'THE EASBY'
by Helen Walsh
The doors slide open and the cold city night slaps me in the face. I’m the only passenger to get off at Bankhill. Kieran is standing at the far end of the platform hunched up against the cold. The train seems to linger at the station for longer than it should. I pause to watch it pull off. The yellow flashing glass glides off into the silent black night and my tummy shrinks into a cold, cold weight. The city air hangs thick and pungent, something sinister in its tone. My heels click self-consciously along the platform and I’m wishing I’d worn trainers. I’m wishing I’d worn jeans. I’m wishing I hadn’t come.
He spots me and advances slowly in a reckless, sexy swagger. He pulls down his hood and flicks the remnants of a joint onto the track. Our eyes crash and I sink my teeth into my bottom lip to stop a grin breaking over my face.
“A’right,” he goes, “You look nice.
He means it too. His eyes are all over me. They linger at the hem of my kilt and slip underneath the tartan fabric. I feel them climb my thighs towards the dizzy hollow of my groin. I raise a flirtatious eyebrow and he grins back hard and wide, his lovely straight teeth putting creases all over his face. I’m no longer wishing I hadn’t come. Even when he recedes into his hood, back into his usual mute self I know I’ve made the right choice. Here goes, Kieran – prepare yourself for the fuck of your life.
He called yesterday evening. I was in the car with Martin who was being such a prick. He’d been to see some band play at the student guild and was coming out with stuff like ‘hip hop fascists’ and wait for it, ‘total aesthetic freefall.’ What the fuck is that all about, by the way? I sat there batting off his stupid words, letting them just float clean through me, when Kieran’s name zapped across my screen. What the hell, I thought. Aesthetic freefall? That’s just asking for it, knobhead.
“You still coming over tomorrow and that?” he goes and his voice is all flat and stripped of emotion.
He doesn’t even wait for an answer.
“Get off at Bankhill. Not Kirkdale. It’s the one after Bootle. There’s a train gets you in around seven bells. See you then then.”
His words were very smooth. No cracks between the sentences. There was no mention of whether I would be staying the night. It was just assumed. I spent a long time that afternoon trying to talk myself out of going and I guess it didn’t take much. I thought about Martin, and I felt bad. I thought about Dad – angry, disappointed Dad. I thought about the girl I’d seen Kieran with in town. But then this morning, before school, I’m lying in the bath, picturing how he’d look above me and my tummy rolls over and next thing I’m doing my bikini line and deciding what to wear.
As the train pulled off from Formby my tummy tightened into a knot. I was giving in. Handing myself over like a fucking sherbet drop. And I’d lied to Mum and Dad. Again. I’d told them I was staying over at Martin’s. I’d told Martin I was staying over at friends’. I wasn’t even covering my tracks any more – I was bound to get caught out. I contemplated getting off at the next station and turning back but as we picked up speed my head started to throb with thoughts and possibilities – and I was excited. It was exciting. I thought about the girls in my form and how they’d be spending their Friday nights. Cosy foursomes to Pizza Hut or Stamps. Gossiping and dreaming and fantasising about what it’s like – what everything is like, out there. Out here. I thought about them discussing me over coke floats and Hawaiians. I thought about Martin out on the raz with his student pals. And I thought about me skulking in my lonely bedroom while Dad got drunk and Mum grew thighs. My mind was made up. I was getting off at Bankhill. I was going to see Kieran again.
We walk side by side separated by a foot of silence. My head sputters and sparks with nervous, giddy thrill. There is just too much to take in. The city centre hangs within throwing distance - I can see the Liver buildings and the Cathedrals and the shimmering neon of Chinatown and yet it is so so dark. It’s dark and silent and eerie as fuck. Only the random streetlight and electric blue spilling from the windows of tightly packed terraces push the dark back a fraction.
In the near distance, there’s the occasional crack of a banger; the flash and zoom of a rocket. But there are no cars, no people. Only gangs of noiseless teenage girls kitted out in parkas and pyjamas huddled in bus shelters - drinking, smoking. And gangs of lads bunched up in doorways, staring out into the dark - armies of hooded coats zipped to the throat in protection from the silence. Kieran lets on to a couple of lads. They give me the once over and throw him a knowing grin. I snatch a glance sideways to gage his reaction but it’s hidden in his hood.
We pass a burnt out pub and a row of shops and cafes with their shutters pulled to the pavement. Perched at the end, on the corner, is a paper shop. The words - FUCK OF BACK TO IRAQ leap across its shutters in bright orange capitals. I pretend not to see it but Kieran is already on to it.
