Poppy Shakespeare (28 page)

'You don't think I'm bad for Saffra, N?'

I could see her hands against the glass. Her palms was pressed white against the glass. 'Do you think she'd be better without
me, N?

'N? Do you think I'm losing it?'

As she turned away, I felt it again: that terrible sense of endless nothing. The TV room at Sunshine House, the magnolia walls
smeared with scrubbed-out graffitti, where they told me my mum was dead.

I got up. I banged on the glass. 'Wait!' I shouted. For a second I thought she was still stood there. But all it was was my
own reflection looked back at me.

46. How I done my best to be a good friend, despite of everything

It taken me hours to get ready. It was 6 a.m. when I run the bath. I soaked for a bit, just to loosen the dirt then starting
from the tips of my toes I lathered upwards inch by inch. My toes, then my feet, then my legs to the knee, then I stood up
and finished the rest of me, slow and methodic inch by inch, taking care not to leave no spaces. From the tips of my toes
to behind my ears, front and back, was a bottle of Dove, which just goes to show how much weight I'd lost; two and a half
I'd of took before, easy, fact I'd lifted three down the Turkish shop just to be sure. When I'd finished, I shaved my legs;
I'd lifted the razor as well, old habits die hard. Then I washed my hair with a mug in the sink as the steel-grey scum of
a month in bed gurgled out down the bathtub plug hole. After that I had another bath and I washed my hair again and after
a third bath there weren't nothing left, not a mark on me from top to toe, aside of my scars what wouldn't come off if I scrubbed
for the rest of forever.

I'd lost so much weight, when I tried to get dressed my clothes was falling off of me. Even the new clothes I'd bought with
Poppy; that denim skirt I'd been planning to wear, it looked like I'd borrowed it off of Fat fucking Florence. It weren't
just the fact I hadn't ate for three weeks; I hadn't took no meds. And especially the Plutuperidol, puffs you up something
chronic, remember Tadpole. I'd been on anti-psychotics
all my life,
do you know what I'm saying, taken Parazine along with my mother's breast milk so I s'pose it weren't surprising when you took
out the stopper to find half of me disappeared. The skinny me - I was almost
skinny!
—
it didn't even
look
nothing like the old N and it weren't going to share no clothes with her. So I tried on a couple of things of Poppy's, them
clothes I'd rescued from Oxfam, and they fitted like I'd bought them new, only the skirt left a button undone; and the top
was a little bit tight across you-know-where. By the time I'd straightened my hair with the irons and wet it again and done
it again and wet it again and done it
again
and it
still
got a kink but that might of been intended, it was 07:58. I put on my make-up like Poppy had shown me, a layer of foundation
worked on with a sponge, then Touche Eclat smeared under your eyes and another layer of foundation on top - Poppy never said
that, but I reckoned it looked better. I used eye-shadow, pencil, mascara and curlers, liquid gold the eye-shadow was, it
come in a tube and cost so much I reckon it got real gold in. Poppy said makeup should always look subtle, which meant you
could hardly see it at all; I said 'I ain't spending six months' MAD money on something you can't even see.' Truth is since
I'd begun wearing make-up my confidence gone up and I reckoned I had a bit of a flair, not bragging I mean, I just knew what
looked good, or what looked good on
me.
And not being funny, do you know what I'm saying, but Poppy weren't hardly best placed to comment, fact I'd have to say something
one of these days, like just as a friend, once we'd got her discharged - and Saffra back home, if that's what she wanted.
'Poppy,' I'd say, 'I'm not being funny, but you should make a bit more of yourself.' I given my cheekbones a dusting of pink,
proper cheekbones now I got, and finished my lips with three layers of Violet Candy. I could of worked on a make-up counter
to look at me, which ain't big-headed; I'm just saying how I looked. And it was Poppy I done it for anyway, I needed to look
my best; ain't much point having a dribbler turn up to tell everyone you's normal.

