M Word, page 15
‘Thanks,’ I go.
‘But I do think you should come and see me though – we really do need to keep up our sessions.’
I say nothing.
‘Will you at least think about it?’
I plant myself on the couch.
‘I’ll think about it,’ I go, only to get the pain off my arse.
Mum returns, sniffing mightily into her hanky.
‘Maggie’s going to think about it, Donna,’ Anna goes.
‘It’ll be for the best, Maggie.’
Before Anna bolts, she and Mum come together; they hug for pure ages. Also, I’m sure Anna breathes something into Mum’s ear and vice versa. When they part, I notice their glazed eyes. Mum’s have been glazed for a good few weeks now, but it’s strange to see Anna’s eyes setting themselves up for a downpour. Mean, all the stuff she’s heard from me and not as much as a trace of a tear. Not one drop. Strange.
Then she’s chugging off in her little car. Tom Waits booming no doubt.
‘Would you do that for me, Maggie?’ Mum goes.
‘I just want to forget certain things,’ I go. ‘Going to Anna brings it all back – can you not understand that?’
‘Of course I can. But seeing her makes sense.’
‘I don’t—’
‘Just try a few weeks, see how you get on. Anyway, you might not be able to do it if your schedule doesn’t suit.’ Not getting angry around Mum can be a chore so I scrunch up my face. ‘Do it for me, Maggie?’
God, this is emotional blackmail. These people should come with a warning. It’s all very cultish. I should be recording these chats for future court dates.
‘But just a couple of weeks and then that’s it; I’m done after that.’
‘Do a few sessions at least.’
‘Can’t wait.’
In the good old days Mum would’ve thrust a finger into my cleavage and said something like, ‘You’re going and that’s the end of it. No ifs, no buts – you’re doing it.’ These days it’s all pleases, thanks yous and kind requests. Depressed and medicated Mum is a pure joy.
‘How did it go with the doctor?’ I go.
‘Fine.’
‘Fine, how?’
‘What did you buy?’ she goes.
‘Jeans, pair of tights, a shirt, a T-shirt and a hat.’
‘All for twenty pounds?’
‘I’m a bargain hunter, Mum.’
‘I’ll say.’
‘So, the doctor?’ I ask again.
Mum’s phone beeps.
Beep!
Beep!
Beep!
She glances over the text, trying hard not to snigger; her eyes fizz though. I clock them. She puts her hand on her belly like she’s pregnant; subtle, but I clock that as well. Acting as if she’s just gulped down a big gust of air. Her chest heaves upwards. Her mouth’s wet with all her lip-licking. She does know I’m still here, doesn’t she? Does she even give a shit?
I know fine well who’s beeping her and making her all giddy.
I’m not an eejit.
Thankfully it’s not only the happy pills that have got her all optimistic and goo-goo lately.
Without shifting her eyes from the phone screen she goes, ‘Right, you best get those new clothes upstairs then,’ and makes her way back to the living room.
‘Mum?’ No answer. ‘Mum?’ I semi-raise my voice. She turns, lifts her head.
‘Yes, Maggie?’
‘You didn’t answer me.’
‘Didn’t answer you what?’
‘I asked what the doctor said?’
Her phone hand drops to her side and she reverts back to old Mum mode: schoolteacher stance, fierce facial expression. The works.
‘Oh, you know. She’s happy with my progress.’
‘Well, that’s good, isn’t it?’
‘I suppose it is.’
Phone
She’d sit there, scowling, scrolling from picture to picture, comment to comment. Totally obsessed with what they’d posted, muttering all these deranged things under her breath. Trying to put faces to their judgements. I tuned out. Couldn’t be arsed getting involved.
Ping
Night after night she sits howling at the screen. Thing pings and her face illuminates; totally obsessed with his WhatsApps. She sniggers, constantly muttering mushy stuff under her breath. Don’t want to judge her too harshly; I’m delighted for her, I am, but can’t be arsed with all the love-struck vom of it all.
