Читать книгу Something Wicked - Sherry Ashworth - Страница 7

“Are you going out tonight?” my mum asked.

“Yeah, later on,” I muttered, my eyes on the TV screen. Until I spoke those words, I hadn’t totally made up my mind to accept Karen’s invitation. Now I’d committed myself I felt mildly interested in my own decision. I wondered why I’d decided to go.

I suppose one factor was that I just didn’t want to stay in on Saturday night. Even though Mum was a bit more cheerful today, the idea of just being glued to the sofa all night and staying up till two or three in the morning all by myself wasn’t the most appealing of prospects. Whatever happened in town would be better than that.

But also, I just wanted to give clubbing another shot. I wanted to see if I could enjoy myself more than last time. And to tell you truth, I was grateful to Karen for inviting me. It was friendly of her. A lot of the time I felt as if I didn’t have any real friends. I get along with people without ever getting close to them. All the girls I know have one other person that they like more than me, a best friend or a boyfriend. Maybe it’s my fault and I don’t try hard enough, or maybe there’s something about me that people don’t like – I don’t know and, most of the time, I don’t care.

Mum was curled up on the sofa, reading some magazine. The sofa is under the wooden staircase that leads up to our two bedrooms. I live alone with my mother in a small terraced house in Calder. You walk in off the street to a tiny porch and then into our living room. It’s quite modern with IKEA furniture. You can walk through to the kitchen, and behind that is a small garden. Upstairs there’s just our two bedrooms and the bathroom. There’s a loft as well, and Mum reckons that one day we could convert it into an extra bedroom and maybe we could have Neil back.

Neil is my brother. He lives with my dad in Exeter. He chose to do that himself when they split up six years ago. He’s a year older than me and I get to see him every few months or so. Bit by bit we’ve stopped being close. My dad remarried and has got two small kids with his new wife. But none of this is a big deal. These are just the facts of my life and I’m luckier than a lot of people. My mum finds it hard to cope sometimes because she gets low – she’s off work for stress – but she has her good days too. Today was one of them.

“Let me read you your horoscope, Anna!” she said.

I rolled my eyes. My mum is really into all that stuff big time. As if some freak can work out from the position of the planets exactly what is going to happen to me and the one twelfth of the world’s population who happen to be Libra. And they’re written so vaguely that you can always fit what is going on in your life to what the horoscope says.

“Here we go,” my mum said. “Today is the first day of the rest of your life. Your voyage of discovery starts here. You’re itching for a fight but make sure you don’t take on someone bigger and stronger than you. Use your gift for criticism to detect a man who isn’t all he seems. And above all, be yourself.”

“Yeah, right,” I said.

“Don’t be so sceptical. I’m always amazed how uncanny some of these forecasts are. I’ve been tempted to get my horoscope read properly, taking into account my hour and date of birth. You were born at seven thirty-five p.m. on a Thursday, in case you ever need to know.”

My mother’s voice was just a little petulant and self-pitying. I know she wants me to be more like her. I can feel her tugging at me a lot of the time to be her best mate, to have girlie heart-to-hearts, to open up and all that rubbish. I would if I thought it would do her any good. Mum already opens up to a lot of people. She belongs to a therapy group and sees the therapist on a regular basis. She does hypnotherapy too, and aromatherapy – basically, if it’s got therapy at the end of the word, she’ll try it. My mum says that my character is more like Dad’s than hers and I can come across a bit shut-off. Which is crap. I’m just waiting for the right person to open up to.

“Where are you going tonight?” she asked.

“The Ritz.”

“Who with?”

“Karen, Paula, Janette and some others.”

“That’s nice.”

I forestalled the rest of the questions by giving her a set of answers. “I’ll be leaving about nine and I’m getting the bus. We’ll share a taxi back around one. I know where my keys are.”

“You know not to flag down an unlicensed minicab.”

“Yes, Mum.”

“And not to have too much to drink.”

“Do I drink?” I asked her.

“Well, no, but there’s always a first time.”

My mum worries too much and seems to think that I’d go off the rails at the first opportunity. The trouble is, she reads too much, too many magazines and newspapers. She believes all these horror stories about teenagers – you know the ones I mean. Teenagers binge-drink alcopops, rot their brain cells with weed while having underage sex and committing copycat crimes from rap lyrics. Sounds like fun. I might try it some time.

But in the meantime, I thought, I’d better go and get ready for Anna Hanson’s big night out.

A mirror is never enough, is it? You’ve got to have at least one other person tell you look OK, or better than OK, if possible. So I went downstairs to my mum and didn’t say anything, but stood there, hoping she’d comment.

“You look pretty,” she said. “Your hair is nice.”

I was wearing it loose. My hair is fair, that nothingy shade somewhere between blonde and brown.

“Why don’t you try something with a little more colour, Anna?” Mum suggested.

I was dressed all in black. On Karen’s orders. I’d rung her and she said that’s how everyone usually dressed. We had to look eighteen and get in past the bouncers. Best not to draw attention to yourself. So I put on a black shirt (three-quarter sleeve), black trousers (plain, New Look) and black trainers. My make-up was lip gloss and a lick of mascara.

