Good Girl, Bad Girl(90)

“For how long?” asks Kev.

“Until the heat dies down.”

“I got bills to pay,” complains Carla.

“More like a habit to feed,” replies Kev.

Carla must react because Kev says, “You’re such a classy lady.”

“And you’re a fat bastard,” she replies.

“I thought they caught the guy,” says Tuba.

“Yeah, but they’re still sniffing around. We’ll give it a week—ten days tops.”

“And what are we supposed to do?”

“Take a holiday. Go somewhere warm. You’re dressed for it.”

“What about our customers?” asks Tuba.

“When we get back on track, we’ll offer them a discount.”

I step back from the door and wrap my arms around my chest, shivering, but it’s not from the cold. I don’t trust any of these people. I should have stolen the pizza money from Keeley and caught a bus to London. I should have gone back to Cyrus. Even if he sent me to Langford Hall, it wouldn’t be forever. What am I afraid of? I’ve spent most of my life in one box or another. Waiting.

The meeting is breaking up. Tuba and Kev leave together, filling the corridor with their laughter and bulk. Carla ignores me as she passes, disappearing in a cloud of cigarette smoke.

Keeley is wrapped around Felix, almost dry-humping his leg. He pushes her away and reaches into his pocket, removing a tiny plastic bag, which he shakes against his thigh and gives to her.

“Now piss off. I’m busy.”

Keeley looks at me with a mixture of disgust and loathing, but also a strange emptiness behind her eyes, like she’s already left the building.

I hover in the open doorway until Felix tells me to sit down. He gets another beer from a chest fridge, removing the top by hooking the cap on the edge of the counter and thumping the bottle with his fist.

“You want one?”

I shake my head. “I thought I was delivering stuff.”

“Not tonight.”

“But my money.”

“Chill. You’ll get it.”

He turns on a stereo and cranks up the volume on an electro-pop track with so much bass it shakes my insides.

“What sort of music do you like?” he asks.

“Not this.”

He grins and sits on the stained sofa whose fabric has been worn thin by squirming asses. Beer at his fingertips, he takes a small glass pipe from his pocket, which has a bulb on one end like a pregnant test tube. It reminds me of the science lessons at Langford Hall where we distilled salt water into fresh water using a Bunsen burner and two flasks.

Felix takes another clear plastic bag from his thigh pocket and holds it up in front of his eyes, examining the contents that look like tiny granules of rock salt. He pinches some of the crystals between his fingers and drops them into the glass pipe, where they settle at the base of the bulb. Taking a cheap lighter from his pocket, he triggers the flame and holds it under the glass, filling the room with a soft crackling sound. Smoke, as white as cotton wool, appears in the pipe. Felix draws it deep into his lungs, puffing out his cheeks and letting his head loll back. The same smoke slowly leaks from his lips, lifting the corners of his mouth into an odd smile. It’s like a chemical reaction—cause and effect—flooding his eyes with bliss.

He hands the pipe to me. I shake my head.

“Relax. Lighten up.”

“I’ll have a beer.”

Felix collects one from the fridge, turning his back as he removes the top. I’m still staring at the glass pipe and the darkened crystals in the bulb. I have smoked weed before, but nothing like this. Maybe I should try it. What harm could it do? It’s not as though my life has been a picnic up until now. The opposite is true. All questions and no answers; a real shit show.

Counselors and therapists have always told me to accept my reality, but none of them has ever explained why. In a world full of suffering and sadness, why should anybody “accept their reality” when they could change it? That’s why those makeover TV shows are so popular—they feed on people’s compulsive desire to be someone else; to swap their boring, shitty life for something better. To avoid, to deny, to forget . . .

Felix hands me the open beer. I wipe the top with my sleeve and take a drink, filling my mouth, cooling my throat. I don’t stop until the last drop falls on my tongue. Another beer is pulled from the cooler. This time I hold it between my knees, telling myself to drink more slowly.

Felix picks up the pipe and thumbs the flame. Smoke curls along the glass tube as he inhales.

He holds the pipe towards me and turns the lighter upside down.

“Don’t be afraid. Relax. Let it happen.”

I lean forward, opening my lips.

“It’s like riding a dragon,” he says. “It’s like drinking in clouds.”

My stomach spasms and the walls of the room suddenly bulge and suck away.

He gave me something. He spiked my drink. I know about such things—roofies and date rape drugs—but I didn’t think . . . should have thought . . . Stupid girl! Foolish girl!

Felix is talking. His features seem to morph and transform into Halloween masks and monstrous creatures, all lips and teeth and multiple eyes.

“What did you give me?” I slur, not recognizing my own voice. When did the music change?