‘How old are you?’ I’d asked. I wanted to know how long he’d been out here, if he’d come for a short while and ended up staying here. If, like the stuff he shot into his body, being out here was an escape from the world he used to live in.
‘Twenty-seven,’ he’d said.
‘Twenty-seven?’ He was only three years older than me. He spoke like a person at least ten years older than that; he looked like someone even older.
‘Yeah, not much older than you, I know. I just look old, and I’ve been out here ten years or so, I forget how long, really. Just a long time, Ace. Meant to ask you, do you mind if I call you Ace, Grace?’
I’d shaken my head. I didn’t, because he’d asked and would probably not do it if I’d said I did mind. ‘Call me Ace if you like,’ I’d said.
‘So there’s no chance of you going home?’ He always asked me this. Usually I shook my head and changed the subject. But tonight, he’d given me a driver’s licence with my new face and new name on it, and I felt I owed him a bit of an explanation, especially since he didn’t want any money for the licence.
‘No,’ I said. ‘I don’t know where home is, for one. I left both of my last long-term “homes” under a cloud, shall we say. There really is nowhere to go back to.’
‘So, who was it, dad, stepdad or uncle?’ Reese asked.
‘Who was what?’
‘Who was fiddling with ya? That’s why most girls end up out here – someone molesting them or someone knocking them about. You don’t look like you were being knocked about, you’ve got a different kind of jumpiness – so I’m guessing it’s the other thing.’
‘You’re Mr Sensitive sometimes, aren’t you?’
‘Yeah, no, sorry, mate. That was a bit out of order. I kinda forget sometimes cos talking to you is like talking to myself. Those are the things I say to myself. The beatings I could take, mostly, ya know, but when he started fiddling with me, I had to get out of there. Was cutting myself to get the pain out. Then got into smack and had to leave cos I could see what would happen: smack makes me crazy sometimes. I don’t just pass out and everything is good; sometimes it makes me rage. I knew one day I’d probably get out of it and end up knifing the bastard, then spend my life in prison. The street is better than prison, believe me.’
‘My dad wouldn’t do something like that,’ I said. I was staring at the photograph of myself, black and white and slightly out of focus from where it had been printed on to the pink, watermarked plastic of the driver’s licence. I had cut off my hair to chin length, twisted it, and was going to leave it to turn into dreadlocks. Easier to care for, natural and, most importantly, how I wanted it to look. ‘I don’t have a stepdad. And I hardly ever saw my uncles,’ I told Reese while still staring at the plastic picture of me.
‘Family friend?’
In my head, the music for the ‘Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy’ began to play. The up-down, up-down, up-down, up-down beat, the movements of the child’s toy the dancer was meant to mimic, the way my body could never forget that dance. Other dances and routines may fade, but every time I heard the music, I would be back there and I would remember. ‘Leave it, eh, Reese? Just leave it.’
‘Sorry, mate. Forget sometimes what it’s like for people who had it worse.’
‘Where did you get the licence?’ I asked him.
‘Ask me no questions, I’ll tell you no lies.’ He grinned, flashing his grey teeth, some of them chipped, others stained brown over the grey. ‘It’s not stolen or nothing like that. And it won’t stand up to proper scrutiny, but it’ll help you get into hostels, maybe get a job.’
‘Please tell me how much I owe you for it.’
‘No, no, I’ve paid for it now. I don’t want your money. I feel bad, see, that I didn’t stop that arsehole quick enough.’ He hung his head, staring at his clean hands with their ragged nails, dried-out cuticles. ‘I wasn’t paying attention. Was trying to score. I should have stopped him when he was making a move. Sorry, mate.’
‘It’s not your fault,’ I said to him. Gently, so as not to spook him, because he was often jumpy, I put my hand over his. ‘It was no one’s fault but his. You saved me from … well, you know. That doesn’t mean I shouldn’t pay you for this.’
