Gemma Part I

Mitch

12 November 1996

10.58 p.m.

The streets seem slick with grease tonight. Murky rainbows ripple in every pothole, their dirty sheen illuminated by the flickering lamps dotted around the city centre. The crumbled paving stones reveal the depths of their shadowy cracks as passing cars drown them in an instant of frivolous light. Shadows waltz through the night; their crooked shapes drawing spirograph patterns on the pavement.

This is my first visit to the city in almost a year. Turning right on to Cameron Street, the familiar stench of pork drippings hangs rich and heavy in the air. As I near the chippy window, an unformed thought begins to climb my spinal column, starting out as mere instinct and then creeping, vertebra by vertebra, until it comes to settle on the back of my neck: it’s the Friday night close-down, and the last thing I need is to be seen. I speed my walk to a clumsy jog and duck my head as I pass by.

The cold tonight is almost stifling. It lurks in the folds of clothes, lodging itself in the crook of a neck, caressing the sallow skin on hips and ankles until little hairs stand to attention everywhere, aligned in bitter protest. My ears are filled with a numbing white noise as the chill of a biting wind claws its way through the street.

Taking the route on autopilot, as I round on to Beeston Close, the feeble tendrils of a distant memory cling to the ends of each vertical hair in a moment of lingering nostalgia. Huddling on the patchy carpeted floor in my pyjamas, I look down at shaking hands outstretched towards an electric heater. I’m sobbing, and through the blur I can glimpse in snapshots the darkened room around me, bottles strewn about a spoiled mattress.

I take the last three steps in one stride, immediately aware of the beat of my heart and the flow of blood in my head. I knock and wait, picking at a flake of paint on the rusting banister.

‘Hello, darlin’,’ Hannah rasps, her voice deep and husky as ever. She’s leaning against the door frame, thick arms folded across large breasts. She has tiny goosebumps forming along her collarbone, which is always lightly dusted with a sprinkling of gold sparkles. They wink coyly in the light of the outdoor security lamp.

‘Get in out the cold, then, ye silly bastard. You must be freezin’ ya tits off.’ Gesturing, she steps inside, her bloodshot eyes still staring through lazy lids. They are greasy with a slick of metallic eyeshadow, which has congealed into lumps where her skin is etched with wrinkles and scars.

As I step over the threshold, everything inside is murky. I take a moment to adjust, blinking against the dimness of the room. I pull my beanie off my head and stuff it into my coat pocket. A hi-fi stereo system is playing an R & B mixtape in the corner.

‘You just sit yesel’ doon. Ah’ll get ye a drink.’ Hannah observes me as she begins to busy herself at the drinks cabinet, pulling out a bottle of Bell’s and a tumbler: the only affirmation that she recognises me.

I lick my lips stickily and move towards the settee in the corner. The faded bottle-green cushions have an intimately rough, velvety texture. I work my fingertips across the fibres, seeking out hard patches where unknown stains have stiffened the threads, and dig my nails in up to the cuticles.

‘Not seen you in a while.’ She floats over to me in a cloud of vanilla spice, smiling vacantly. I accept the tumbler that she places in my hand and immediately take a deep drink, filling my gut with liquid warmth.

‘You wantin’ Gemma tonight, then? You’ll have to be quick, mind.’ I look up to see Hannah lick a manicured finger, the nail – her signature fuchsia shade – shimmering in the glow of the table lamp, which has been draped in a swathe of red chiffon. She leafs roughly through the pages of a notebook, as I watch her wet tongue quivering slightly on her lower lip. I am prising apart my own dry lips to speak – then think better of it.

I sit in silence for some time, save for the occasional slurp of liquor or the squeak of a door hinge as Hannah passes between the hall and the front room. I start to tune in to the rhythmic muffle-thump flowing through the walls from the bedrooms next door, awkwardly obscured by the throb of the subwoofer.