“They’ve been at the Paki shop again.”
His voice is flat, factual, stripped of emotion or opinion.
“They’ve spelt ‘off’ wrong.”
Kieran turns and gives me this look. More of a sneer than anything. The corners of my mouth edge nervously into a smile. They’ve spelt off wrong. The words seem to echo along the silence. What a stupid thing to say. What a stupid fucking thing.
We cross a main road and peel left onto a terraced street. Through the windows, I can see family after family gathered around the TV. On one side of the street, the houses slope off into a huge patch of wasteland. Even through the darkness I can see the scars of mini bonfires – flat patches of solid shiny black orbited by bits of cars, shopping trolleys, the remnants of a pram.
A big moody estate looms on the fringes of the wasteland. Two pairs of high rises sit on either side, sizing each other up across a sinister grey mass of toy size houses. We cross the road and start across the wasteland. Kieran steps up the pace. His vision swooshes from left to right, over and behind us. He shrugs off his hood and then pulls it back up again. Soon, the estate begins to close in on us – a slipstream of sullen concrete flecked with tiny prison windows. I think about all the life going on beyond the yellow green light and a current of fear and mad mad excitement surges up my spine as it dawns on me that one of those windows is Keiran’s.
The front door opens up into a living room half the size of our bathroom. The air hums with weed and chip shop food, almost as though it’s sweating from the walls. There is hardly any furniture - just a big old maroon settee, a couple of deckchairs and a bookshelf stuffed with CDs and videos. The TV dominates the room. It’s one of those comedy wide screen efforts that Martin’s Dad has in his bedroom - the kind that makes even Cameron Diaz look fat. The walls seem to close in on me for an instant, making me swoon. I shouldn’t be here. No one knows I’m here. The realization spills into my throat – I am totally exposed here, completely isolated and vulnerable. I drag my eyes to the front door and contemplate my escape. Deep breath, then just leg it. Don’t bother making up an excuse. Just bolt the fuck out of that door. I inhale deeply, feel my body tense in anticipation, but the unmistakable nasal thrum of Eminem whittling through the ceiling, leaks into my conscious and stalls me. I hate Eminem. All of year eleven think he’s God. Martin refers to him as a ‘post ironic genius’ which makes me hate him even more. Hearing my pet hate – a familiar, comical, safe presence in deepest darkest Kirkdale – I dunno. Things don’t seem that dodgy all of a sudden. Kieran unzips his coat and gestures for me to sit down. I settle on the end of the settee and try to look as relaxed as possible.
Kieran puts on a video. Shooters.
“It’s real gangsters and that,” he tells me. “And most of the script is thingio. You know – it’s them and what have you. They just gone out and done it. See that place there. It’s just by Breck Road. I know some lad got zapped there.”
The film is shot in documentary style. It seems to be about men with hard faces and absurdly wide shoulders sneaking around in Saabs and gunning each other down.
“Are you on it, girl? These are real gangsters you know. Straight up. See him there. There’s a contract out on him, you know.”
I feel like telling him about Don. He’s bound to have heard of him. Everyone knows Toxteth Don. Toxteth Don and his M3 and his big plush flat in Southport. That’d shut him up. There were always blokes with wide shoulders and Saabs turning up at Don’s place, all through the day and all through the night. I let two of them fuck me once while Don looked on. It was all his idea – I think he wanted to impress these guys - but he didn’t join in. I was turned on by it, I’ll admit it. I didn’t want to do it – but I did want to, as well. I think Don kind of regretted it after. He didn’t say very much, but I could tell he was hurting.
“Fucken shoulders on you there Dezzie, la. Fucken swore you’d never touch the roids you!”
Kieran hovers on the edge of the couch, his shoulders hunched toward the screen. Occasionally he’ll drag his eyes down to his lap where he is crumbling resin and tobacco into a cocoon of Rizlas. I continue to sip on my warm sour lager. My spirits hang heavy and low. I try to fight it but the sunken pall in my tummy keeps pulling me back down. I keep seeing snatches of my face in the TV screen - tense and blank, all the confidence syringed out of me. It’s not me. I try to remember how dauntless I felt on the train. It’s no use. I’ll be OK once this lager works its way into my system though, I’ll be just fine.