Teeth
Brushing my teeth, listening to the crunch of the brush, I’m thinking about it. Playing that night over and over in my head. God, that night! I can’t get her face out of my thoughts. And I brush. Hard. Thinking. Brushing. I spit pink into the sink. But don’t stop.
Scrub them, Maggie. Scrub them hard.
Her words still echo from that night. ‘I should’ve hunted them all down, cut their balls off when I had the chance, Mags.’ They continue to hover, pure penetrating me. Maybe I should’ve been part of the hunting party. Blew it!
I scrub.
Spit.
Red hits the basin.
Still too pink though; needs to be deeper. Darker. No, not red. Like crimson. The real-deal stuff.
I didn’t help her.
Some pal I was.
Failure friend.
I almost bite the toothbrush in half, want the plastic to snap directly in my mouth. How sore would it be to gore the gum? Pierce the cheek. Like making a prison shank. And, guess what? There ain’t no screws around. I could if I wanted to. I could do anything.
She was livid; first time I genuinely saw her suffering deep pain. Crying. Her face blotchy with gunky make-up streaks. She must’ve been sobbing since reading what they wrote about her. And maybe some of it was true. Truth hurts; no danger, it hurts. But we were conkers, weren’t we? Pure hard nuts, solid exteriors; at least that’s what I thought at the time, that’s why I didn’t feel guilty or try to fix her. She was a scrapper who could dig herself out of any ditch. But conkers eventually crack; why couldn’t I have seen that then?
Fucking fruitcake!
She let rip at everyone from the edge of my bed, rabbited everything out. I gave her time and space. See, I was a good pal! I even switched the John Grant tunes off cos he sang about heart-splitting break-ups and meeting dickheads. Didn’t want Moya honing into those lyrics.
If I could be zapped back, Moya, I’d hold you tight. Just the two of us again, unbreakable conkers.
I know you would, Mags. I know you would. Don’t cry.
My mouth throbs. Gums and palate mainly. Tongue tastes lethal. Bristles on the brush seem like they’ve been dipped in Chianti. I hold it under the water. Rinse until it returns to perfection. I bend to the tap, suck water into my mouth. Swirl. Spit. Again and again until I see clear liquid escaping down the plughole. Tap the tap with my teeth. I could, couldn’t I? I could bite it. Eat it. Champ down on it. Pure crack all the enamel.
I dry my face with a musty towel. Knuckle-dry my eyes too. What was happening inside you that night? I had no idea, not one iota. I stare at my face in the mirror.
Why did you choose him, Moya?
Did you think he was a total rocket as well?
Erm …
I mean, from the start?
And when I see her now, she’s in that same position. Eyes all over me, her hand on my knee. She wants her answer. She’s still waiting for it. Basically, she wants to know if I knew it had been happening. If I knew everyone was roasting her behind her back; if I knew her MOT couldn’t keep his perv paws off little floozies.
Course I knew, we both did.
I’d always known.
But it was all just gossip and rumour. Until it wasn’t.
Part of me didn’t want to be dragged into Moya’s crap.
I lean closer to the mirror. Breathe on it. Could draw a love heart … if I gave a shit. I say it out loud: ‘It had nothing to do with me, Moya.’
Yes,
I’ll cuddle you,
stroke your hair,
kiss your head,
tell you how beautiful you are, that there’s plenty more fish in the sea.
I’ll do all that, no problem.
But don’t ask me what I think about those comments. I’m immune to your heart being trampled over. It’s not my fault it took you ages to realise what complete dicks they were. My job’s not to untangle your brain, girl. If I spout the God’s honest, you’d blame me for keeping schtum about it. You’re having a hernia if you think I’m taking any blame for your psycho choices in the man department. No way, Moya; I’ve got enough on my plate without this.
‘Did you know, Mags?’
‘Not everything they were saying.’
‘But how did I not know, eh? How did I not know?’
‘You do now. Don’t pure beat yourself up about it. He’s the one to blame here, not you.’
‘Feel like the whole town’s pissing themselves laughing at me.’
‘Don’t sweat it, they were doing that anyway,’ I went, trying to spray laughter into the atmos. She didn’t take the bait; cut me a look that could’ve seared skin. ‘I’m kidding, Moya. I’m kidding.’