As soon as you walked in the Dorothy Fish, you could tell they was doing an inspection. The notice-boards on the first-floor
landing was covered in bright-coloured posters and leaflets with all of these groups you could do and shit and all of these
trips you could sign up for, like ten-pin bowling and the Science Museum and the Dorothy Fish Day Out to BRIGHTON!!! It made
you want to puke. There was even a notice how Tony Balaclava was running the London Marathon to raise funds for MIND. 'COME
AND CHEER HIM ON!' it said, like we's one big happy family, like any dribbler in his right mind show his face within ten miles
of the race or even watch it on telly case Tony seen him, reckoned he must of gone normal. It weren't even nine yet; the common
room was empty. The shit-coloured carpet been scrubbed so hard reckon Minimum Wage scrubbed her fingers off. It weren't even
shit-coloured properly no more, just a dishwater grey like she'd scrubbed all the colour out of it. There was a new pot plant
where the dead one been what Paolo had curled hisself under that day, when Pollyanna gone and the whole thing started.

I didn't hang about in the common room. To be honest, I started to feel a bit weird. Not like I got second thoughts or nothing
but you know what I'm saying, I could of slipped back so easy, just sat in the 'N' chair, smoked a quick fag, feet on the
table and before you knew it another thirteen years had gone by; it was like that the Dorothy Fish. I gone in the toilets,
gleaming they was, paper and everything. 'Alright, Fran,' I said, but she give me 'Fuck off.', 'Fuck off yourself,' I said.
'Stupid cow!' And again it felt like slipping back. Like Cinderella sworn at the ball. 'You'd better hope Poppy's up first,
girl,' I says, ' 'Cause you ain't going to last till midnight.'

As I come out the toilets what should I see but the great fat arse of Malvin Fowler, squeezed into a light grey suit and heading
off down the corridor. I watched as he gone past the staff room, the art room, the room where they held the one-to-ones; when
he stopped outside Dawn's wood workshop I thought he was going to go in, but it must be his ear was itching him 'cause he
stuck in a finger and wagged it about, checking the end, then wiping it clean on his trousers before going on.

When he got to the door of the theatre I seen him stop again, and this time he taken something out the pocket of his jacket.
I couldn't work out what it was at first; it was square and flat, 'bout the size of a visitor's pass. He held it up in front
of his face, started smoothing his hair this way and that, tilting his head to see if he'd covered his bald patch. Then he
checked his teeth, quick glance up his nose, a final once-over and slipped it back in his pocket. I held it until he gone
inside, then I practically pissed myself laughing. 'Come on Poppy,' I says out loud. 'Get a move on, you's missing the party.'

I hung around for fucking ever but Poppy never shown up. And neither did nobody else, come to that, not a flop not a dribbler,
nobody; I started to get a feeling something weren't right.

I couldn't of told you why it was I set off down the corridor, or why my heart was thumping so loud, or how come I found the
door so easy when Verna and Sue been looking for months. A seventh sense I s'pose is what you'd call it.

They's all sat around of this great shiny table. Fifteen of them maybe, all in suits and each with a little plastic sign tell
everyone who they is. There's Dr Diabolus sat at the head and Azazel and Clootie, one either side, and this woman I never
seen before with a mole on her chin and three black whiskers sprouted out of it. All down the middle there's jugs of water
and little stacks of glasses. And the lights from the ceiling bounce off of the water and ripple all over the table.

The reason the water's rippling is Tony Balaclava. Tony's sat with his back to me but I can see his face reflecting off of
the table. He's reeling off this list of figures: 'Self-harm down 600%; paranoia 850%.' And every time he says a number he
bangs on the table with his small tight fist, like an auctioneer's hammer. The woman with the mole sits nodding her head and
the doctors all sit nodding their heads and everyone's like nodding their heads and rippling into each other. 'Since the introduction
of our control, day-patient discharge rates have increased by 2450%, even allowing for seasonal variation.'

'Most impressive,' the woman says.

'The most tentative projection . . .'

'Excuse me?' I jumped round. Beverly Perfect was stood in the doorway, holding a tray of sangers. 'I'm not sure you're s'posed
to be in here.'

'Says who?' I says.

She looks at me. Ain't nothing rippling 'bout Beverly Perfect.

'Are you a patient?'

'Do I
look
like a dribbler?'

'I'll have to ask you to leave,' she says.

