Demo (33 page)

Think so? Danny says. Is that no your romanticism? It'll take mair than a war in distant places, mair than a few hunner thousand dead Iraqis, mair than a few of our boys hame in body bags, to shake the great British public out their apathy.

It's great when guys talk politics; you can sit there quiet and think your ain thoughts and naybody notices you. Same wi my da. No Julian but.

What's your view, Clare? Didn't you start a group at school? He's tryin to get me to look at him. School kids interested in politics; that hasn't happened in a long time?

Naybody's interested normally in what
school kids
think. I say this to Jed.

True, Jed says. He's lookin at me dead sympathetic. But it was great to see you and Farkhanda there, and all the other… young people.

I know he's tryin to say the right thing, Jed, but he's makin it worse. I feel about five now. I stand up and hand over my plastic curry tray to Danny.

Here, I says, I'm no wantin any mair.

I pass Jed on the chair and go round the back a Danny sittin on the floor, so's I don't have to step ower Julian's legs to get out the door.

Where you goin, Clare?

For a pee, if that's alright. Or am I meant to ask for permission?

Was it something I said? Jed says.

I sling him a deafie, ignore the lot a them and cross the hall to the bathroom. It's dead different, the flat, since they painted it. Or since Danny painted it; I think it was Danny done maist of it. The hall's dark red now, like bein inside a heart. I switch on the light. Somebody's hung a mirrored
globe up beside it, and wee slivers a light appear on the walls, shivering.

The bathroom's a sort a pale blue and there's a mirror above the sink wi a weird kind a mosaic in blue and green, like hunners a eyes watchin you lookin at your reflection.

Mirror, mirror on the wall, I says… I don't suppose you know fuck all.

That makes me feel better! I even catch mysel smilin in the middle of the starin eyes. They've put a fancy shower curtain up above the bath now, sky blue, wi a huge print on it of a painting. I pull it straight on the rail to see it properly. The metal rings rattle along it. It's a picture of a bare naked woman comin out a tree grabbin for this guy, who looks like he's tryin to get away, but she's clutchin him round the waist. He's bare too, except for a wee bit of see-through cloth coverin his privates. Only it's bunched up, so's you canny see anything interestin through it. At the bottom it says
Tree of Forgiveness
. It looks like a Burne-Jones. I'm nearly sure it is; the faces are mair or less identical to the ones I seen in the paintings on the internet.
King Cophetua and the Beggar Maid
was one. That beggar maid was nothing like me, I didny think. I couldny work out what Laetitia was talkin about in her diary.

Which reminds me… it's still in my bag; I've no had a chance to put it anywhere yet.

I lock the door and put the toilet seat down. There's a smell of antiseptic in the room that makes you think of hospitals. I bet they scrubbed it to get rid of the smell of sick. How come Danny never mentioned to me about Laetitia bein sick? About her bein pregnant? I imagine her sittin on this seat doin a pregnancy test.

I wonder when they all knew. I suppose the last time I really seen Danny properly was at Christmas, when my ma
persuaded him to come hame for the day. A truce was called. It was like him and my da were walkin on eggshells round about one another the whole day. I felt sorry for my ma, she'd went to such a lot a trouble, cooked the biggest turkey I've ever saw.

I feel like Tiny Tim, Danny says.

And my da says, Does that make me Bob Cratchit?

Who's he? Danny says. And it was obvious my da thought he was takin the piss. But I don't think he was; he really hadny heard a Bob Cratchit. They hardly said a word to one another after that. I found my ma in the kitchen later, takin big gulps a wine, lookin at the steamed-up window, wi tears pourin down her face.

Christmas, she says. Peace and Goodwill to All Men. And she tipped up her glass and finished her wine in a oner.

But Danny must a telt her about Laetitia at some point. Maybe he was askin her advice. People are aye askin my ma advice about medical things, cause she works in the doctor's, even though she's only a receptionist. Like Mrs Hazel in the top flat. It was my ma discovered it was her daughter, Jenny, flingin the bags a sick out the window onto the back green. All these poly bags a vomit, the handles tied in a bow. The women started to notice them when they were takin their rubbish out, thought at first it was the alkies daein it. But it wasny; my ma found out it was the lassie up the stair. She took her maw up a stack a leaflets about bulimia and spoke to her for hours. Mrs Hazel never knew a thing about it. You would think you would suspect
some
thin, if your daughter was throwin up all the time. But my ma says sometimes the people closest to you are hardest to fathom. She says I should talk to Jenny sometime, ask her in. But I don't really know her; she's a quiet lassie, a couple a years younger than me, and she goes to a different school.

