Gone Bad — Excerpt from 'Let's Dance'
‘Jasmine. JASMINE! What you doing, girl?’
What am I doing? You might well ask. I take a last look at the cynical young woman in the bathroom mirror, give my nose a quick rub and plaster a smile on my face. Tonight I’m Jasmine, and Jasmine is compliant and smiles a lot.
‘Come on back to bed.’ Petulant. Impatient. The bottom lip would be out.
‘Coming.’ Still smiling I walk into the bedroom and there he is, laying back against the pillows, looking like the handywork of a psychotic Picasso. I keep the smile in place and slide in beside him, all psyched up to give another Oscar-winning performance.
It’s an inescapable fact that when you live the life I do, you get to fuck some really ugly men.
Take Matthew, the dickless wonder huffing and puffing his way to ecstasy on top of me right now. He’s short and skinny, pot-bellied, growing a forehead, and his face is … just not quite right. Things are kind of misshapen and out of line. The worst thing about him is his hands, small and soft in exactly the way a man’s hands shouldn’t be.
He insisted on doing that creepy dancing thing earlier. Again. Christ, I hate that. I decide it’s payback time, sink my teeth into his neck and bite down hard.
‘Fuck’s sake!’ he grunts, pain cutting him, stopping him mid-stroke.
‘Sorry,’ I whisper. ‘It’s just …’
But he’s off again, so I don’t need to finish. Just as well, I’ve no idea what I would have said.
Matthew’s soft as shite, easy to hurt because he can’t take pain. Teeth, claws, all come in useful when I want to even things up a bit. He thinks it’s passion that makes me tear him up. He’s buggered by it. On the one hand, he loves having scars to show off to the lads with, proof of his ability to drive Jasmine wild. On the other, he bubbles like a girlie when it gets too real. Soft git.
Matthew knows me as Jasmine. Other men have known me variously as Brandy, Lily, Daisy and Heather. And Krystal. Let’s not forget Krystal, the first in this long, sorry line of names, none of which my mother would recognise. Mind you, after this many years, I doubt she’d recognise my face, either.
She was fourteen when she had me. I was eight when she left. I caught her sneaking out of her parents’ house in the dead of night, clutching a bin bag full of clothes and slap.
‘Shhhh!’ she urged, putting a finger to her lips. ‘Don’t wake them up. They wouldn’t understand.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘I know.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘Away.’
‘Who with?’
‘A friend.’
‘How long for?’
Something that might have been guilt flickered uncertainly across her face. Embarrassed to be found in such unfamiliar territory, it skulked off into a dark corner and hid. She dropped the bin bag and knelt down to my level.
‘For good. You’ll be okay. Your nana and your granddad will look after you.’
I shrugged. ‘I suppose.’ I looked down at my grubby, eyeless bunny slippers then back at her. ‘What should I do?’
She checked her watch. ‘Don’t frown so much, you’ll get lines. Men don’t like girls who look serious. Look after yourself when you turn thirteen. Start using moisturiser. And always be sure you get this bit.’ She put her finger between her eyes, at the top of her nose. ‘Otherwise you get kind of a cornflake there, especially in the winter.’
Then she stood up, picked up her makeshift suitcase, turned away from me and crept out of the house. I watched from the window and saw her climb into a silver car parked further up the street. She didn’t look back.
She was right about the cornflake, though.
I had some things to remember her by. A strip of photographs taken in the booth in the railway station one day when she’d taken me to town. We went to Wilkinson’s and she bought me a colouring book and a big pack of felt tipped pens, then to McDonald’s, where we ate burgers and fries, chased them down with cola, more ice than pop in the cartons, then into the station, where we piled into the booth and had our pictures taken.
I was on her knee clutching the Wilkinson’s bag, both of us grinning like idiots, pulling faces, sticking our tongues out. You’d have thought we hadn’t a care in the world. Mind you, back then I didn’t.
She left a couple of books behind, trite Danielle Steel romances, contrived adversity and fake happy-ever-after endings. Also a big pile of magazines, a small one of records and an old hi-fi on a stand. It had seen better days. The plastic lid was broken and one of the speaker cones was bashed in, but it worked. Crucially, the turntable ran at the right speed. It meant I could listen to her records. There was a much better set up downstairs, mind, but Mum hadn’t been allowed to touch it and I didn’t reckon I’d ever be allowed to either. It was Granddad’s. He didn’t share.
I played all her records at first, over and over, just because she’d left them. The Human League, Prince, the Police … After a while, I tended to play just three that I don’t think were hers at all. I think one of her old boyfriends had left them, probably Scotty. He was nice. He bought me comics and he played the guitar. I was sad when they broke up. The big three were the Stooges, the MC5, and the Ramones.
