For the broken stones

Veronica pulls off her red haywire wig then she peels off her
repellent rubber clothing. An aged snake shedding skin nightly. She
cares nothing for the funeral. She was once a beauty queen from
St.Lucia but now she is just a clich? of high-rise Hackney, continually
living through a sorry and sordid 3am ritual. The world outside offers
nothing. She's been fucked and fed for the last seven years. There's no
exit for her. To Veronica this is not sad, it's just the mean world.
Veronica does not clean herself of the smell of several drunken,
desperate men who will weep later in rooms of tortuous loneliness.
Cleaning can wait until at least tomorrow night, just before she hits
her beat again, through the valleys and the ballyhoo of the sodium lit,
ill, fitting East End of London. Shrouding herself in a muddy dressing
gown that was once white, which was once someone else's, she lights her
tools and inhales. And so it all begins. Veronica has been smoking
crack now for as long as she has been working. They both go hand in
hand. One cannot live without the other. A blowjob for twenty, a fuck
for fifty and something a little more nasty without a condom for
seventy quid. Some nights she can earn three hundred pounds, that's
enough for blistered fingers and bliss. Lately though, inhaling through
a straw stabbed into a plastic bottle topped off with Silk Cut ash on
Bacofoil has not been sufficient. Veronica has taken to injecting
herself. Soon she knows that will not be enough. Veronica smokes three
small rocks of crack that are the size of garden peas in half an hour
and now has to neck the needle. For this, she will have to work again.
She has just one rock left and that's not enough to roll. When she
injects, she injects for hours, days even. Sometimes she will steal to
get there, but at this time of day, all she can do is work hard. She
rushes into the bare bathroom with the eternally dripping shower and
the bare bulb. She crudely mops herself down with a sponge and lime,
perfumed soap. Veronica pulls red satin with hanging threads and sweat
marks from an over filled laundry bin. She wrestles with the musty fur
coat her mother died in, grabs her patent blue plastic clutch bag, and
skips out the front door and into the piss, scented lift. This whole
sequence is achieved with desperate finesse in less than two minutes.
Veronica needs to score.

Slanting needle rain raids at forty five degrees, playing jazz on her
umbrella; a bold attempt to cleanse streets united in a grief never
before witnessed in this city. Veronica glides her way to her usual
pitch under the bridge. She fingers the last rock as if it were her
last penny in her pocket, for the moment it is. She sings nursery
rhymes and sucks her gold teeth in frustration when she remembers she
has forgotten her wig. She waits. She likes this time, these silver
mornings. The streets begin to waltz where, tonight especially; they
have danced a sluggish death samba. There are kids coming home from
night-clubs or even going to new ones, keen Sunday Market traders
setting up stalls, milkmen, yawning with yoghurt and eggs, while the
lost souls of the city meander. There are no other girls competing for
business at this time, which is rare; for this is the hopeless hour,
the end of their market night. It's good that there are no other girls
poncing crack from her. The unwritten code is, if you are carrying you
have to share. Many times, she has given away a percentage of a good
night's work to other girls, but then again so have they. Veronica's
age is against her, she's in her forties, but at this hour, because she
is alone she can be any age the punter wishes. It is all in their
magnified sorrow and her daring distraction.

A black Nissan Bluebird sails along the street, as if missing from the
cortege. It stops and leans ponderously in front of Veronica. There is
a stand off for thirty seconds. Veronica stares straight ahead to the
opposite wall of the bridge as if reading Islamic graffiti. This is all
part of procedure. The business of showbiz. The passenger doors opens
and Veronica slips in and shows some thigh. There is the smell of
flowers. The Bluebird swoons away into the oncoming quarter-light,
windscreen wipers waving goodbye. 'I'm Veronica. What's your name baby?
