Around Here

I watch the girls congregating on the pavement outside the working men's club. Paint peeling smiles under overcast skies and even more overcast eyes. Many of them scratch at their arms, a sign of them being a user. Not that they'd want anything to do with me, even if I had the inclination and money. I don't blame them, I'm damaged goods. They can be cleaned up, made respectable.

The diseases offered on this street menu didn't stop a steady stream of cars from stopping, returning within ten minutes. Each man believing he was the first she'd had that day, had cleaned herself up just for him. That's what counts for romance around here.

One of them points at the painted sign of the club and says they should change it to working girls club. They giggle, the gaggle. Spit on the floor, walk away towards the disused factories where the lads hang out and sniff glue. It's Bob's turn to buy.

I kick my beaten shoes through leaves, the ripped hems of my jeans floating out like the arms of anenomes sitting on the sea floor, strands of hope; like heart strings. My presence scatters the residents from their manicured lawns, content to watch me pass from behind the safety of twitching curtains. Only when my progress could be accounted for by a friend from further down the road did they stop hiding, did they let their children out to play, resume life as they knew it. They recognise the death I carry around, as if I've made cancer and carry it around in my pocket, ready to fling it at innocent passers-by. Some of them weren't here when it happened; perhaps they read it on the microfiche at the library, perhaps neighbourly people set them straight, made sure I was pointed out. Whatever the reason, they're doing me a favour.

The rain stops. I stop. The world appears to stop with me. Time stands still for a moment, as if the sky took a photograph, settled on a memory. Then I carry on walking.

I decide to cut through the centre of town, to maybe take in a burger bar that doesn't have a queue. That was my mistake. Two of them, waiting. I don't bother to run, it makes no difference; if not today then another day is sure to come around. As sure as death and taxes.

Curled in a ball, waiting, biding my time. I feel them yank me to my feet, march me to their car. The bruises from the truncheons are beginning to show. One moves the CCTV camera back round, gets on the radio, makes adjustments. I'm handcuffed. Roughly pushed into the back of a vehicle. Lying, twisted. Agony. Humiliation. It's warm in the car, something I'm grateful for. I don't let on, though.

We drive. I can't see where we are going, my face pushed into the seat and my body collapsing into the footwell. I only listen.

The conversation is the same: who is he then? what's he done? Is it the one so-and-so told me about?

The answers come quickly, out with them like bitter foods as soon as they touch tongue. He's the one what killed them little kids, he's the one that's a bit soft in the head - a cackle of laughter, a cough...

that why we need to keep kicking it? we need to toughen it up.

Another cough - yes, he's scum.

But they don't get the dreams, the visions. They don't hear the screams, the pleading. They don't smell, they don't smell...

You know how it happened, Bob? One asks.

I wasn't there, but Joey told me it was horrible. Burning bodies, everywhere. The smell he said was like a barbecue. He said it made him both hungry and nauseous at the same time. They paid him thousands in sick pay. Man was off for months, haunted he said. Said this fucker in the back was responsible, admitted to it immediately. Held up his hands and told Joey to take him away. Well, we did. State said he wasn't fit to be tried, let him go into a fucking hospital.

Jeez, they really do that? What'd the parents say?

That's just it, they agreed, said it was some kind of accident. Nothing malicious. Well, we don't believe that, which is why we often take our friend here for a ride, remind him that we know he's guilty.

Murderer. They scream it at me as they rain blows down on my back. I'm unable to protect myself.

It's not true. I was a witness. The bus, too fast. It's a blur, now. I was in a car, as a passenger. My friend was taking me back to my school. A school for special people. I was special. Next I know I'm in the road, holding up my arms, looking for help. They cuffed me. I thought I must be in the wrong. That's what the dreams say.

Some times I wonder if I'm wrong. Occasionally, I think I deserve it. The punishment.

They take me back to the wasteland. I hear the girls calling, whistling.

The car stops. Doors open, slam. I hear suckling sounds, groans. I try to blot it out. Seconds last for a long time. I feel sick.

And then the door nearest my head is wrenched open, I'm dragged by my hair out onto the ground. I'm left on the floor as the car pulls away. Stiletto heels kick at me,

fuck off, you're ruining our business

did you smell him? Ugh, stunk worse than the sweat on that cop's cock.

They giggle, the gaggle.

I crawl away and watch them. I watch the girls congregating on the pavement outside the working men's club. I wish they'd like me. I wish I could be one of their friends. I wish I could be someone's friend.