‘Yes it does. But listen, Ace, don’t take anything from anyone else. No matter what’s offered or how nicely it’s offered. Not even from me after this. Not ever, mate, all right? Promise me.’
‘I promise,’ I said. I wasn’t the type to take things without paying for them. That’s why I wanted to pay him for the licence. It didn’t feel right, not paying my way.
‘Mate, I’m serious here. There are some bad people out there, they will do anything to get you hooked in then will do you serious harm to get you to pay them back. Don’t take anything, ever. Not even from me, because after this, our debts are settled. If I fall down that hole again and you’ve taken something from me, I’ll want it back. When I’m on that stuff, I have no friends, I owe no one and every single debt I’m owed I want paying back. Mate, when I’m down that hole, I’ll do anything. And there are some bad, bad people out there who’ll do anything, too. Just be careful, OK?’
‘Yeah,’ I said.
I should have told him to be careful back. I didn’t think he’d need those words from me, though. I was the new girl on the streets, I had no idea what was out there. No idea at all.
Brighton, 2016
Marshall, Marshall, Marshall. Eliza has talked non-stop about Marshall since we sat down. His whole body must be aflame, never mind his ears. At her insistence, we have come here to a corner pub on Western Road on the way into the centre of Brighton instead of walking along the seafront to the place I’d mentioned yesterday. I thought it was for a quick drink, but we are now four drinks in – that I have paid for – and she is showing no sign of moving, and she has talked non-stop about Marshall since we sat down.
I stopped listening a while back, now I simply study her. She is about my age, maybe slightly older if she’s the same age as Marshall. She’s nervous, with anxious little movements where she moves her glass, she straightens up her drinks mat, she moves her drinks mat back, she shifts in her seat, she fiddles with her hair, she plays with the stem of her glass. All the while talking about Marshall and his life, his work, his marriage, his divorce, his son. I feel I know Marshall, have had a bird’s eye view into his life, even though I have only met him the once. I wonder what it’s like to be the object of someone’s obsession when you haven’t actually slept with them? At least with Todd I had slept with him, lived with him, which must have fuelled his obsession. This behaviour from Eliza is unsettling.
‘Did you and Marshall have a thing?’ I ask her, simply to confirm what I’ve already guessed about them: it has always been platonic.
Eliza, who has not sat still properly all evening, is suddenly motionless, except for her eyes, which narrow at me. ‘Why do you ask? Are you interested in him or something?’
‘Just curious. You’ve known him so long, as long as he was married, and before that, so I was just curious if your thing happened before or after that?’
‘He’s not interested in dating right now,’ she says. ‘There was a time when, you know, I thought … and I suppose he thought … but the timing was never right. We were never on the same page at the same time so it kind of never happened. Well, I say never, I mean it hasn’t happened so far. You never know what the future might bring.’
‘True,’ I say to her.
‘He’s kind of special to me,’ she says. Her voice is shy, hesitant when she says this while her demeanour tells me she will kill anyone who comes between the two of them. ‘I wouldn’t want to see him being messed about, not by anyone. I wouldn’t take very kindly to anyone who upset him in any way.’
The pub’s door opens and a group of people come in, laughing, joking, enjoying a Friday night in Brighton. Friday and Saturday nights were dangerous times for those of us who slept rough. Boozed-up people looking for a fig
ht would often suddenly see us as easy targets, would goad people into fights, would sometimes even take a piss on those they saw sleeping in doorways, because they could. The people who have just arrived seem happy, relaxed; friends who enjoy each other’s company, hopefully not the sort to pick fights with those they think are beneath them. I’m envious of the people who have just come in. I used to have that sort of relaxed camaraderie with Reese and a couple of others. I used to belong with them and we’d have moments of sitting around, talking, laughing, being friends. Our times together weren’t all bleak and hard and scrabbling around for money to score or to eat or to afford to sleep indoors. Sometimes we were just like the people who’ve just walked in the door, and I miss those times. I miss those people, I miss the ability to fit in. I must have been crazy when I agreed to come out with Eliza because a tiny part of me was hoping that there was something about her that I could connect with. When she first spoke to me at the meeting she’d seemed nice. I thought that maybe there was more niceness about her, but no. It was the familiarity of bad behaviour. It was recognising bits of her that I’d been attracted to in others and wanting to make it work.