Kieran sparks up the joint and offers me first bang. His eyes rest on me for a moment. A short moment, but long enough to take some of the edginess away. My fingers dither mid air then I’m taking the joint from him and putting it in my mouth. I take three timid staccato sucks, hold the final one in my lungs, then release the gushing spume through a lockjaw grin. For someone who doesn’t smoke the shit, I think I pull it off quite well.
The lager and smoke hit me in one muddled flush and my head starts to whir. I don’t feel anxious any more. Just floppy. Nice. Spacey. I sag down into the cradle of the settee and my eyes fall into my lap. I watch my legs unfold and part company.
The credits are up on the screen. I am vaguely aware that Eminem’s angry voice has been replaced by great lung stripping coughs. Someone is upstairs.
“You wha’?”
I stare vacantly into the screen. I must have asked him a question. What though? The line of conversation flashes behind my eyes but then dissolves into a tingle.
“Fuck girl, you can’t be stoned already are you?”
“I don’t know. Am I?”
Kieran throws his head back and laughs hard. His hand reaches over for mine and I feel our fingers entwine. I look down at them, laced up. Together. My tummy flips right over. I slide further down the couch and flop my head on his shoulder and I see our reflection in the TV. We look like a proper couple. Girlfriend and boyfriend. I smile into his shoulder blade. We’re holding hands, I think. We’ve never held hands before.
*
A bolt of panic sits me upright and I try to make sense of my surroundings. I’m sitting in a small room. A naked light bulb hammers down. A three bar fire is belting out shafts of artificial heat. I can see it warping and wavering in the air, distorting Trevor MacDonald’s face on TV. I run my eyes down along my torso, down into my lap and I see familiar human skin smiling between my fingers. I swivel my head round and find Kieran. I remember where I am. A pulse drums in my tummy for a while, slows then fades.
Time seems to be passing slowly. It’s not that I want it to go faster or anything cos I’m happy. Safe in the moment. But everything has slowed and blurred. Like, the spaces between Trevor MacDonald’s words seem way too long. There’s even room to think between each word if I want to, but I have no thoughts to think. Just feelings - nice, sexy feelings. I drop my gaze to Kieran’s thighs. I can see the sinews straining against the fabric of his jeans. I want to take control - straddle him, kiss him, feel my fanny grind on his lap, but I’m kind of paralyzed. I can do things spontaneously, like now, I’ve just lifted my hand without thinking about it but if I try to premeditate an action my body will not respond.
I must be thinking out loud cos he kills the joint and turns and kisses me. Fast and hard. He runs his tongue over my teeth and gums and I feel my mouth drying out. His hands feel out for my tits and fanny simultaneously. My skin is a mass of raw nerve endings. He clamps my fanny with a firm palm and just holds it there. I feel myself getting wetter and wetter and the muscles flowing, pumping out liquid into his hand. I slide my hand along his thigh. His cock is soft and uninterested. I imagine unzipping his jeans and taking his cock in my mouth. Feeling it grow against the flat of my tongue. I grapple with the top button of his jeans. Its metal digs hard into my finger, then relents. Don’t worry Flick, you’ll get him there. You’ll get him hard. You always get them hard.
“You wha?”
Kieran has pulled back and is staring right into me. Every muscle in his face is clenched. His eyes feel weighted on my skin. The realization pricks me that I might have called him Martin. I make to say sorry but can’t quite get the word out and then we’re kissing. Kissing and falling, falling and spinning.
Kieran has all his fingers inside me. It hurts but it feels nice, too. I have to keep prising an eye open and checking who he is.
The sound of feet pounding down the stairs slings me back into the living room. I bolt up and clutch at my chest, straightening my skewed bra. My heart jackhammers hard. Kieran’s head swivels away and his hand swoops down for his can. He sits back, and leaning even further away from me, quickly composes himself. And then I see why. A girl has entered the room. There’s a time lapse as I try to place her face but then I’m remembering and I’m back here, back now. It’s her. It’s the girl from town. Her eyes are bigger and blacker up close. Hollowed out, almost as though there’s nothing behind. She’s wearing that same tracksuit, except this time, it’s not tucked into her socks. Her hair is no longer peroxide blonde – she’s strawberry, bordering on ginger. Huge puffed shadows hang like bruises under her eyes. She’s thinner than I remembered, too - and prettier. Much prettier. She sweeps her eyes over me then tosses Kieran this half grin. I feel a stab of something in my tummy but I’m not sure what. It’s not jealously. It’s not fear. It’s more like relief, if anything. Kieran shuffles nervously in his seat and reaches for a joint.