‘Not the time for jokes here, Mags. It’s OK for you – you’ve got a future to look forward to. I’m never escaping this hellhole of a town.’
‘Course you are.’
‘And you’ll meet a decent guy and never come back.’
‘Hope so.’
‘Don’t say that. Don’t ever say that.’
‘I’m joking. God, chill.’
She whinged about her broken spirit.
Cried more.
Full-on gush.
Seeing her tears should’ve set an alarm off in me; she never cried. By that stage I’d muted the alarm though.
I remember when she went to clean up her misery in the toilet I chucked John Grant back on again. Played ‘It’s Easier’. Really loud, hoping the words would rattle her eardrums, but she barely even noticed the music had changed when she returned.
And now I’m standing here in the same toilet, trying to imagine what she was doing that night. Peeing? Washing? Crying? Everything?
My head’s hissing; I have to lie down. So, I do, right here where I am; cool tiles on the toilet floor stroke my cheek, glorious.
I dig my nails into my love handles, pinching and nipping until soreness shoots up my neck and down to my feet. Will totally leave a mark. After that my fingers head directly for the ten-stitcher scar. A few broken scabs still cling on. I caress the rough crusty islands with my fingertips. I tease and taunt the scabs; fear for their safety.
Davis wouldn’t do that, would he? I can tell he’s not the type to inflict hurt upon others. He’s one of the good ones. I see how he lets people breathe and express themselves around him; he doesn’t need to dominate. He’s not that important. It was the lack of one of these ‘good ones’ that caused Moya’s rage, it was her failure to find some guy with kindness in his heart. See, for her, being with a fella was all about arguing and shagging. Whereas it should be all about comfort and liberation.
The colour is back on my cheeks. I remove my fingers from the scab islands. Sometimes I feel she’s actually egging me on, wants me to damage my outer shell. Destroy myself, too. Cow! She totally does; I know her. It’s the same pattern: every time I’m in this mindset she’s perched right there on my bloody shoulder blade.
I close my eyes tight, swat my neck with my hand. Count to ten.
Please.
1
Go.
2
Away.
3
Moya.
4
I.
5
Can’t.
6
Fucking.
7
Stand.
8
This.
9
Any.
10
Longer.
When I open my eyes she’s gone.
No Reply
I called to see if she was getting over that twat of hers. Tried her loads. She never picked up. OK, so she cried a bit and was raging, but I wasn’t pure agonising over her. I didn’t suspect a thing. It’s not the first place the mind goes to, is it?
I only started to worry when she blanked school altogether. She hated it like everyone else, but free dinners and somewhere warm – what’s not to like?
She didn’t give a shit about her exams so I guessed she was spending her days window shopping in town or trying to sneak into Cineworld. She did that. What’s she going to do now, I thought. Repeat next year? Sign on?
The zoomer had her phone switched off the last time I called. I could just see her sitting in her room listening to Jess Glynne and pure seething. Cursing her abuser, and the world in general. Planning sweet revenge: graffitiing mammoth dicks on the sides of their houses or something.
You think you know someone, don’t you?
Even though I was battering the books like a private-school girl, I kept trying to get hold of her. Nothing. No reply.
It’s hard to think about that day. Then again, it’s hard not to. My first exam was two days away; I’d my head jammed up my studious arse. No life outside study notes.
When my mobile flashed up unknown number my heart began swinging like a wrecking ball. Not a big fan of unknown numbers. I pressed the glowing green icon on my phone. Could’ve been someone from the art school I’d applied to. Be polite. No swearing. Best Maggie required.
‘Hello,’ I went.
‘Hiya, is that Maggie?’ The voice sounded serious, sad almost. I knew who it was though, which was a relief. That relief lasted half a second, replaced by a full-on blood churn and jangled organs.
‘This is Maggie,’ I went.
‘Hiya, hen. It’s Moya’s Aunt Jean here.’
‘Oh, hiya.’
I didn’t ask how she’d got my number. Wasn’t important. Nothing rude came out of my mouth.