‘Marshall must find it very comforting to know there’s someone like you looking out for him,’ I say. I drain my orange juice from my glass. I’ve bought the drinks all night – wine for her, orange juice for me. I stand up, pull on my coat. ‘I have to go,’ I say to her.
‘What? I thought we were going to stay out for a bit, have something to eat? Maybe go back to yours and crack open that bottle I got you?’
‘Eliza, do you know what Marshall is doing tonight?’ I ask her.
‘Erm, it’s Friday, and his son isn’t coming over this weekend so he’s probably out with friends. Why do you want to know?’ she asks.
‘I was just double-checking,’ I say. I hook my bag on to my shoulder. ‘Thanks for the drink. Don’t worry about rushing your drink to leave with me. On my way out I’ll let Marshall know you’re over here. I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to see you.’
She spins in her seat, and feigns surprise when she sees him over at the bar, having just arrived with his group of friends. Poor man. Poor, poor man. Without another word to her, I walk over to him to let him know that his ‘friend’ is sitting over in the corner. I don’t need to add that she’s blatantly brought me along to stalk him on a night out.
Birmingham, 2006
My favourite place to wash and rest during the day became the library. I needed the day centre, and it was helpful being there, but being in the library made me feel normal. Every morning I would ring the three agencies I had signed up with from one of the payphones in Birmingham New Street station, would find out if I had any work that day. If I didn’t have any cleaning work, I would walk down to the library, go into the toilets the moment it opened and have a wash. People rarely came into the library toilets first thing, so I had a few minutes of privacy to clean up as much as I could, to get changed. Then I would sit and read the newspapers and magazines, find out what was happening in the world.
I would read the local papers, see if there were any jobs suitable for me, then I would indulge myself, read a large chunk of whichever book I was working my way through. At midday I would ring the agencies again, find out if I had work. If I did, I would stay in a hostel that night so I could shower and be in work clean and on time. I rationed how much I ate, how much I spent on food. The reduced-price sandwiches in the supermarket, the squashier fruit on the market stalls, water bottles I could fill up from fountains.
It was an odd existence, but no more odd than the one I’d had before if I thought about it. At least, with this one, I had no one to answer to at the end of the day. Earlier, when I had gone into a newsagent’s, I’d seen the news on the front of paper I’d been hoping to see: ‘TODD CHAMBERS TO MARRY’.
It’d been two years. Two years it had taken for him to get over his ‘broken heart’ and move on with someone who had become a very dear friend to him in the light of Nikky Harper’s disappearance from his life. I assumed it had taken him a year to stop looking for me. He’d given a couple of interviews – I’d never been able to read the full things because I was always turfed out of the newsagent’s before I could reach the end, but the gist of what he’d been putting out there was that we’d been having problems, he’d suspected I was back on drugs, he’d wanted to support me, but I had rejected all help. He feared and suspected I was living in a hovel somewhere with someone who I could take drugs with. One of the stories had even heavily hinted that one of the reasons I’d split with him was because I’d tried and failed to get him into drugs, too.
It was all water off a duck’s back. I was Grace Carter now. I didn’t even know who Nikky Harper was, not really. The woman with her knickers on show, with her hair messily covering her face, with her large black sunglasses, was a stranger to me. It was hard to imagine what it was like to be in her skin, to see the world through her eyes.
All the while, of course, Todd would have been grooming someone else, finding another woman to fill the hole I had left in his perfectly constructed life. I couldn’t be sure, of course, that he had stopped looking for me, but this headline had given me hope. He’d trashed my reputation, he was marrying someone else. Maybe I could go back to London and reclaim the life I’d had.
