo, hopefully they’d mention the ‘2005 European Top Froth Contest’. I’d come second out of three hundred of the UK and Germany’s Top Baristas. Surely that counted for something?
I looked at my feet and noticed another empty bottle that had half rolled under the sofa. It was Thunderbird. Which explained some things about the previous evening. Historically Thunderbird has the same effect on me as Kryptonite has on Superman. There are two immediate things. It robs me of all my special powers but at the same time make me feel more powerful than ever. It makes me crawl around on all fours and snatch at random objects, trying to break them with my extra strong hands. If I’m lucky I usually pass out before I attempt to fly around the room. Once I tried to bite into a table just to test whether my teeth were strong enough for the job. But quite soon after I usually realise I’m mortal and pass out. Then it tends to make me grind my teeth something terrible (I only know this because Ruth told me). Maybe it’s the knock on effect of all my brain cells firing off one last time before they die. The next day my memory is erased, there is just a small dry Weetabix where once a brain buzzed and thrived.
I picked the Thunderbird up, sniffed the top and grimaced.
‘You drank the whole bottle,’ Stephen said walking in rubbing his neck with a towel and smelling suspiciously like Marc Jacobs Cucumber Eau de Toilette.
‘Did I pass out?’ I asked turning the sound down.
Stephen picked up his tracksuit bottoms and then carefully held another towel round his middle. I looked away.
‘You kept talking about your Mum and Dad and saying that they hated you. Then you put this on,’ he held up a Fleetwood Mac Greatest Hits album, ‘It sounded terrible. Then you burnt that big hole in the sofa,’ he pulled his T-shirt over his head,
‘It was hardcore.’
‘How did I get into bed?’
‘Danny and I carried you. You were making these weird chattering noises.’
I turned the TV off and watched as Stephen pulled his socks on one at a time, the half smoked cigarette still hanging out of the corner of his mouth.
‘What time do you want me to call for you tonight?’
Call for me? How old was I? Fourteen?
‘Look I think it’s better if you just go. This shouldn’t have happened. I’m sorry.’
Stephen sat back down on the sofa.
‘Look, don’t worry. Guts didn’t even see you wrap the curtain round your head, he went back to the kebab shop at half two.’
‘What?’ I shouted, ‘do you mean to tell me that there were more of you here last night?’
Stephen looked surprised.
‘Well yeah you invited everybody. You leant your head out the window and shouted for us all to come up and join you.’
I felt myself frown.
‘How many of you were there?’
Stephen held his fingers in front of him.
‘Well there was me, Danny, Guts, then Paisley popped in, Jo was here at the start but she left. Oh and then Sophia but she had to be back for midnight.’
‘All those people were here? What inside my front room?’
‘Yeah. I think one of your neighbours came up, she was going on about the noise. But Danny gave her what for.’
Oh god no.
‘Did anything… you know happen?’
‘What do you mean?’
I shifted on the sofa, embarrassed but I had to make sure I hadn’t done anything with these reprobates.
‘I didn’t try and kiss you did I?’
Stephen chuckled. The sides of his eyes wrinkled up and his cheeks flushed with colour. He looked for a second like the kind of kid you’d see in a chewing gum advert.
‘That really would be sick,’ he said shaking his head.
I had no choice but to believe him. It was bad enough that I’d played Fleetwood Mac to every living teenager in West London. Where was my credibility? I’d gone from cool edgy youth worker to a Religious Education Supply teacher in a blink of an eye. Stephen picked up his keys and Travelcard wallet from the window ledge and patted me on the head.
‘Come down at eight,’ he said, ‘Oh and can you get us a couple of packets of Rizlas if you go out.’
I didn’t answer, waited until I heard the door close behind him and then took four fingers and half my thumb and shoved them into my open mouth. I bit down on them until I couldn’t stand the pain. I noticed Stephen had left his coat hanging over the door. I ran into the bathroom to check he hadn’t left a wash bag or toothbrush in there. But it was okay. There was nothing but the coat and the strange unfamiliar smell of man-child in the house.
A combination of ripe Camembert and baby powder.
