An Encounter With Joceylyn

David Plumb hangs by his neck from a hook on a door in the sunlit room of a studio flat. He’s bitten deep into an orange forced into his mouth and now it bursts out like a small balloon. His high heels dangle from lifeless feet less than an inch from the floor. He’d been assured that the footstool would be pushed to his aid at the critical moment - that didn’t happen – now it stands cruelly close by.

Jocelyn lets out a hung-over sigh and his bloodshot eyes stare back from the foggy bathroom mirror. His scalp prickles and he rips his wig off his roughly shaved head. He rakes his chipped nails deep and fast across his scalp and groans with pleasure. A cheap bathroom light clings to the wall just held on with one badly placed screw. It lights his face pink and as he drags the Panstick through his stubble his skin pulls around like dirty old rubber. Next is the lipstick, a bright coral crush, unsuitable for this time of the day. His dress creased and splattered will just have to do. It covers torn stockings and bruised bitten thighs. He’d rifled through the flat and found enough booty to pay for another long day: a dank bud of skunk, a half gram of toot, a white rock of crack and a bundle of cash.

The door from which David hangs quietly groans and a screw in a hinge at the top of the frame pops out because of his weight. Jocelyn looks this way and that and hastily slips on his high heel shoes. He pulls the door closed and hears David thump. He holds his breath and opens the entrance hall door. A tinkle of dishes from behind a thin wall makes him freeze in a square of sunlight. He creeps to the pavement. He primps his wig and then wobbles bow legged away down the street.

The short walk to Victoria station ends with Jocelyn sitting in his favorite toilet cubicle. He frantically paws through the jumble in his bag: a new wig, a pair of tights, his razor blade, a pair of pumps, a mirror, his needle and his robbing’s. He sits back relieved and the toilet seat creaks. The razor he uses to cut coat pockets and then remove wallets and phones and nice things. When twinned with the mirror it cuts lines of coke. By itself, the mirror can be used for a quick lick and spit. The wig and tights, stolen three days ago, gave a quick change and a different
approachable look, useful for his stint at the station and the hungry hunting hours that lay ahead. He leaves the cubicle and stands at a sink and the light here is better and he fixes his slap. The old blonde wig reeks of cigarette smoke and hangs like rat’s tails, it is sacked and thrown at a bin.

The toilet door opens and the roar of the station floods in. A gent enters, all bowler and briefcase and camel haired coat, he wrinkles his nose in disgust. He pulls a hankie from his pocket and covers his hand then gingerly opens a cubicle door. He hasn’t noticed Jocelyn. The gent rustles and swishes in his stall and Jocelyn spies the briefcase placed on the floor and the shiny black brogues that tap impatiently willing a movement to come. The moment to pounce presents and he swipes the discarded blonde wig from the floor. Another punter bursts in. Jocelyn fixes a glare that stops him dead. The punter spins on the ball of one foot and leaves with his flies open wide. The moment is lost and Jocelyn tosses the ratty blonde wig into the stall that houses the gent and leaves to the sound of a scream.

Jocelyn falls out of the crowd at a flower stall. It is run by a man with one leg and a Mohican haircut. He goes by the name of Daffy and every illicit drug known to man can be bought in his garden ‒ you just have to know how to ask. Jocelyn flops on piled boxes of Freesias. Daffy’s Mohican appears at the top of the pile.

I’ve got a can of Fanta and half a Cornish pasty are you hungry?

Jocelyn’s arms shoot out like snakes and strike at the food in Daffy's hands.

Slow down slow down you’ll have your fingers off.

Daffy takes his friend’s bag and pokes around. The money and drugs are tossed into an upturned box lid. Jocelyn sits quivering still buzzing on the salty sweet flavours.

Have you been fighting?

Long night Daffy, didn’t get much sleep if you know what I mean.

You’re getting too old for this shit and you’ve lost more weight. Why don’t you do what I said?

Daffy counts through the bundle of notes he’s fished from Jocelyn’s bag. He hands half of them back along with a small bag of cocaine.

Do you want to sleep in the lock up tonight?
Yes please Daffy, will you get some food and stuff?

Ok, why don’t you just eat and sleep? I don’t want to find you dead in there one morning. Daffy shakes his head and limps off to serve a customer.

Jocelyn slips into the crowd but the crowd has other ideas. They sidestep and back step and grimace and cringe. He pulls his wig across his face, wraps his arms around his bag, looks down at his pumps dirty and torn, at that moment he wants to curl up and die.

He stands by a barrier underneath an information board and watches as the station names flicker and flash.

A man appears a few feet away.

He wears a loose fitting suit and is stooped into a creased waistcoat. With a thin boney hand he fingers a chain until he finds a bright gold watch. He twirls it into his palm and the cover flips up. Jocelyn looks on intently and presses back into a space between two ticket machines and he crouches and makes himself ready to pounce.