In 1987 I was a fourteen year old rolling skating waitress. I delivered sandwiches to the few office and shop workers in Chatham High Street who liked gimmicks and an overpriced lunch. I had my picture taken for the local press, dollied up in hot pants, roller skates and a corkscrew perm. My boyfriend at the time was captain of the Ice Hockey team and the town dreamboat. I thought I was a bit of alright.

The manageress of the sandwich bar - married, two little children, one invisible husband – had not long moved down from London, which to me was impossibly glamorous. She wore Vivienne Westwood shoes and John Galliano dress’s behind the counter and turned the music up loud so that we could dance in the kitchen between customers.

I was a good girl, doing well at school, liked flirting with boys and fantasising about my glittering future. I was also a snotty bitch and believed myself to be a cut above the gangs of girls who hung about town bedecked in gold jewellery and blue mascara. I longed to be different. With my hotpanted bottom and haughty stare I was asking for trouble. So when Jackie Ridley tripped me up outside Macdonald’s it was no big surprise. “Next time I’ll kick your fucking head in, Slag”.

Of course, nothing else happened. They never caught up with me and I didn’t get my head kicked in. But just to be sure, the manageress offered to drive me home. Which meant staying a little bit later and helping clean up. She put the Rolling Stones on (of whom I was barely aware), walked into the back of the kitchen and cut four lines of coke, “want one?” I had never seen drugs before, didn’t even smoke fags but I wanted one. I snorted, choked and my head buckerooed.

With my fingertips fizzing, my lips numb; the languid darkness of ‘Gimme Shelter’ edged into my flesh. It was the perfect tune. The siren song backing vocals kicked in. She was dancing, slowly. Writhing. Holding out her hands to me. We were dancing. We were kissing, her hand on the back of my neck. Her breasts softening into mine. Her lipstick greasing our kiss. I liked it. I felt filthy and exciting. The guitar sounded like the night outside of a car window when you’ve been driving too long. It was decadent and I was caught in the hocus pocus of that music and the intoxicating power of being bad.

I am listening to it now, as I write this and Jesus Christ, nineteen years later and I am still caught in the spell. Like voodoo, it wakes up the bad girl in me and you know what? I like her.

Heidi James’ novella The Mesmerist's Daughter (published by Apis Books) was launched in July 2007, her novel Carbon (published by Wrecking Ball Press) will be out in the Autumn. She has a column in Dazed and Confused, is a regular contributor to Another Level and the Arts Editor for 3:am Magazine. Her essays and short stories have appeared in a variety of anthologies and magazines. She is a recipient of the Sophie Warne fellowship. To read a selection of Heidi’s writing on the Showcase section of this site, click here.

© 2007 Laura Hird All rights reserved.