‘I’m phoning about Moya, hen.’
Straightaway I knew.
Don’t ask me how, I just knew.
I could’ve fucking strangled her – Moya, that is.
‘Has something happened?’ I went.
My voice sounded like broken glass.
Moya’s Aunt Jean explained everything. Every detail. I’m not sure I even heard what she said. NOT TRUE actually, cos I wouldn’t have screamed at the top of my lungs otherwise, would I? My intestines wouldn’t have felt as though they were being wrenched from my body. Then the whole works: tunnel vision, seeing tiny dots in the distance, dry mouth.
Blackout.
Proper blackout.
When I came to, Mum was beside me rubbing my back.
‘Breathe, Maggie,’ she went in a hushed tone. ‘Through the nose. Through the nose.’ My eyes fixed on the wall, at nothing really, but I listened to her and did what she asked. ‘That’s it. Long and slow. Long and slow. Good girl.’ Seemed to help. ‘Good girl.’ She stroked my hair. ‘That’s it. That’s better now.’
‘I want to sit up,’ I went.
She helped. ‘Up you come. That’s it.’
I nodded.
‘Just keep breathing, Maggie. The way you’re doing.’
I always thought that the breathing thing was a load of toss, but it helped calm me big time. My heart steadied. Mum’s eyes were different. Sorrowful.
‘Something to drink?’
‘No.’
Her arms surrounded me; she pulled me close to her chest. I felt fragile, that my body would crack with a good hug.
‘You OK?’
‘Not sure really,’ I went. ‘Sorry.’
‘You’ve nothing to be sorry for, Maggie.’
But I was sorry. Sorry for giving Mum the fright of her life, for her finding me sprawled on the bed like a deformed swastika. For discovering my phone on the floor with Moya’s Aunt Jean saying, ‘Hello, hello, hello?’ over and over.
‘Do you know?’ Mum went. ‘Did Jean tell you?’
‘I think so – I didn’t hear it all though. Her voice was muffled. What did she say? What did she tell you?’
Mum stretched her lips, looked away for a split.
‘What did she say?’
Her chest heaved; she checked her words before speaking, choosing each one carefully. They still resonate; I’ll carry them with me, my forever words. Mum had to get them spot on. She spoke. I listened. We hugged more. I didn’t cry. She stroked my hair. I vomited a little soup into my mouth.
She asked if I wanted a pill to make me sleep.
‘I don’t need one,’ I went.
She left me to sleep the pain away.
After an hour of ceiling staring, I shot up from my bed and sifted through my bag. I retrieved a manky black vest from my washing basket. Safer.
Some girl feistiness was required so I changed the music: Janis Joplin. Stronger. Appropriate.
I rummaged about the bag until I found it hiding away at the bottom. Opened. Closed. Opened. Closed. Loosened it from its stiffness.
I pressed the tip of the compass on the meaty part of my palm, near the thumb, checking its sharpness. I concentrated, awaiting my fruitcake mode to kick in and fire me up. Then I began. First time for everything and all that jazz.
And that’s how this self-harming junk began. And, yes, I’m blaming Moya for it. It’s all her fault. Talk about stupid, FFS.
Diet
Rule number one: don’t stand looking at your mate with eyes that scream ‘abandoned child’; don’t disable the poor soul by forcing him to hug you; and during said hug, don’t pure grind yourself into his legs.
Rule number two: never make your mate aware that you might want to ride him, even if it’s a dry ride with jeans on. That’s a big might by the way, cos I’m not even sure myself.
If you do flout these rules, know that things could become a bit edgy between you both.
At art school and during rehearsals, Davis is the same; he’s not doing or saying anything that’s different. It’s me – I feel like a total spanner around him. Like I’ve humiliated myself a bit. I don’t want to fancy him, but I do. I don’t want to want to snog him, but he’s so gorgeous. I’m trying to focus on the bastard side of his character, in the hope it cures me. Mean, if he was an alt-right misogynistic, racist Brexiteer, everything would be perfect. There’s not even one sexual misdemeanour on his rap sheet. He’s like a bloody nun, or a mini Ian.