That shouldny matter, my ma says, where's your sense of community?

It was you sent me to St Veronica's.

That's no the point, she says. I'm no talkin about Catholics and Protestants. I'm talkin about a lassie that stays up the same close as you, for heaven's sake.

This happens wi me and my ma all the time now.

Somebody tries the bathroom door and I get a fright.

You alright in there, Clare?

It's Danny. I stand up quick and pull up my pants and jeans. I've no been in
that
long, have I?

Aye, I'm fine, I says. I press the flush and shout over the noise. You wantin in?

No. Just wonderin where you'd got to.

I'll be out in a minute.

I put the plug in the basin and run some hot water. The eyes round the mirror are kinda spooky. Except when you look at them close up; then you can see all the wee bits a tile and glass. It doesny look like a bought mirror; I wonder who made it. It's no the kind a thing Danny would do. And I canny see Julian havin the patience. Must be either Jed or Laetitia. But you would think, if it was one a them, it would be brown; they've baith got brown eyes. The blue's a bright blue, like Julian's, but brighter. The green's an emerald green, like naybody's eyes I've ever saw. And there's a sorta peacocky shimmer on the blue
and
the green. A red tinge too, deep inside.

That's when I realize there's a reflection of me in every single eye; every one's a wee mirror. The red is my dreads flarin. It's like they can really see me. Mesmerizing. I can hardly tear my eyes away fae them, but I force mysel to focus on the normal mirror and I have to laugh. I'm like some kind a startled animal; a creature peepin out its burrow, wi the eyes of all the other creatures a the forest starin out all round. My
dreads are tangled, a bit of a mess. I pick them up, a bunch at a time, and separate them. Farkhanda's braid's as black and glossy as ever; the hairpin's no moved since she fixed it.

And Julian's. Julian's is getting fuzzy again. It's like a stick of light wi a kind a haze round it. Julian.

Clare?

A whisper outside the door. It's like he can hear me thinkin!

I'll no be long, I says.

Can I come in?

I'll no be a minute.

I want to see you.

His mouth must be right up against the door, cause I can hear him and he's definitely whisperin.

I look at mysel one more time in the mirror and I pull back the bolt.

He's in before I know where I am and he's bolted the door behind him. He birls round and looks at me. Full on. Like I says, I know it's a trick, but… He's standin right under the light and his bleached hair's sparklin. I put up my hand to touch it and he grabs me round the waist and pulls me to him.

Danny, I says. He'll hear us. And Jed.

They're stoned, he says, and he bundles all my dreads round the back and kisses me under my ear. I can smell his ordinary tobacco and the waccy baccy mixed thegether, alang wi the curry. His stubble prickles my neck and I breathe out, push him away.

What about Laetitia?

For a second, his eyes go far away, then he turns them on me again. She's not here, he says. I want
you
, Clare. I
want
you. He nuzzles under my dreads.

And even though I know. Even though I know…

Wait, I says. I reach in my back pocket. Use this.

He steps back. His eyes open wide and then he smiles, takes the condom off me. He kisses me hard on the mouth; our
teeth crash together; I taste the sour taste of tobacco off his tongue. He pushes me towards the bath and pulls back the shower curtain; the lassie disappears into the tree and the guy goes wae her. He starts undoin his belt and his zip.

Get in the bath, he says. I climb in and he comes after me. He takes me by the shoulders and shoves me against the tiles and unzips my jeans. Pulls them down wi my pants inside, down to the top a my boots.

Now, just stand there.

I do as I'm telt. The tiles are cold against my bum. He pulls the curtain along the rail again and I'm lookin at the back a the painting, over his shoulder; the skin's kind a gold, transparent, wi the light shinin through fae the other side.