“What about that floral-print blouse I bought you from Marks?” Mum suggested.

As if.

I went over to Mum and pecked her goodbye on the cheek and went out. The bus stop wasn’t far and I knew a bus was due. Dressed in black as I was, I felt reassuringly anonymous and was glad that no one at the bus stop gave me a second glance, not even the two lads waiting there. I could see the bus approaching, blazing light. I got my purse out of my bag to find my fare.

I like buses at night. You feel like you’re enclosed in a separate world, in a little community away from the darkness. I also like the feeling of not being in one place or another, but on the move. Maybe I would have a good time after all, tonight. Anything could happen.

A woman got on with two small kids. I love little kids, the way they stare at you. They came and took the seat in front of me and the little boy knelt on the seat and just looked at me. He was gorgeous, chocolate coloured with large, dark eyes. It’s crazy, sometimes I wish I was black so one day I could have a kid like that. I grinned at him and he watched me, a bit suspicious at first. I stuck my tongue out. That made him smile. Then his mum called him and he swivelled round again, and I was on my own.

We arrived at the bus station and everyone queued to get out. I could see Karen and Paula and everyone in a gaggle over by the closed newsstand. I walked over to join them.

“Hi, Anna. We’re just waiting for Janette.”

Paula and everyone were all transformed. They looked nothing like they did at school. They wore their hair up with huge butterfly clips; their faces sparkled with glitter; Karen had done up her eyes so that they dripped sex. Their perfumes competed with each other, eddies of musky scents moving around them, but overcome by the acrid cigarette smoke – nearly all them were puffing away at cigs. God, I felt dull in comparison.

And just then Janette arrived, stepping out of her mum’s Ka.

“You look gorgeous!” everyone cried.

Which was true. She did. She just wore a simple black skirt which consisted of a silky lining with see-through flouncy material over it. Janette’s top was one of those tight-laced bodices, thrusting up her boobs and leaving a few inches of exposed midriff. I don’t blame her – her stomach was flat as a board. She wore black, knee-high boots. All the other girls cooed over her and she chatted away nonstop to them. I had a choice. I could either join in or stand back and lose the sense of kinship that comes from doing the same thing as all of your mates. Because I’m a bit bloody-minded at times – and because I wasn’t sure whether I was wanted or not – I stood back.

The Ritz wasn’t far. It used to be an old cinema that they converted to a night club. It was the best place to go on a Saturday night. The shaven-headed, puffajacket-wearing bouncers gave us all the once-over as we made our way in, but stopped none of us. Karen had warned me they were being more careful since the police raided a few months ago and found the place full of eleven year olds. But it was quite easy to get in if you were female and dressed sophisticatedly. Karen linked arms with me as we entered and that made me feel better.

We paid our fivers at the kiosk and made for the ladies for a bit of extra grooming. I primped my hair a bit in the mirror and wished I’d made more of an effort. I didn’t look much different from usual. There were stubs of ciggies in the basins and damp, lipstick-stained tissues. The condom machine had a notice on saying it was empty. Karen said I looked a bit pale and put some of her blusher on me. Then she disappeared into one of the cubicles.

Paula came over to me then and said Karen had fallen out with Mandy and that was why she was hanging round with me. She was only using me. Mandy was there, and was busy fussing around Janette. I reckoned this could be true. Great. I was just a substitute.

We all left together and headed for the bar. They all bought Smirnoff Ices and Vodka Blues. I had a Diet Coke. I don’t drink. Partly because I don’t much like the taste but, more than that, I don’t like what it does to me. I feel as if I’m slipping out of my own control.

The dance floor was quite crowded. The DJ was playing some Madonna track that I forget the title of. Our crowd was still sticking together, shouting in each other’s ears stuff about who they knew who’d turned up, what they were wearing, who they were seeing, or every so often their eyes would swivel towards some bloke who’d come in. “He’s fit! … He’s cute! … He’s stunning!”

I just looked around. Karen carried on whispering stuff to me, but I could see that every so often she looked over at Mandy to see what she was up to. I began to feel more and more as if I wasn’t really there. It was a strange feeling – as if I was just a pair of eyes, observing. I saw the DJ jerking to the music; groups of lads standing round, bottles in hands; everyone eyeing up everyone else.

I followed the girls on to the dance floor. It was sticky with spilt drink. They put their bags down on the floor so they could watch them while they danced but I didn’t fancy that. I kept my bag on my shoulder and decided that I wouldn’t dance for a bit, but just look on. Some Ibiza anthem was blaring out now: loud, repetitive music with a heavy bass. The girls were dancing together, showing off their bodies, hoping to attract attention. Paula was getting right down on to the floor. Janette hardly moved. Just stubbing out her ciggie on the floor with the toe of her boot was enough to send the boys wild.

A little voice in my head said, go and join them. Get on the floor and make with the music. But it was no use; I just wasn’t in the mood. I was invisible – no one could see me. No boys looked my way. And then I noticed Mandy go up to Karen and say something to her, and Karen hugged her, and Mandy hugged her back, and they started dancing together. I knew what that meant. Bye bye, Anna.