‘But I do think you should come and see me though – we really do need to keep up our sessions.’
I say nothing.
‘Will you at least think about it?’
I plant myself on the couch.
‘I’ll think about it,’ I go, only to get the pain off my arse.
Mum returns, sniffing mightily into her hanky.
‘Maggie’s going to think about it, Donna,’ Anna goes.
‘It’ll be for the best, Maggie.’
Before Anna bolts, she and Mum come together; they hug for pure ages. Also, I’m sure Anna breathes something into Mum’s ear and vice versa. When they part, I notice their glazed eyes. Mum’s have been glazed for a good few weeks now, but it’s strange to see Anna’s eyes setting themselves up for a downpour. Mean, all the stuff she’s heard from me and not as much as a trace of a tear. Not one drop. Strange.
Then she’s chugging off in her little car. Tom Waits booming no doubt.
‘Would you do that for me, Maggie?’ Mum goes.
‘I just want to forget certain things,’ I go. ‘Going to Anna brings it all back – can you not understand that?’
‘Of course I can. But seeing her makes sense.’
‘I don’t—’
‘Just try a few weeks, see how you get on. Anyway, you might not be able to do it if your schedule doesn’t suit.’ Not getting angry around Mum can be a chore so I scrunch up my face. ‘Do it for me, Maggie?’
God, this is emotional blackmail. These people should come with a warning. It’s all very cultish. I should be recording these chats for future court dates.
‘But just a couple of weeks and then that’s it; I’m done after that.’
‘Do a few sessions at least.’
‘Can’t wait.’
In the good old days Mum would’ve thrust a finger into my cleavage and said something like, ‘You’re going and that’s the end of it. No ifs, no buts – you’re doing it.’ These days it’s all pleases, thanks yous and kind requests. Depressed and medicated Mum is a pure joy.
‘How did it go with the doctor?’ I go.
‘Fine.’
‘Fine, how?’
‘What did you buy?’ she goes.
‘Jeans, pair of tights, a shirt, a T-shirt and a hat.’
‘All for twenty pounds?’
‘I’m a bargain hunter, Mum.’
‘I’ll say.’
‘So, the doctor?’ I ask again.
Mum’s phone beeps.
Beep!
Beep!
Beep!
She glances over the text, trying hard not to snigger; her eyes fizz though. I clock them. She puts her hand on her belly like she’s pregnant; subtle, but I clock that as well. Acting as if she’s just gulped down a big gust of air. Her chest heaves upwards. Her mouth’s wet with all her lip-licking. She does know I’m still here, doesn’t she? Does she even give a shit?
I know fine well who’s beeping her and making her all giddy.
I’m not an eejit.
Thankfully it’s not only the happy pills that have got her all optimistic and goo-goo lately.
Without shifting her eyes from the phone screen she goes, ‘Right, you best get those new clothes upstairs then,’ and makes her way back to the living room.
‘Mum?’ No answer. ‘Mum?’ I semi-raise my voice. She turns, lifts her head.
‘Yes, Maggie?’
‘You didn’t answer me.’
‘Didn’t answer you what?’
‘I asked what the doctor said?’
Her phone hand drops to her side and she reverts back to old Mum mode: schoolteacher stance, fierce facial expression. The works.
‘Oh, you know. She’s happy with my progress.’
‘Well, that’s good, isn’t it?’
‘I suppose it is.’
Phone
She’d sit there, scowling, scrolling from picture to picture, comment to comment. Totally obsessed with what they’d posted, muttering all these deranged things under her breath. Trying to put faces to their judgements. I tuned out. Couldn’t be arsed getting involved.
Ping
Night after night she sits howling at the screen. Thing pings and her face illuminates; totally obsessed with his WhatsApps. She sniggers, constantly muttering mushy stuff under her breath. Don’t want to judge her too harshly; I’m delighted for her, I am, but can’t be arsed with all the love-struck vom of it all.
Teeth
Brushing my teeth, listening to the crunch of the brush, I’m thinking about it. Playing that night over and over in my head. God, that night! I can’t get her face out of my thoughts. And I brush. Hard. Thinking. Brushing. I spit pink into the sink. But don’t stop.