What happened to your face?' 'Err. Bob. I fell. Is that your real
name?' 'Yeah babe.' 'I thought girls like you changed your name to suit
the customer.' 'Are you a copper?' 'No.' 'I'm Veronica baby, what are
you looking for?' 'I don't know, I have never done this kind of thing
before.' 'Do not worry Bobby baby, I will look after you. Let's go to
my place.' 'I've got to go to mine first, got to get some money.'
'Where do you live Bobby?' 'Not far, Whitechapel.' 'You're not a freak
are you? I don't take no shit you know, I've got some bad friends who
don't like freaks.' 'I'm not a freak Veronica. Have you ever been to
Barcelona?' 'No Bobby babe, I ain't been anywhere, why?' 'Just
wondered.' The nuts and bolts of Bobby Friar's tightly adjusted, thirty
four-year life began loosening themselves a week ago. On the day before
a Princess died in a car crash, five lottery balls gave him five grand.
There were many winners that week, any other week and it would have
been a lot more. Bobby could not complain though, it was going to bring
him out of a mediocre patch. It was going to be a new start. He could
not leave his job as a shoe shop manager with this amount of money, but
he could save, a Pep, a Tessa or shares. Something for the future.
Bobby did not go celebrating that night; he could have gone down the
pub with his friends who were not really friends at all. He could have
gone around to his mothers and drunk tea, but he did not. He would not
tell anyone about his good fortune, not even his family. Instead he sat
indoors and made plans. On Sunday morning he flicked on the radio. He
was indifferent to the news of what had happened in Paris just a few
hours before. This was his time. Bobby went out walking all day; he
headed north with his hands in his pockets, whistling. He came home
singing and went to bed early. He banked the cheque Monday during his
lunch break, five minutes after he received it. Bobby then promptly
withdrew eight hundred pounds and bought the local paper. By seven o'
clock that evening six hundred pounds slipped into the deep pockets of
a hard man with lamb-chop sideburns and a donkey jacket. Bobby drove
away in a filthy black Bluebird. As the country grieved, Bobby went
driving. The next day at the shoe shop all the talk was of flowers and
press fabrication. Tall stories of tears and treachery. Bobby was not
concerned with any of this; he just sold shoes. Tonight he was going
out. Bobby had never been to a casino before, never even gambled, but
he loved the idea. He worshipped the genre on screen, The Sting, and
The Cincinnati Kid. He knew how to play the games, especially Black
Jack, he'd read about it in a book. So as he put on the new suit that
he had bought for five hundred pounds earlier that day from a tearful
Italian man in a black armband, he felt confident, very confident
indeed. He walked out of the casino that night with three thousand
pounds more in his pocket than he arrived with. The manager of the
casino, a large balding man, with dandruff flecked shoulders shook him
firmly by the hand. He told Bobby it was a sad week but watching him
win had cheered him up slightly. He also told Bobby that he was always
welcome at his casino. It was late when Bobby drove home through the
winding arteries of the city. Stopping for a luxury fish and chip
supper on the way, Bobby noticed touched up photographs of sunny
beaches and girls in bikinis in a travel agents front window. Bobby
went home and got his passport. Bobby drove to Heathrow. Most of the
ticket offices were closed at that early time in the morning, so Bobby
waited and drank cups of overpriced coffee until five am. He rang the
answering machine at work and replied to his own voice, telling it that
he was sick and that he would not be in today. Bobby did not know where
he wanted to go, all he knew was that he wanted to go now. He bought a
ticket for a flight that was leaving for Barcelona in two hours. In
duty free Bobby bought himself a brand new wardrobe of designer
clothing, some after shave, two hundred cigarettes, although he never
smoked and a suitcase. Bobby liked his hotel and he liked Barcelona. He
was attracted to the narrow streets and high tenements that hid the
teasing sun. He felt comfortable in the communal squares with their
bright bars and barking dogs. Most of all he fell in love with the
proud people who would try to talk to him in their Pidgin English.