‘She’s ready now.’ I start as Hannah’s voice slices through the tension in my head, her straw-dry bob appearing from behind the kitchen door. I blink at her, about to speak, when the hallway door is thrown open. Barely visible through the dim haze, a skinny form staggers into focus. Its shaven head eclipses the yellow light trickling in from the hall.

‘Areet?’ I nod in its direction.

‘Areet.’ The figure grunts bluntly. I can glimpse a certain youth in those features, the pocked complexion; he can’t be much older than eighteen.

‘Ye are ready, aren’t ye, flower?’ Hannah shouts hoarsely through the open door to the hallway.

I place my tumbler on the end table and release myself from the clutches of my bottle-green settee.

The bedroom door closes behind me with a click.

Gemma is sitting cross-legged on the bed. A rose-pink candle is burning in the corner and a string of lanterns, threaded through the pattern in the iron headboard, form a halo around her in the twilight. She is draped in a thin satin teddy, her mousy brown hair falling messily about her pale shoulders, stray hairs like little threads of spun gold in the glow.

‘Hannah said it was you,’ she says. I can’t see her expression. I can barely bring myself to look at her.

‘Why didn’t you ever get back to me?’ I hear myself say. My voice is trembling, bitter.

She doesn’t move, and I wait for what feels like hours for her to respond.

‘You don’t just come here and do that,’ she says flatly. I’m shocked by her tone. ‘That’s just silly. That’s not what happens, you know. That’s not how this works. It’s just silly, Mitch.’

I push my toe into a cigarette burn in the carpet.

‘Divn’t be like that.’ Her voice is stern. My face burns hot in the candlelight.

She drapes her arms over my shoulders. Her skin is soft and cold, and her inner wrists brush past my neck before her delicate fingers come to rest on the back of my head. My body stiffens at her touch.

‘What can I do to make you feel better?’

I can’t bring myself to meet her gaze. Self-contempt bubbles like hot treacle in the pit of every organ–sticky black shame.

‘I can’t do this, Gemma.’

The rage rises in my throat like lava. The backs of my eyes fill with an aching pressure: I can feel that familiar parasite as it starts to bore away, burrowing through its skull cave to the softest, deepest layers of squidgy grey matter.

I push against her roughly, twisting in her grip. A shadow on the wall rises up between us, looming in the candlelight. It seems detached, like it doesn’t belong to me - a grotesque shadow puppet.

A moment frozen. I see her eyes: blue as day and scared.

And then I bolt.

 

Bea

 

11.07 p.m.

I peep round the bobbing silhouette, trying to catch sight of the clock on the dresser between thrusts. If you time it perfectly, it’s a very subtle manoeuvre. The little digital face blinks out from behind a border of sparkly plastic roses: 11.07. Seven minutes exactly. I allow myself a deep exhale as I feel his skinny form shudder inside me, before he pulls out slowly. I hear him omit that familiar high-pitched squeak that makes me stifle a giggle.

It’s just so funny...the intimacy conveyed in an instant of spontaneous release; there’s this absolute purity to it. I know I’m one of only a few people who will ever hear that funny little squeak. I like to watch the pupils dilate too. It’s fascinating. If you’ve seen someone’s pupils dilate, you’ve pretty much glimpsed a tiny piece of their soul in a heartbeat.

I’m not sure how long I’ve been staring into the middle distance before I’m startled by a rattling smoker’s cough. I mask a grimace, pushing myself back against the pillows, and concentrate on twirling my finger around the stringy tassels on the edge of the nearest throw cushion, making sure to keep them in a neat spiral.

I can see in my periphery that he’s dragged himself to rest on the edge of the bed, still panting, his sweaty head in his hands. I spot a milky glob glistening on the end of his johnson, threatening to plummet on to the shagpile rug at his feet. I imagine Hannah’s raspy tirade if she finds any stains on the carpet again this weekend.

‘Oi, you mucky pup. Clean up.’ I hurl a box of tissues at him, narrowly missing his right eye. ‘Shit, sorry.’ I'm giggling now.

