Good Me Bad Me(7)

‘Give me your goddamn phone number, bitch.’

Her hands push me, her face presses against mine, I welcome the contact. I am real. See me, feel me, but know that I come from a place where this is merely a warm-up.

I shake my head again.

A stinging sensation sweeps across my cheek, into my ear, out the other side. Slapped. I hear laughter, admiration at Izzy’s performance. My eyes are closed but I imagine her taking a bow, ever the crowd-pleaser. Her voice is faint, the ringing in my ear threatens to drown it out, but the words are unmistakable.

‘I. Won’t. Ask. Again.’

And I never forget.

Never.

When they get what they want, they leave. My hand touches the heat on my cheek and I’m reminded of you. Swallowed. A vortex of memories. We’re back in our house, I can smell the lavender you loved, the vase in the bathroom. It’s the night of your arrest, I’d been at the police station all afternoon. I faked a letter from you, gave it to the school office, I was excused after lunch, no questions asked.

I was terrified to look at you that night, to meet your eyes, as if the secret shame of what I’d done was scrawled. Spray-painted, on my face. I offered to do the ironing, anything to stop my hands from shaking, and so I’d be armed if the police came early and you went for me. You looked different, smaller, still intimidating but less so. But it wasn’t you who’d changed, it was me. The end in sight. Or the beginning.

I worried they might not come, change their minds, decide I was making it up. I tried to breathe normally, stand normally, not that it mattered since you could flip at any given moment. One minute you’d be arranging flowers, the next you’d demand I put on a show. There aren’t many everyday activities left that don’t remind me of you, of how you liked to do them. When bedtime came I waited to be told where I was to sleep. Sometimes in your bed, other times I’d be given a reprieve and sent to mine. The funny thing, or sad, was part of me wanted to sleep with you that night knowing it would be our last, and another part of me was too scared to go upstairs on my own. Up eight, up another four, the door on the right. Opposite mine. The playground.

You said nothing as you closed your bedroom door, it was one of those nights. You could go days without talking to or acknowledging me then swallow me up, my skin, my hair, in minutes, anything you could grab. I said goodbye that night, whispered it. I think I might have also said, I love you, and I did. Still do, though I’m trying not to.

When I went upstairs I leant into the corridor wall outside the room opposite mine, needed to feel something solid against me, yet I soon moved. I heard them. The voices of tiny ghosts bleeding out of the wall. Swooping. Plummeting. A no man’s land.

She’ll be there, waiting, the girl who gave Phoebe the finger, I know she will. I’ve seen her a couple of times since that first night. I turn the corner into my road, there she is, sitting on the wall. I feel something in my tummy, a squeeze, not fear. Pleasure, I think. Excitement. She’s small, alone. I haven’t spoken to her yet but I’m working on it. As I walk closer she begins to swing her legs up and down, hits the bricks of the wall that surrounds her estate opposite my house with alternating thumps. Her right eye, bruised and swollen, only open a little. A football strip, all blue. Her open eye stares at me as I walk past. It blinks, blinks again. A one-eyed Morse code. I pull the crisps out, the bag opens with a pop, it knows it has a part to play. I glance at her. Her good eye looks away, a chirpy whistle starts up, she’s all freckles and aloof. I shrug, cross the road. Three. Two …

‘You got anything to eat?’

One.

I turn to face her – ‘You can have some of my crisps if you like?’

She looks around, over her shoulder, as if checking we’re alone, then asks, ‘What flavour are they?’

‘Salt and vinegar.’

I walk towards her, hold the packet out. If she wants them she’ll have to leave the wall. She does. Quick as a flash, takes them, sits back down. Her scuffed trainers resume their dance: thump, thump, right, left. I ask her name but she ignores me. It takes only minutes, she shovels, more than eats the crisps. Devours them. Tips up the packet so it covers her mouth, taps it on the bottom, the remaining crumbs, gone. The empty bag floats to the ground. She’s older than she looks, twelve or thirteen maybe. Small for her age.

‘You got anything else?’

‘No, nothing.’

She blows a saliva bubble which is both disgusting and fascinating. The way it forms on her lips, the way she sucks it back in. Bold, yet babyish, all at once. I want to ask her why she sits here so often on her own, why a wall on a street is better than home, but she leaves. Swivels her legs over the back of the wall, walks away, towards one of the tower blocks. I watch her go, she knows somehow, feels my stare. Turns round, gives me a look that I think says, what’s your problem. I smile in response, she shrugs over her shoulder at me. I try again.

‘What’s your name?’ I call out.

She stops walking, turns her body round to face me, scuffs one of her trainers into the ground. Once. Twice.

‘Who wants to know?’

‘Milly, my name’s Milly.’

She scrunches her eyes, a flash of uncertainty across her face, but answers anyway.

‘Morgan,’ she says.

‘That’s a nice name.’

‘Whatever,’ she replies, peels into a jog and is soon out of sight. As I cross the road I roll the letters of her name up and in, over my tongue and lips, and while I search for the keys in my bag I can’t help but feel pleased. I stood up for myself with Clondine and Izzy, and spoke to the girl on the wall. I can do this, I can do life after you.