“Kelly, this is Flick. Flick. Kelly.”
His voice sounds tight. Tight and embarrassed.
“Yeah I saw you both in town together the other day,” I blurt out, then feel my face redden. They exchange glances. A grin surfaces on her face. I can’t see Kieran’s but it feels like he’s grinning too. What a stupid thing to say. She removes the dead joint from Kieran’s hand and sparks it. She raises an eyebrow at Kieran’s unbuttoned jeans and shakes her head in mock amusement.
“Yeah that must’ve been Tuesday hey Kel?”
She responds with a bony shrug of the shoulders. She hovers at the windowsill, peeping out behind the curtain then turns and faces Kieran and without so much as looking at me, says:
“Laters then. Don’t wait up for us.”
She gives him a comedy wink, sweeps her eyes over me and is gone.
“That’s the kid I was telling you about. The one we took in, like.”
I hear the door slam shut. I can feel the spaces between his words. Unsteady and stretched out. Not smooth. I know he’s lying.
“You must’ve told someone else. First I’ve heard of her.”
“You’re not thinking nothing mad, are you?”
I’m not sure what he means by this, but his words seem to drag my heart out through my back. I want to go home. I shouldn’t have come.
He sneers at me.
“Fuckenell, girl! Kelly’s a mate an’ that. I used to go out with her sister, Jamie-Lee. Me an’ our Danny – we took her in. She had fuck all. Fuck! I wouldn’t fucken thingio – not with her! She’s soiled goods. Just a mate, that’s all.”
I feel foolish. I feel jealous and petty and silly. Like a silly little Formby girl, out of her depth. He reaches across to me, takes my hand and places it back on his cock.
The trek upstairs takes a very long time. My legs don’t want to lift up. I grip the flimsy white banister and pull myself up the stairs. Kieran is already at the top, grinning down on me. I’m going to have sex, I think vaguely. And I don’t even feel sexy. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. His bedroom is tiny and dark. The air is thick with the smell of weed. There are CDs and lad’s magazines scattered all over the floor - hundreds of them. My eyes keel from side to side then slip into focus on a single bed pushed against the wall. I want to go back down stairs and sit on the couch. Rewind the whole thing back to before. Start afresh. But it’s too late. He’s already undressing me.
“Fuck’s sake girl! Can’t you get it hard?”
A new night has unfolded inside the night and things seem clearer now. I don’t feel as stoned. I’m staring at a wall which is mottled in places by damp and mould. I’m trying to kiss his cock to life. I don’t remember coming upstairs though and I don’t remember taking my clothes off. I’m not on the pill. Please don’t come in me.
“What the fuck you trying to do? Bite my fucken cock off?”
The words tick though my head, each one like a little knife in my tummy.
“Look, it’s not gonna happen is it girl? Just come and lie with us for a while. You can sort us out later.”
Numb, empty I slip beneath the covers. I can smell the start of my period. Salt and iron seeping up reassuringly through my legs. Kieran has his back to me. One of his hands swoops over and grabs the nearest breast. He prods and squeezes and pulls and pinches, passionless, like a doctor examining me for lumps. I feel my throat tighten and my eyes sting over with tears. Gently, I remove his arm and turn on my side. Moments pass and then my eyes latch on to a photograph on his bedside table. It’s resting unframed, against the lamp, like a glass of water, like something he might need in the night. My eyes squint against the bright vulgar yellow of the bedside lamp. I can see it clearer now and a weakness rises in my chest. The girl in the picture is not Kelly. It must be quite a recent picture, cos Kieran is wearing that Commercial Underground T-shirt he was wearing the very first time we went to the Monro - the one with the stripper on the front. He told me he’d bought it in London, less than a month ago but he was thinking of binning it cos Open and Wade Smith had started selling them and every other cunt in Liverpool was wearing them. I prop myself up and take the photograph in my hands. Kieran flips over onto his tummy.
“Oh that’s Michelle,” he says, reaching over and snapping off the light.
His words bounce back and forwards in my tummy.
“Michelle,” I repeat through the darkness. My voice comes out all torn and squeaky.
“Yeah, she’s… Oh come ‘ead mate, it’s not like I hid it or notten. You fucken knew the score.”
Mate. I feel my heart plummet into my guts.
“You’ve got a girlfriend?”
“So?”
I slide down beneath the covers and close my eyes. I can hear the thrum of a helicopter hovering above the estate. Soon it will be morning. Soon this will be over. I think about Martin. His soft safe face.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.