Scrub them, Maggie. Scrub them hard.
Her words still echo from that night. ‘I should’ve hunted them all down, cut their balls off when I had the chance, Mags.’ They continue to hover, pure penetrating me. Maybe I should’ve been part of the hunting party. Blew it!
I scrub.
Spit.
Red hits the basin.
Still too pink though; needs to be deeper. Darker. No, not red. Like crimson. The real-deal stuff.
I didn’t help her.
Some pal I was.
Failure friend.
I almost bite the toothbrush in half, want the plastic to snap directly in my mouth. How sore would it be to gore the gum? Pierce the cheek. Like making a prison shank. And, guess what? There ain’t no screws around. I could if I wanted to. I could do anything.
She was livid; first time I genuinely saw her suffering deep pain. Crying. Her face blotchy with gunky make-up streaks. She must’ve been sobbing since reading what they wrote about her. And maybe some of it was true. Truth hurts; no danger, it hurts. But we were conkers, weren’t we? Pure hard nuts, solid exteriors; at least that’s what I thought at the time, that’s why I didn’t feel guilty or try to fix her. She was a scrapper who could dig herself out of any ditch. But conkers eventually crack; why couldn’t I have seen that then?
Fucking fruitcake!
She let rip at everyone from the edge of my bed, rabbited everything out. I gave her time and space. See, I was a good pal! I even switched the John Grant tunes off cos he sang about heart-splitting break-ups and meeting dickheads. Didn’t want Moya honing into those lyrics.
If I could be zapped back, Moya, I’d hold you tight. Just the two of us again, unbreakable conkers.
I know you would, Mags. I know you would. Don’t cry.
My mouth throbs. Gums and palate mainly. Tongue tastes lethal. Bristles on the brush seem like they’ve been dipped in Chianti. I hold it under the water. Rinse until it returns to perfection. I bend to the tap, suck water into my mouth. Swirl. Spit. Again and again until I see clear liquid escaping down the plughole. Tap the tap with my teeth. I could, couldn’t I? I could bite it. Eat it. Champ down on it. Pure crack all the enamel.
I dry my face with a musty towel. Knuckle-dry my eyes too. What was happening inside you that night? I had no idea, not one iota. I stare at my face in the mirror.
Why did you choose him, Moya?
Did you think he was a total rocket as well?
Erm …
I mean, from the start?
And when I see her now, she’s in that same position. Eyes all over me, her hand on my knee. She wants her answer. She’s still waiting for it. Basically, she wants to know if I knew it had been happening. If I knew everyone was roasting her behind her back; if I knew her MOT couldn’t keep his perv paws off little floozies.
Course I knew, we both did.
I’d always known.
But it was all just gossip and rumour. Until it wasn’t.
Part of me didn’t want to be dragged into Moya’s crap.
I lean closer to the mirror. Breathe on it. Could draw a love heart … if I gave a shit. I say it out loud: ‘It had nothing to do with me, Moya.’
Yes,
I’ll cuddle you,
stroke your hair,
kiss your head,
tell you how beautiful you are, that there’s plenty more fish in the sea.
I’ll do all that, no problem.
But don’t ask me what I think about those comments. I’m immune to your heart being trampled over. It’s not my fault it took you ages to realise what complete dicks they were. My job’s not to untangle your brain, girl. If I spout the God’s honest, you’d blame me for keeping schtum about it. You’re having a hernia if you think I’m taking any blame for your psycho choices in the man department. No way, Moya; I’ve got enough on my plate without this.
‘Did you know, Mags?’
‘Not everything they were saying.’
‘But how did I not know, eh? How did I not know?’
‘You do now. Don’t pure beat yourself up about it. He’s the one to blame here, not you.’
‘Feel like the whole town’s pissing themselves laughing at me.’
‘Don’t sweat it, they were doing that anyway,’ I went, trying to spray laughter into the atmos. She didn’t take the bait; cut me a look that could’ve seared skin. ‘I’m kidding, Moya. I’m kidding.’