He jerks his head in my direction, the muscles in his jaw tightening. ‘Slut,’ he hisses through pursed lips. It’s a warning. I turn down my gaze, the giggles instantly dissipating.

‘Look here,’ I say quickly, quietly. ‘There’s no need to be a dick about it.’

He’s on me then. He clamps my jaw in a vice grip, using his other hand to push my left shoulder blade into the wooden headboard. He’s done this before, so I know not to wriggle. I hold my breath.

‘You look here,’ he whispers into my eyes, ‘you need to learn to stop bein’ a little bitch.’ A droplet of cold sweat splashes on to my forehead. ‘Or A’ll tell Hannah how shit you were tonight.’

I’m still trying not to breathe. I curse myself inwardly for not judging his mood better. I know by now though that if I wait it out, he’ll soon get bored. And, sure enough, I feel a sharp twinge as he releases my face from the crush, squeezing my cheeks together in a closing threat.

I watch him shove his T-shirt and trousers on, stepping into both shoes at once, balling up his socks and cramming them into his jacket pocket. Out of the corner of my eye, he throws open the door and slips into the hall without looking back. In an instant, I’m halfway across the room, straining against the shrilling in my ears to hear his footsteps, muffled through the pine, as they disappear into the front room. Breathe.

‘YE ARE READY, AREN’T YE, FLOWER?’ Hannah’s voice pierces through the thick air, the hairs of my inner ear quivering. A pair of feet pad back down the hall towards me. I hear Gemma’s door open and close with a click. Cold relief.

I rub my face with my hands, trying to scratch him off my skin. My flesh feels tight, like it’s been stretched to fit over my skull. I walk over to the mirror and exhibit my face in the frame, giving myself my best toothy smile. My hair is starting to clump and tangle at the back, so it sticks up in rebellious tufts all over the place. Two swampy green eyes stare back at me. I catch sight of the clock over my shoulder: 11:12. There’s still time.

I turn and grab a heavy-duty brush off the dresser and start dragging it through my hair. Gemma suddenly pops into my thoughts – she’d got a meeting sorted today for going back to college to take a course in Hair and Beauty. I splutter as a laugh pushes its way through my lips unexpectedly. I can hear Gemma’s voice, remembering her cute little ‘fuck off’ when I’d offered to do her hair for the interview. I’d said, ‘They might want to see that you know how to look professional, like.’ She’d giggled her ridiculous giggle and said,

‘Ahshould prob’ly know how to do me own hair like, if ah’m, ye kna, plannin’ on takin’ a course in Hair and Beauty an’ that.’

The truth is, I’d kill for Gemma’s hair. It just seems to fall in the right places. It’s as soft as a baby’s hair, and it doesn’t even matter that it’s only a mousy brown colour, because it always gets natural highlights in the summer. I’ve been jealous of her hair since middle school – but she’s never seemed as though she knows she’s worth envying.

I glance down to see that the rug at my feet is now strewn with numerous bundles of bright red hair, each one like a little rosebud. My hair, unlike Gemma’s, has always been a frizzy mess and completely untameable. And, recently, I’ve started losing a lot of it.

I wrestle it into its usual side plait and tie it off with a hair bobble. I throw on my hoodie and a pair of tight jeans and give myself a final grin of reassurance in the mirror – which, it turns out, looks more like a grimace. Boots slipped on, I slowly ease open the bedroom door and slip out into the hallway.

I pad gently into the front room, expecting to cross paths with Hannah. Warm relief like Alka-Selzer fizzles in my gut. Seeing my chance, I dash across the carpet and out of the front door, shutting it gently with a click.

My shoes are already clattering on the stairs. I duck down into the backstreets, the soothing, frigid sting of night hitting me like a slap. My heart is swelling, popping, to this unfamiliar, girlish beat. I let the cloud of steam, thick with warmth and vinegar, drown me on the pavement outside. I catch Paul’s eye through the window. He’s waiting for me, I can tell.