These kind people wanted to talk about the Princess; Bobby shrugged his
shoulders. The gentle Spanish patted him on the back and bought him
strong drinks. Bobby telephoned work the next morning and told his
assistant that he would not be returning to work until the following
Monday. His assistant was sympathetic and stressed that it was a very
stressful time for everyone and that he should take it easy and that he
was owed holiday anyway. Bobby stepped around the city for the next two
days, randomly stopping at bars for coffee and beer and little dishes
of food. He was happy in his anonymity. On his third afternoon, he
whistled though a dark and reverberating alley that spurred off to even
more alleys in a spiderlike fashion. An olive skinned woman in a red
dress, matching lipstick and voluminous black hair smiling at him
distracted him. He smiled back. She followed him, stopped him and
suggested that they go to her place. It would be fun. Bobby agreed, he
had not felt this good for a long time. The sex was passionate,
ferocious, and condomless. The room was dark and musty with syringes on
the bedside cabinet. She charged him half price because she felt sorry
for him what with all this mourning. Bobby laughed half in
embarrassment half in bewilderment. She didn't, she wanted his money.
Bobby now understood and was ashamed at himself. He threw down many
notes, far too much. He ran out into the alley again and was greeted by
heat, church bells and yet more dogs. Bobby flew home that night. It
was Friday, tomorrow the nation would wilt. He still had a lot of
money. He sat down on the edge of his tidy bed, switched on the radio
and lit a cigarette, his first. He tried to understand the grief as he
listened, but got confused. He had never met this woman. The peoples
Princess as the announcer titled her inbetween songs of sugar and
saccharine. Bobby was definitely feeling something, maybe a pang of
guilt that he could not grasp, maybe a void. He smoked more cigarettes
and went to bed shaking. He did not sleep, just continued to listen to
the radio, he would rise sporadically and make himself cups of strong
coffee. 'Wait there Veronica, I'll be five minutes. As I said I need to
get some money.' 'Do you want me to come with you?' 'No.' 'Have you got
a cigarette?' 'There are packets in the glove compartment. I won't be
long.' Veronica's eyes follow him along the path to a low-rise block of
flats where he disappears like a magic trick. Veronica is in trouble;
she needs a hit and needs it quick. She's shaking and panicking. She
fingers the rock in her pocket and cuts a third off with her uneven
thumbnail. She pulls out a tiny pipe from her clutch bag that she uses
for such occasions and gets to work. It feels good, it feels right; but
it will only be right for a short time. Veronica's mind is working
overtime. She takes a packet of cigarettes from the glove compartment,
lights one and puts the remainder in her pocket. Bobby opens his front
door and sits on his bed with the intimacy of halogen lighting. What is
he doing? What has brought him to this? He thought that he had accepted
this day and dealt with it. He begins retracing it all in slow motion.
* Bobby rises early without sleep and with the radio still churning. He
pulls the curtains open to reveal a liquid sun that cuts through the
high clouds like a sickle. A wounded sky setting the scene. He dresses
in yesterday's crumpled clothing, makes himself yet another cup of
coffee. He walks outside and is greeted by amplified silence. He moves
west as if being dragged by a magnet. Bobby stands with the phalanx
across from the grey Palace, with the wailing, the crying, and the
confusion. As the cortege passes by the desperation increases and
flowers are thrown. People who have never met the icon in the coffin
declare love and regret. There is a Chelsea Pensioner metallic with
medals, an Asian family all weeping uncontrollably. Bobby is confused,
angry and is on the verge of something terrible. He wants to step out
into the road, stop the proceedings and demand reasoning. He doesn't,
he can't. A young woman, in her mid-twenties is holding him and
shrieking, telling him that she loved the Princess; the woman is
wearing badges. Bobby wrestles himself away from her and now cannot
stop himself. Shards of his youth, a remembered rebellion now explodes
in his head. The pins of long forgotten grenades are pulled. A lyric
from an angry old pop song spins in his head like a dizzy fun fair
ride. 'If you gave me a fresh carnation, I would only crush its tender
petals.' He sings it repeatedly, louder and harsher. Then he is
punched, not a hard one, almost a scuff. Bobby turns round to see who
it is and is faced with an orange haired punk in her teens who now
delivers an iron right-hander, a haymaker, a cartoon punch. He's on the
floor, he's now being kicked hard from different directions. It hurts.