The louder the music got, the more frenetic the dancing, the more detached I felt. Don’t think I wasn’t having a good time in my own way. I’ve said before you’re not to feel sorry for me as there’s nothing to be sorry for. I liked the way my thoughts were coming thick and fast, I liked watching people, I liked watching blokes. If you’re interested, I’ve had crushes on boys and the odd snog, but never a real boyfriend. I want one, one day. You wouldn’t credit this, but I have romantic fantasies too. Sometimes I watch old Hollywood musicals on the box, and wish I could be the girl in the long flowing dress tripping lightly down the staircase to the ball, my lover waiting in the hall. Or be the dame in one of those secret agent movies – the woman with a past who the detective falls for – walking into a sordid little office, aloof, sexy, full of passion. Or I’d be on top of the Empire State Building, up high, looking over Manhattan, the man of my dreams by my side and knowing only we two mattered.

How sad am I? I have all the wrong dreams. I know I should want to be Britney Spears or J.Lo, or have a kooky, loving family like in the sitcoms. Or get proposed to on telly or something, so the whole world knows. But when you think about it – when I think about it, I mean – today’s romance scenarios are crap. All those so-called role models – Britney, Madonna, Kylie – they’re just in love with themselves. You can see it on the videos. And everyone is completely into who they pull or have sex with – it’s that or soppy look-at-this-lovely-Valentine’s-card-he’s-sent-me! It’s either all crude or makes you want to throw up.

To prove my point to myself I looked again at the dance floor. Some lads had come up to my mates and were groping them. Hands on bums, on waists, and Paula had turned round and was draping herself all over this boy with spiky black hair. They were hoovering each other up with their mouths. His hands were everywhere. It was kind of disgusting and kind of sexy at the same time. I looked away.

Paula wasn’t a virgin. She liked chalking up her conquests much as boys do. One lad in our class – Darren – boasted he’d shagged Janette so Paula beat him up. It was the best scandal we’d had in school for ages. But it was all about point scoring, the relationships my friends had. I wished things were different. I thought when I fell in love – pow! – we’d make a new world, a world all of our own.

That crappy world of the Ritz with its bouncers and people gagging for sex they probably didn’t even enjoy, the deafening so-called music and the gallons of alcohol, was a pretty rubbishy sort of world. But it was about as good as it got in our town. It was clubbing or looking round the shops at things you couldn’t afford. It made me angry. I wanted things to be different, but how could they be? What could I do?

Perhaps I was thinking like that to cover up the fact no one had come up to me for ages. My mates were all pulling lads and I was ignored by everyone. I knew deep down if I’d made more of an effort I could be one of them, but it would mean not being me – it would mean compromise. I don’t do compromise.

I wondered if I just went home, would anyone notice? And then the idea of home suddenly became appealing. The club was hot and my shirt was sticking to me. My feet were hot in my trainers. Time was passing slowly. Outside it would be dark and cool and I would be free. Every single one of the girls I’d come with was with someone now, and I noticed a greasy old bloke staring at me. That did it. I pushed my way through the crowd of drinkers and left the club.

It was a relief. I hoped the girls would wonder where I was and maybe even worry about me. If they did worry, it would serve them right. I knew I was supposed to get a taxi home with them, but as I’d left early the buses were still running, so I’d be OK. Technically I wasn’t supposed to travel alone at night, but my mum worried needlessly a lot of the time. Most people were OK. It’s just the media that want you to believe the streets are full of paedophiles so they can whip up mass hysteria and sell more papers. Everybody’s on the make these days.

It was only a short walk to the bus station, down the High Street and then across King’s Gardens where the moshers hang out. Another place I wasn’t supposed to go at night. It was a square lined with bushes. Each street bordering it had a path that led to the middle, where there was a fountain that hadn’t had water in it for years.

Tonight it seemed empty. Maybe it was too early for the moshers – they were probably all at one of their clubs – Medusa’s or Hell’s Kitchen. I wondered if they also had to pay a fiver for entry. What annoyed me was the fact I’d wasted my money. Five quid entry, two fifty for a Coke, one fifty for the bus. Why was everything so expensive? Where did they expect people like me to get money from? I’m supposed to stay on at school to go to college and not earn money, but also go to clubs, buy the right gear, have a mobile, an MP3 player, a computer. ’Cause people know teenagers want to fit in they target us with all the consumer goods on the market. It just isn’t—

I would have said “fair”, but I didn’t have the opportunity. My conscious thoughts stopped there as in that split second someone ran at me and grabbed at my bag. Pure instinct took over. Not to run – you don’t run when someone is trying to take something from you. The instinct is to hold on tight. I did. I also filled with rage – how dare they? They? I looked at my attacker. A bloke. So I kneed him, as I’d been taught to do. Amazing! He let go of my bag and fell to the floor. I’d won.

I was still too full of adrenaline to realise properly what had happened to me. I should have run then, but in an odd kind of way I felt sorry for the bloke I’d just crippled. He was doubled up on the floor. He was wearing trackies, trainers and a hoodie. The hood had fallen over his face so I couldn’t see him.

But then he looked up at me.

“Ritchie?” I questioned.

“Anna,” he said.