'I want to see Poppy. Where is she?' I says.

It was something about the look on her face. I seen it before. Twenty years before nearly. The TV room at Sunshine House.
'I'm sorry,' she said. 'I'm afraid . . .'

'No!' I shouted. 'No she ain't! She can't of done! There's nothing the fucking matter with her!' The shouting must of brought
everyone out 'cause suddenly there's Tony and Malvin pushing their way in the viewing room and somebody's grabbing my legs
from behind and Dr Azazel's got hold of my wrist. I can see the woman, the one with the mole, watching me from the doorway.

'You can't believe them!' I said to her. 'You can't! They never helped nobody! They set it up from the start,' I said, 'cause
I got it now, I finally got it, the whole fucking twisted picture. 'That's why they made me her guide,' I said. 'That's why
they picked me to show her around; they knew it would do her head in! And all for their fucking targets!' I shouted. 'All
for the Beacon of Excellence . . .'

'I'm afraid N's not very well,' said Tony.

I couldn't see the woman no more, had me pinned face down on the floor. But I managed to turn my head to the side to have
the last word, like my mum used to say, 'You always got to have the last word!' 'Let's just get one thing straight,' I shouted.
'I Am NOT a Dribbler! There is Nothing Whatever Wrong with my Head!' before they jabbed me up the arse.

47. How I remembered and how it done my head in

This ain't
The Wizard
of fucking
Oz
and
I
ain't Judy Garland, but when I woke up I
did,
I honestly thought it was all just a crazy dream. Fact the first thing I done was I leapt out of bed on account of the clock
shown 10.22 and I thought I was late for Poppy. But the moment I stood up I felt so dizzy I had to grab hold of the radiator
to stop myself falling over. My arse hurt as well and my legs was so stiff had to shuffle about like a penguin or something
holding the wall with one wing. 'Something ain't right, girl,' I says to myself as I sat on the toilet pissing pure tranquilliser.
'They slipped me some drugs,' I says to myself. 'They don't want me going up there, that's why! They's scared of what I got
to say! Well I ain't letting Poppy down now!' But as I got up I nearly fainted again, had to grab a hold of the sink this time
else I
would
of passed out, smashed my head on the bath, most probably broken my neck as well; they don't think of that when they give
you a jab up the arse. And that's when I seen my face in the mirror. I thought the mirror was shattered at first, run my fingers
over the glass to check. But it weren't the mirror was cracked it was me. My face was all criss-crossed and shattered with
lines where the dried-up foundation cracked through.

And then I remembered, not slowly but sudden like a huge fucking wave come crashing in and taken the whole world with it.

It weren't like I hadn't been there before. I mean, everyone I ever known, like my dad before I was even born, my nan - my
other nan too most probably, reckon I must have
had
one — then my mum when I was twelve years old, no goodbye or nothing, do you know what I'm saying and even Mandy down Sunshine
House who I had to go and
find
her. But with Poppy, I'd only known her six months, and it don't make no sense and I ain't saying it does, and she weren't
like flesh and blood or nothing but I reckon that hit me harder than
anyone.
Well, saying that, I don't want to do my mum down, but Poppy was different, do you know what I'm saying: Poppy weren't
s'posed
to do it; there weren't nothing wrong with her.

Them first few days, I don't mind admitting, I found myself pretty confused. I thought about it all the time, and the more
I thought, the more it done my head in. It got to the point where I didn't know nothing. I weren't even sure if she was dead
or alive or if she'd ever existed to start with. Even all of her stuff in my flat it didn't seem real no more. Like I'd walk
in the sitting room half-expecting the lot to of just disappeared.

But the one thing I carried everywhere, solid, cutting into my hand, the one thing convinced me I couldn't of dreamt her,
and that was the keys to her flat, the ones she give me.

The first time I gone round I only stayed like a minute. All the way there I was shitting myself, kept wanting to turn back
but something made me go on. It was night-time but a light was on as I gone past Saffra's school. I could see in this classroom,
a wall full of pictures on coloured sugar paper. I suddenly wondered where Saffra was. What if nobody told her, I thought.
What if she's sat in the flat on her own? It can't have been more than a week gone by but I seen her turned into skin and
bone like one of them little African kids you get on Comic Relief.