‘Not the time for jokes here, Mags. It’s OK for you – you’ve got a future to look forward to. I’m never escaping this hellhole of a town.’
‘Course you are.’
‘And you’ll meet a decent guy and never come back.’
‘Hope so.’
‘Don’t say that. Don’t ever say that.’
‘I’m joking. God, chill.’
She whinged about her broken spirit.
Cried more.
Full-on gush.
Seeing her tears should’ve set an alarm off in me; she never cried. By that stage I’d muted the alarm though.
I remember when she went to clean up her misery in the toilet I chucked John Grant back on again. Played ‘It’s Easier’. Really loud, hoping the words would rattle her eardrums, but she barely even noticed the music had changed when she returned.
And now I’m standing here in the same toilet, trying to imagine what she was doing that night. Peeing? Washing? Crying? Everything?
My head’s hissing; I have to lie down. So, I do, right here where I am; cool tiles on the toilet floor stroke my cheek, glorious.
I dig my nails into my love handles, pinching and nipping until soreness shoots up my neck and down to my feet. Will totally leave a mark. After that my fingers head directly for the ten-stitcher scar. A few broken scabs still cling on. I caress the rough crusty islands with my fingertips. I tease and taunt the scabs; fear for their safety.
Davis wouldn’t do that, would he? I can tell he’s not the type to inflict hurt upon others. He’s one of the good ones. I see how he lets people breathe and express themselves around him; he doesn’t need to dominate. He’s not that important. It was the lack of one of these ‘good ones’ that caused Moya’s rage, it was her failure to find some guy with kindness in his heart. See, for her, being with a fella was all about arguing and shagging. Whereas it should be all about comfort and liberation.
The colour is back on my cheeks. I remove my fingers from the scab islands. Sometimes I feel she’s actually egging me on, wants me to damage my outer shell. Destroy myself, too. Cow! She totally does; I know her. It’s the same pattern: every time I’m in this mindset she’s perched right there on my bloody shoulder blade.
I close my eyes tight, swat my neck with my hand. Count to ten.
Please.
1
Go.
2
Away.
3
Moya.
4
I.
5
Can’t.
6
Fucking.
7
Stand.
8
This.
9
Any.
10
Longer.
When I open my eyes she’s gone.
No Reply
I called to see if she was getting over that twat of hers. Tried her loads. She never picked up. OK, so she cried a bit and was raging, but I wasn’t pure agonising over her. I didn’t suspect a thing. It’s not the first place the mind goes to, is it?
I only started to worry when she blanked school altogether. She hated it like everyone else, but free dinners and somewhere warm – what’s not to like?
She didn’t give a shit about her exams so I guessed she was spending her days window shopping in town or trying to sneak into Cineworld. She did that. What’s she going to do now, I thought. Repeat next year? Sign on?
The zoomer had her phone switched off the last time I called. I could just see her sitting in her room listening to Jess Glynne and pure seething. Cursing her abuser, and the world in general. Planning sweet revenge: graffitiing mammoth dicks on the sides of their houses or something.
You think you know someone, don’t you?
Even though I was battering the books like a private-school girl, I kept trying to get hold of her. Nothing. No reply.
It’s hard to think about that day. Then again, it’s hard not to. My first exam was two days away; I’d my head jammed up my studious arse. No life outside study notes.
When my mobile flashed up unknown number my heart began swinging like a wrecking ball. Not a big fan of unknown numbers. I pressed the glowing green icon on my phone. Could’ve been someone from the art school I’d applied to. Be polite. No swearing. Best Maggie required.
‘Hello,’ I went.
‘Hiya, is that Maggie?’ The voice sounded serious, sad almost. I knew who it was though, which was a relief. That relief lasted half a second, replaced by a full-on blood churn and jangled organs.
‘This is Maggie,’ I went.
‘Hiya, hen. It’s Moya’s Aunt Jean here.’
‘Oh, hiya.’
I didn’t ask how she’d got my number. Wasn’t important. Nothing rude came out of my mouth.
‘I’m phoning about Moya, hen.’
