Good Me Bad Me(46)

‘What are they?’ Clondine asks.

Phoebe takes a pill from the bag, moves it around between her fingers, examines it.

‘It’s got a Superman logo on it, Tyson said they’ll make us fly.’

She pops one in her mouth, walks around the room delivering the rest into hands outstretched, as if she is god or queen of the teens. Bless me please.

A full circle done, a couple left in the bag still.

‘Open wide, dog-face.’

‘No,’ I reply. ‘No thank you,’ I modify.

‘Not sure I understand that word,’ she says.

‘Leave her be, Phoebe, all the more for us.’

Joe saunters by, an attempt at casual. I don’t know boys, how they function, but his casual looks like concern, needs a bit more work. Phoebe turns away, bored of my face.

‘Yeah, you’re right, it would only be a waste, she’s fucked up already.’

Her nails like talons, almond in shape, she flicks another pill down her throat. Lips pressed into a pout, close the moist cave. Dark. She misses the wink Joe gives me, a secret mutiny against her majesty. Off with his.

It doesn’t take long. The perfectly smart and beautiful privileged crowd morph into a mob. Animals. Pack mentality. Outside in the garden, howl to the moon. Saucers for eyes, mouths a-judder. Smoking. One day these boys and girls will run the world, in the meantime, they ruin it.

I find a quiet space at the top of the stairs on the first landing, an abandoned party bag on the way. The contents, ingenious, the seductive way it’s been put together, wrapped in foils, plastic tubes. I pretend it’s Christmas, how it is in the movies, unwrap them one by one. White powder in the first, origami, Saskia-style. Next, a white pill, a dove logo, the obsession with flying continues. In at number three, a capsule with M printed on it, a condom for afters, and a joint rolled, ready to smoke.

I sit in the dark shadows by the wall, voices coming up the stairs towards me. I recognize Clondine’s. I watch her and an older boy, the same one that grabbed Phoebe earlier, disappear into a room further down the corridor. The door to the room, left open, the sound carries. A squeal, laughter. Then silence. Five minutes or so later, a protest. Stop, no, I hear her say, stop it, Toby, I don’t want to. I stick to the shadows, approach the door. Shut the fuck up, he says to her, quit crying. She won’t stop, can’t stop, I’ve been there too. Her crying distracts him, throws him off his stride, frustrated.

‘Keep still, for fuck’s sake.’

‘Please, Toby, I don’t want to.’

I push the door open, wide, the bed visible with light from a lamp in the hallway. Toby on top, Clondine pinned underneath. His knees hold her legs open, one of his hands traps her arms above her head, her jeans halfway down her thighs. Shut the fucking door, he says, a pillow thrown in my direction lands at my feet. Clondine’s a baby, whimpers. I switch on the light, he turns to face me, the unwanted spectator, the killjoy. It was a bit of fun, he’d say if he was questioned, she wanted it too.

‘Switch the fucking light off and disappear, pronto.’

‘I heard her say no.’

‘And what’s that got to do with you?’

I switch the light off, a moment’s reprieve for him, and me. The way Clondine is positioned on the bed reminds me. And the sound she makes, it says, don’t leave me with him. I know the sound, a similar one I used to make, though mine was a she. I switch the light back on, his hand in her crotch. She lies still, like a blow-up doll. I flick the switch, a disco of sorts.

Off.

On.

Off.

On.

Offon.

Offon.

A distraction, for even the most committed rapist.

It works.

He moves off her rigid, frigid body. She rolls, a rag doll, hanging over the side of the bed, vomits. Sobs. Vomits again. Saliva and druggy sick hang off her chin. She is five years old, crumpled and used, wants her mummy. Be careful what you wish for.

He’s in front of me now, my back against the door, my foot prevents it from closing.

His hand on my neck, his body against mine.

‘Jealous are you? Wish it was you, do you?’

A clumsy hand between my legs, rubs crudely back and forth, friction through denim. He squeezes my breast, licks my face, I feel him hard against the waistband of my jeans. His eyes roll in his head, the drugs make him fly, doesn’t he know? Superheroes don’t steal, nor do they rape. Clondine whimpers again. Two against one but she’s useless, out of her depth. Bite your nose off, shall I, Toby? Dream face ruined, in hiding for ever.

Like me.

I reach down, grab his dick as hard as I can. Pleasure arrives in his body from the sudden touch, but it doesn’t last long as I tighten my grip, pain receptors activated. Tiny powerful neurons scream in his head. The science behind pain, a specialist topic of mine. Important to know how the process works, you said to me often, as you activated mine. I expect a black eye, a punch or a swipe, but the cat’s got his tongue, or his dick. He drops to his knees on the floor. Too late to pray, Toby.

Clondine’s off the bed, her hair and eyes wild and unhinged, she pulls up her jeans. Toby’s down, groans on his back. A voice from the bottom of the stairs filters up to the room.

‘Mate, Toby, are you up there? Come down, there’s a beer bong on the go. Stevo’s already spewed his load, hilarious. Dude, are you up there?’