As I put my key in the lock downstairs, it made such a racket I thought I'd woke up the whole house. I stood there holding
the open door, like caught in the act, not daring to move. The entrance light shone in from outside, lit up a pile of old
papers and post laying on the floor by the wall. 'The Occupier, 43 Selby Street . . .' I kicked it aside and the next one
as well. Then before I know it I'm squatted down, one arm stretched behind me holding the door, while my other hand's rifling
its way through the mail, Thames Water envelopes, credit-card deals, faster and faster, more and more panicked till all of
a sudden there she is: 'Miss Poppy Shakespeare', black on white, and it jolts me so bad I fall off of my balance, the door
slams behind as my arse hits the floor, and I'm froze stock still on the cold hall tiles, heart thumping, clutching the envelope,
a 0% finance offer from Lombard Direct.

After all that, the flat was a bit of a come-down. I don't know what I expected to find but it weren't there that first visit.
All it was was a bunch of empty rooms. A couple of coats hung up in the hall, the sitting room bare except for the sofa and
the TV with the video blinking beneath it. I don't know if someone been in and cleaned up but everything looked all dusted
and hoovered made it seem even more emptier. The fridge been switched off and the door held open with a neatly folded tea
towel. On the drainer two mugs stood upside down with the cafetiere besides them.

I tried to imagine her washing up before she gone and done it. I couldn't believe she gone and done it. I couldn't believe
I was stood in her flat and Poppy was dead, do you know what I'm saying. I just couldn't get my head round it. It didn't make
no sense.

When I left I was certain I wouldn't be going back. I had a quick glance in Saffra's room just to check she weren't laying
there starving or nothing but it all been packed up, or most of it. There was still a few clothes stacked up on the shelves,
her blue school sweatshirt draped over the chair. As I shut the front door I got this urge to drop the keys back through.
Like over and done, do you know what I'm saying; I ain't even sure why I didn't but I never.

The next night I gone back, and the next night too, and the night after
that
and all. I become like a burglar laying in all day, waiting till everyone gone to bed. You could
hear
it almost, 10 p.m., all over the Darkwoods the sound of pills, popping out of blister packs, rattling out of bottles as everyone
downed their meds. Half an hour later out I gone, hurrying down to Borderline Road, hood up and head down, past flat after
flat of snoring drugged-out dribblers. I couldn't of said why I kept going back. It felt weird to be honest, like pervy almost;
I didn't want no one to know. Sometimes as I was walking down Sniff Street — I always walked, never taken the bus - I'd suddenly
stop, feel my face turn red, like really boiling red-hot red, and I'd stand there for several seconds unable to move.

I think what it was, I was looking for something; I didn't know what, do you know what I'm saying, and most probably it weren't
even
in
Poppy's flat, but I didn't got nowhere else, so I had to keep trying. My third, or maybe my fourth night there, I was sat
on the bed in Saffra's room, not nosing or nothing, just like sat on the bed, when I noticed these couple of exercise books
on the little shelf next to her desk. There was other books too, like reading books and a book about
Animal Hospital,
'Love Grandma and Grampy' it said inside, but the exercise books was what caught my eye. They was blue and yellow, Maths and
English, Saffra Shakespeare, Ruby Class, Year Two. And they weren't hardly started — fact the Maths
weren't
started and the English was only like five pages in, two pages of spelling and a bit of a story, like once upon a time sort
of thing, weren't much of a writer to tell you the honest truth.

Seeing them books made me think of Mr Pettifer. And I'd almost forgot Mr Pettifer but now I remembered him really clear and
my fox poem too and my highly commended and what he'd said, not bragging I mean, just like what he said: 'There's a poet in
you, N.' And I taken the books and a pencil as well, gone back through the kitchen and sat myself down at the table, same
table as where I'm sat writing this, same table where me and Poppy was sat when we filled out the MAD money forms. And not
thinking or nothing, do you know what I'm saying, I just started to write it all down. And never stopped neither, not even
once, or only to grab like a couple of Penguins or have a look round find other stuff to write on.