Straightaway I knew.
Don’t ask me how, I just knew.
I could’ve fucking strangled her – Moya, that is.
‘Has something happened?’ I went.
My voice sounded like broken glass.
Moya’s Aunt Jean explained everything. Every detail. I’m not sure I even heard what she said. NOT TRUE actually, cos I wouldn’t have screamed at the top of my lungs otherwise, would I? My intestines wouldn’t have felt as though they were being wrenched from my body. Then the whole works: tunnel vision, seeing tiny dots in the distance, dry mouth.
Blackout.
Proper blackout.
When I came to, Mum was beside me rubbing my back.
‘Breathe, Maggie,’ she went in a hushed tone. ‘Through the nose. Through the nose.’ My eyes fixed on the wall, at nothing really, but I listened to her and did what she asked. ‘That’s it. Long and slow. Long and slow. Good girl.’ Seemed to help. ‘Good girl.’ She stroked my hair. ‘That’s it. That’s better now.’
‘I want to sit up,’ I went.
She helped. ‘Up you come. That’s it.’
I nodded.
‘Just keep breathing, Maggie. The way you’re doing.’
I always thought that the breathing thing was a load of toss, but it helped calm me big time. My heart steadied. Mum’s eyes were different. Sorrowful.
‘Something to drink?’
‘No.’
Her arms surrounded me; she pulled me close to her chest. I felt fragile, that my body would crack with a good hug.
‘You OK?’
‘Not sure really,’ I went. ‘Sorry.’
‘You’ve nothing to be sorry for, Maggie.’
But I was sorry. Sorry for giving Mum the fright of her life, for her finding me sprawled on the bed like a deformed swastika. For discovering my phone on the floor with Moya’s Aunt Jean saying, ‘Hello, hello, hello?’ over and over.
‘Do you know?’ Mum went. ‘Did Jean tell you?’
‘I think so – I didn’t hear it all though. Her voice was muffled. What did she say? What did she tell you?’
Mum stretched her lips, looked away for a split.
‘What did she say?’
Her chest heaved; she checked her words before speaking, choosing each one carefully. They still resonate; I’ll carry them with me, my forever words. Mum had to get them spot on. She spoke. I listened. We hugged more. I didn’t cry. She stroked my hair. I vomited a little soup into my mouth.
She asked if I wanted a pill to make me sleep.
‘I don’t need one,’ I went.
She left me to sleep the pain away.
After an hour of ceiling staring, I shot up from my bed and sifted through my bag. I retrieved a manky black vest from my washing basket. Safer.
Some girl feistiness was required so I changed the music: Janis Joplin. Stronger. Appropriate.
I rummaged about the bag until I found it hiding away at the bottom. Opened. Closed. Opened. Closed. Loosened it from its stiffness.
I pressed the tip of the compass on the meaty part of my palm, near the thumb, checking its sharpness. I concentrated, awaiting my fruitcake mode to kick in and fire me up. Then I began. First time for everything and all that jazz.
And that’s how this self-harming junk began. And, yes, I’m blaming Moya for it. It’s all her fault. Talk about stupid, FFS.
Diet
Rule number one: don’t stand looking at your mate with eyes that scream ‘abandoned child’; don’t disable the poor soul by forcing him to hug you; and during said hug, don’t pure grind yourself into his legs.
Rule number two: never make your mate aware that you might want to ride him, even if it’s a dry ride with jeans on. That’s a big might by the way, cos I’m not even sure myself.
If you do flout these rules, know that things could become a bit edgy between you both.
At art school and during rehearsals, Davis is the same; he’s not doing or saying anything that’s different. It’s me – I feel like a total spanner around him. Like I’ve humiliated myself a bit. I don’t want to fancy him, but I do. I don’t want to want to snog him, but he’s so gorgeous. I’m trying to focus on the bastard side of his character, in the hope it cures me. Mean, if he was an alt-right misogynistic, racist Brexiteer, everything would be perfect. There’s not even one sexual misdemeanour on his rap sheet. He’s like a bloody nun, or a mini Ian.
