Another Day

Thursday’s light, poking through the gap in her bedroom curtains, insisted that it was a beautiful day and that Katherine should get up, so she did. The floor was a mess of scattered CD cases, ashtrays, dirty glasses and socks way overdue a stay in the laundry basket. Flinging back the duvet, she sat up too quickly and unlocked a flashing kaleidoscope of colours, blooming and shattering before her vision.

“Urgh.”

It was one of those delayed hangovers, the kind that tricked you into thinking everything was fine until the Morning After. Shit, she couldn’t even remember the Night Before so it seemed a little unfair to be punished, like a body-snatcher borrowing your form for the night and handing the thing back to you, wretched and wrung-out, once all the fun was over.

Hovering in time, between bed-warmth and the headaches to come, Katherine took a blurry look around. Some nameless fuckwit was lying next to her; all she could tell from the back of his head was that he needed to wash his hair. Christ, who was he? She poked the soft flesh of his shoulder.

“Hey, er…you. Did we go to Jewel last night?”

The bloke didn’t turn round, merely mumbled something into her pillow.

“What?”

He breathed in deep, like talking required immense effort, and exhaled the word: “…Dancing.”

Katherine was annoyed by his attitude; this guy clearly woke up in strangers’ beds a lot. “Right, arsehole, sleepy time’s over.” She whipped back the covers, letting them drop to the floor. “Who the fuck are you, do I even know you?”

He grunted, “Bloody women!” and rolled over to face her.

She didn’t recognise him. He was unshaven and scruffy; looked vaguely criminal. Thus, Katherine knew they’d definitely done it. Sucker for a slice of danger.

“So what happened, where’d we meet?” she demanded. “At Jewel?”

“Nah,” he said. “After that. In the taxi after.”

Katherine’s hand shot to her mouth and she giggled.

“Oh my god, are you the taxi driver?”

“Nah,” he exhaled again. “Dealer.” Hands clasped behind his head, faded track marks in the crook of his elbow. “Fetch the blow, love. I need to wake-up. Mental night!”

She got to her feet unsteadily, had to clutch at the dresser when her left leg gave way.

“Cheers, love,” the guy rasped. “And pass the duvet up, would ya?”

Wordlessly, Katherine trailed from bedroom to kitchen, peeling a long T-shirt from a discarded pile of clothes and pulling it on. The kitchen had been blitzed; sideboards cluttered with aluminium food containers, empty bottles and crumpled cigarette packets; the table marred by stains – curry sauce or booze, she couldn’t tell – and evidence. She found a fresh pack of fags, lit up and stared at the small white mound, the curled £20 note, the baggies of green nesting on top of his leather jacket.

Crazy scene.

She wouldn’t take him any; he could get up off his arse and come through if he wanted it that badly. Katherine fixed herself a line. She hadn’t noticed how raw both nostrils felt until now, but so what. Sniff sniff. She hated how it sounded afterwards, like she didn’t know how to use a tissue.

There were some cold chips piled on a plate. She picked one up, bit the end off and then had to spit it out in the sink. Took another drag of the cigarette. Who needs to eat? Fuck scientists. Fuck doctors. Had she ever fucked a doctor? Maybe. Fuck you, Mum. Had she ever…no, pack it in, don’t be weird. Don’t be sick. Good point…was she…?

She rushed to the bathroom; nothing but dry heaves. There must have been something wrong with that chip (or the vodka champagne tequila absinthe weed speed coke…ssshhh). Oh no: the other end. She always seemed to be shitting liquid, spent half her life on the bloody loo. Annoying. Could have been the Ex-Lax, popped half a dozen at some point yesterday. No, it’s the drink. Why are there so many calories in alcohol? Mean world.

Plop.

Katherine giggled at the noise then cringed a little as machine-gun farts of excrement decorated the white porcelain below. Eventually, it calmed down back there and she was able to wipe. Reached for more toilet-roll; thick brown smears across her hand. She gagged –

“Gross!”

– then laughed it off. Life could be a shitty business sometimes. Yes, philosophy, even in these moments. The door was ajar and her Neanderthal bedfellow clomped past.

“That stinks, Kate.”

“Piss off.”

  She could hear him attacking the stash on the dining table.

“Get your own!” she yelled, half-laughing. “I paid for that.”

“No you didn’t.”

It shouldn’t surprise her; she never carried much cash on a night out.

“How much do I owe you then?”

“Shag and a bonus.”

She stood up, flushed and let the lid fall. “You’ve had your shag.”

“State you were in? Doesn’t count, love. I’m not into neck-a…neck-o-phobia…whatever it’s called. Banging dead bitches.”

“Necrophilia.”

“That’s the one. Probably.”

The woman in the mirror looked ill; Katherine splashed her face with water and avoided eye contact. Drying her hands and face, she called out, “So what’s the bonus?”

“Dunno.”

“Well, you better think fast because I’m kicking you out in about ten seconds.”

“Alright…um…a goodbye kiss at the door?”

“It’s a bit late for romance but yeah, sure. Why not?”

Topless, he grabbed the leather jacket and shrugged it on, stuffing his various bags into the inside pockets. “And a free one of these?” he asked, grabbing a bottle of champagne by its neck.

“Yeah,” she shrugged.

“You look rough,” he said, grinning. “Might wanna take a holiday from the clubs.”

He grabbed her hand and headed for the door, champagne bottle held aloft in vague triumph. “Ready?”

“Yeah, yeah, pucker up.”

It was a pretty quiet street so she wasn’t too bothered about opening the door in only a T-shirt. He swung it open, hurriedly pulled her lips towards his…and the world erupted in a demented chorus of bright lights and “Kate! Kate! KATE!”

Katherine involuntarily shielded her eyes.

“Don’t hide, Kate. Give ‘em a wave, darling,” her dealer said, still clutching her hand and pretending to guzzle from the bottle. “This is gonna make me for life.”

“Get off me, you bastard!” she shrieked, struggling to twist free of his grip so she could dart back behind the door. He didn’t let go, held her captive under the judgmental scrutiny of about twenty lenses, thirty pairs of eyes and, tomorrow, a nation.

“You tipped them off, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, course I fucking did. Story’s gonna earn me about ten times what that coke’s worth.”

The T-shirt had felt longer when Katherine first put it on; now she desperately tugged at it, to stretch the translucent cotton past the tops of her slender thighs.

He yanked her hand to his face, kissed it for the cameras and then, finally, released her and strode forth purposefully into the loud circle of interrogation. Katherine staggered back into her apartment and slammed the door, sliding each of its three security locks into place, her hands shaking.

“WANKER!” she screamed at the kitchen.

The white mound on the table was sympathetically silent.