I thought this often as I worked, as I managed to spend more nights in hostels and off the streets. I was managing to save more money and I had a locker at Birmingham New Street where I stored stuff and kept some of my money rolled up inside a tampon box I’d resealed. If I kept on as I was, I would have the money to pay for at least three months in a house share soon. Or even a bedsit somewhere. Just a bit longer and I could make Birmingham my home.
I sat at Bernie’s waiting for Reese. He was late. It was 1.30 a.m. and the only other times he’d been this late before, he’d been to score and had blown me off, had told me to do one when I’d gone to find him. I couldn’t face that today. The news about Todd was what I wanted, was what I had been waiting for – although I’d thought it would have happened a lot earlier – but it had shaken me. I thought about him, the distance making me see him clearer. I had loved him so much. So much. I used to feel empty when he wasn’t there, alive when he was. I’d hung on so long, I realised now, because I’d been convinced that I knew who he could be and I’d wanted that version of him back. I’d been certain that if I did what he wanted, made him realise he could rely on me, he would be the man I could trust with my secrets again.
From the moment he opened the café door, I knew Reese had been to score. He could barely stand up, his eyes were hooded, his reactions and movements slow. I reached into my pocket, pulled my headphones out and slipped them into my ears. I couldn’t deal with this today. I couldn’t hear the drug infecting his voice, wrapping up each word to leave his mouth in nasty, vicious spikes. I loved Reese – he had probably saved my life those first few nights and weeks up here – but when he got like this, it reminded me of the worst moments of my life. I would hear the ‘Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy’ in my head, and all that came with it would tumble out into my mind. I loved Reese, but he was too damaged to be around at times like this.
When I’d first met him, he’d told me when he fell down the hole he had no friends and he hated everyone. I hadn’t believed him until six months later when he did fall and he turned on me. Saying the most awful things, trying to get money off me, berating me for caring about him. When Reese fell down the hole of heroin, he knew it would be a long way back up and no one could help him climb.
‘Ah, waiting for me, I see, just like the good little girl you are,’ Reese said, sauntering over to the table. Gilly, a woman who worked at the day centre, would put songs on my player for me from her CD collection and she had recently loaded on a few more, but I didn’t have time to look through them right then. I hit play, and Katrina and the Waves, singing about walking on sunshine, burst into life in my ears. That song took me back to the days I would walk to and from
school, and it would sneak out of the open windows at the start of summer, the words bringing a smile to my face, the rhythm filling my body with pure joy.
Reese slumped in the chair opposite me, and my thumb moved over the jagged-edged dial of the music player, turning the volume right up so I couldn’t hear him. He continued, though, his pale face creating ugly shapes as he spilled out the bile inside himself at me. He was saying to me what he wanted to say to himself, forcing out the things he kept inside – like he used to say, talking to me was like talking to himself sometimes. After a few seconds, I stopped watching, stared down into my coffee because I didn’t need to hear his words or see them being formed.
In the moments between songs, I heard his voice, tried to ignore his words, my mind reaching forwards to grab the opening notes of the song that would drown out the pain of my best friend. ‘Addicted to Love’, the guitar chords played by Robert Palmer, started up. I’m going to get a guitar, I decided. I will find some money and buy myself a guitar and teach myself to play. It would be one more thing to carry with me, but I would probably keep it in my locker, and I would teach myself.
Movement beside our table made me glance up with my face still lowered. A man I had seen several times before in here and around the streets, coming out of pubs, driving past in a variety of expensive cars, was now standing beside our table. He was a bald, thickset, tall white man, who towered over us. Over Reese. With my head still down, I watched the exchange: Reese noticing him, staring at him for a few seconds, sizing him up, Reese suddenly remembering who he was, Reese pushing back his chair, getting to his feet.