They are coming from everywhere with seething voices as a souvenir for
the day. Finally, a smart young Policeman polished for the day heaves
up Bobby. Bobby wipes blood and pain from his face, smiles gratefully
and tries to find his bearings. He is spat at by the policeman who he
thought was helping him. Bobby limps away from the crowd and it's like
walking through tar. There is pushing and outrage is aimed at him, but
he gets out, he grabs a bunch of flowers that are laying by some
wrought iron railings. Bobby walks home through an empty and early
autumnal London. He wants a cigarette but has left them at home. None
of the shops are open. He's in pain and there is some blood. His back
hurts. He does not go indoors, instead he opens the door to the
Bluebird. Bobby does not have much real idea of where he is going, but
knows he is in the badlands of Essex. He can see the sea. It must be
Southend. He buys packets of cigarettes and sits under the pier, with
the rubbish, the broken stones and busy seagulls. Bobby tries to think
straight, but can't. It has been a strange week, he knows he is tired
and hungry but feels no need for sleep or food. He'll go back to work
on Monday and put all this down to experience. After a few hours Bobby
gets cold and returns to the car and just drives through the slow
thoughtful traffic. At intervals he fills the car with petrol. He eats
a dank sandwich, smokes randomly. The car is perfumed with the flowers
and petrol fumes. It's raining. He eventually arrives to familiar
streets; narrow and winding, chocolate lit. He notices a black woman
leaning against a wall wearing red. He is taken back to Barcelona a few
days before. He stops the car and opens the door. He throws the flowers
on to the back seat. * And that was Bobby's day. He feels proud of
himself. He took a stand against his brainwashed country. He is his own
hero. He counts his cash. He needs a cigarette to complete this
triumphant image but realises they are in the car. He has a sharp
shower. He changes underwear and decorates himself with another new
suit and expensive aftershave. He struts out the door with clicking
heels. Veronica is floating when she sees Bobby returning down the
drive. She's just enough crack for two more hits. She'll have it when
she gets back to her sanctuary. She puts yet another packet of
cigarettes in her pocket. Bobby drives at speed. She strokes his thigh
through the remainder of her high but begins clawing as they approach
her manor. 'What kept you Bobby?' 'I wanted to look good for you.' 'You
look great Bobby.' Inside her flat Bobby sits on her foam-leaking sofa
while Veronica vamps into the kitchen. 'You can do anything you want
for a hundred quid, absolutely anything, but I have to have this
first.' 'I don't know what I want. I'm a bit nervous. What are you
doing?' 'Want some?' Bobby holds the bottle while Veronica loads it
with the remainder of the stone. She lights it and Bobby sucks. She
encourages him. Bobby grips Veronica's thigh. 'Ahhh.' 'Did you get it?'
'Yeah.' 'Did you like it?' 'Yeah. I want some more. What is it?' 'It's
crack. I ain't got any left. How much money have you got on you?'
'About two thousand pounds. I want to kiss you.' 'Not as much as I want
to kiss you.' It is an hour and a half later. Bobby lies on the filthy
sofa in just his trunks inhaling hungrily from the bottle; then
Veronica strokes his crotch with one hand and plunges the needle into
his arm with the other. On the fractured green glass coffee table is a
stone of crack the size of a golfball. Bobby closes his eyes for the
last time as the sun rises on this splintered land. Veronica carries
on, oblivious to everything around her. She'll deal with all this
later, when she needs to. When the pining returns.

THE END