And then, he's fumbling wi the condom, rippin the paper off, pullin his ain jeans down at the same time. He's too close to me, so I can't see what he's doin. The smell a my dreads reminds me of him, reminds me of Florence. Then there's a snap and a sharp stink of rubber and he's pressin against me, guidin himsel into me and

Oh!

I put my hands on his bum and feel the way the cheeks hollow out every time he thrusts and he's inside me and my bum presses harder into the cold tiles and this is the third time I've did this and I don't even know if I want to and I do want to and I

Aaahhhh. He groans and jerks and shudders and goes slack against me. His breath is hot on my cheeks and my ear is wet.

And then he's out of me, takin off the condom, pullin up his jeans. He moves the curtain to one side, steps out the bath, turns, wipes his mouth on his sleeve, leans forward and kisses me on the forehead, a wee dry kiss, stands back and looks me up and down, pats my pubes, smiles.

Nice pussy, he says.

And his hand is off me. He tiptoes to the door, listens, unbolts it slowly, slowly, quietly, and steps outside. Closes it behind him. The curtain ripples a bit in the draught he's left. The lassie in the tree tightens her grip on the guy. Then it goes still again. Back to normal.

And I'm standin in the bath wi my jeans at my feet and the condom lyin beside the plughole, oozin spunk, and the wrapper torn in half down at the other side of my boots.

Clare! Clare, gonny come out a there for fucksake! I'm desperate for a slash. Danny's voice sounds slurred.

Comin. Just gies a minute.

I haul up my jeans and cover them with my jumper. At least Danny doesny know the door's no locked. I pick up the condom and wrapper, shift the curtain the tiniest wee bit, so the rings willny rattle, and climb out quiet onto the floor. I search about for a bin, then think, No, unroll some bog paper and wrap it in that.

Come on, Clare, I'm gonny piss mysel.

Comin.

I look at the window; it's dark outside now. I don't see any way to open it.

Clare.

I shove the whole mess in my jeans pocket, pull down my top and open the door.

I thought you'd a grew out a that by now, Danny says. His voice is slow and hazy. Spendin fuckin hours in the bathroom.

I'm away hame now, I says. I'm gonny get my coat.

Right, he says. But he's stoned. He doesny gie a shit.

I'm back in the spangly red hall and the livin room door's shut. I tiptoe across to it and peep in. No sign a Julian. Just Jed, lyin back in the armchair wi a wee squashed end of a joint
in his hand, starin softly into the distance. There's a bank a blue smoke driftin across the dark window, ower the top a the carry-out trays and beer bottles. The whole place smells a dope and curry.

Hi, Clare, Jed says, and waves the dowt at me.

Where's Julian?

Gone to crash out he said.

Right, I says, and I pick up my coat and bag. Say cheerio for me, will you? He waves the fag end again.

On second thoughts, don't bother.

He isny bothered. He's away wi the bees.

First bin I come to when I get down the stairs and out the close, I dump the mess fae my pocket. Some of it's leaked out in my jeans and the slime's all over my hand. As soon as I'm sittin in the taxi, I look in my bag for my hankies.

That's when I see it. Laetitia's diary.

21 MARCH 2003 – GLASGOW

Well, they've done it: despite protests the world over, the Americans have dragged us into war and are bombing hell out of Iraq. The other day, Julian, Danny, Jed and I watched the Commons debate on a pub TV; watched Blair, reeking of Righteousness, stand his moral high ground, use his oratorical skills to persuade Parliament it was the only thing to do. But we were all a little stunned when the first missiles landed on Baghdad, in spite of knowing it was inevitable. Danny and Jed were unusually subdued. A cloud of hopelessness descended on the flat and not even Julian's best comic efforts could dispel it. Jed went out and bought an enormous, widescreen, ex-rental television – a bargain, he said – so we can follow events as they unfold. But after the first evening, I couldn't watch it and left them to their obsessive channel-hopping. Coverage seems to be 24/7: unreal night vision targets flare momentarily as ‘smart bombs' pick them off; reporters on hotel balconies wear flak jackets, try not to flinch when shells whizz and bombs crack in the city behind them; ‘ordinary' Iraqis, i.e., men in cafés, give guarded responses to questions about Saddam Hussein; and the first footage of limbless, crying children in narrow hospital beds has begun to filter through. Unbearable.