I’ve still got all those albums, every one, even the Human League. Whatever’s happened, wherever I’ve been, I’ve managed to hang on to them. And I still play them.
Back then, I wore her headphones to listen so I didn’t disturb Nana and Granddad. I could smell her on them at first, hairspray and chewing gum, Charlie perfume and menthol fags, but after a while that wore off. Her folks were mightily pissed off that she’d done a runner and saddled them with me. I did my best to be no trouble.
What am I doing? You might well ask. I take a last look at the cynical young woman in the bathroom mirror, give my nose a quick rub and plaster a smile on my face. Tonight I’m Jasmine, and Jasmine is compliant and smiles a lot.
‘Come on back to bed.’ Petulant. Impatient. The bottom lip would be out.
‘Coming.’ Still smiling I walk into the bedroom and there he is, laying back against the pillows, looking like the handywork of a psychotic Picasso. I keep the smile in place and slide in beside him, all psyched up to give another Oscar-winning performance.
It’s an inescapable fact that when you live the life I do, you get to fuck some really ugly men.
Take Matthew, the dickless wonder huffing and puffing his way to ecstasy on top of me right now. He’s short and skinny, pot-bellied, growing a forehead, and his face is … just not quite right. Things are kind of misshapen and out of line. The worst thing about him is his hands, small and soft in exactly the way a man’s hands shouldn’t be.
He insisted on doing that creepy dancing thing earlier. Again. Christ, I hate that. I decide it’s payback time, sink my teeth into his neck and bite down hard.
‘Fuck’s sake!’ he grunts, pain cutting him, stopping him mid-stroke.
‘Sorry,’ I whisper. ‘It’s just …’
But he’s off again, so I don’t need to finish. Just as well, I’ve no idea what I would have said.
Matthew’s soft as shite, easy to hurt because he can’t take pain. Teeth, claws, all come in useful when I want to even things up a bit. He thinks it’s passion that makes me tear him up. He’s buggered by it. On the one hand, he loves having scars to show off to the lads with, proof of his ability to drive Jasmine wild. On the other, he bubbles like a girlie when it gets too real. Soft git.
Matthew knows me as Jasmine. Other men have known me variously as Brandy, Lily, Daisy and Heather. And Krystal. Let’s not forget Krystal, the first in this long, sorry line of names, none of which my mother would recognise. Mind you, after this many years, I doubt she’d recognise my face, either.
She was fourteen when she had me. I was eight when she left. I caught her sneaking out of her parents’ house in the dead of night, clutching a bin bag full of clothes and slap.
‘Shhhh!’ she urged, putting a finger to her lips. ‘Don’t wake them up. They wouldn’t understand.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘I know.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘Away.’
‘Who with?’
‘A friend.’
‘How long for?’
Something that might have been guilt flickered uncertainly across her face. Embarrassed to be found in such unfamiliar territory, it skulked off into a dark corner and hid. She dropped the bin bag and knelt down to my level.
‘For good. You’ll be okay. Your nana and your granddad will look after you.’
I shrugged. ‘I suppose.’ I looked down at my grubby, eyeless bunny slippers then back at her. ‘What should I do?’
She checked her watch. ‘Don’t frown so much, you’ll get lines. Men don’t like girls who look serious. Look after yourself when you turn thirteen. Start using moisturiser. And always be sure you get this bit.’ She put her finger between her eyes, at the top of her nose. ‘Otherwise you get kind of a cornflake there, especially in the winter.’
Then she stood up, picked up her makeshift suitcase, turned away from me and crept out of the house. I watched from the window and saw her climb into a silver car parked further up the street. She didn’t look back.
She was right about the cornflake, though.
I had some things to remember her by. A strip of photographs taken in the booth in the railway station one day when she’d taken me to town. We went to Wilkinson’s and she bought me a colouring book and a big pack of felt tipped pens, then to McDonald’s, where we ate burgers and fries, chased them down with cola, more ice than pop in the cartons, then into the station, where we piled into the booth and had our pictures taken.
I was on her knee clutching the Wilkinson’s bag, both of us grinning like idiots, pulling faces, sticking our tongues out. You’d have thought we hadn’t a care in the world. Mind you, back then I didn’t.
She left a couple of books behind, trite Danielle Steel romances, contrived adversity and fake happy-ever-after endings. Also a big pile of magazines, a small one of records and an old hi-fi on a stand. It had seen better days. The plastic lid was broken and one of the speaker cones was bashed in, but it worked. Crucially, the turntable ran at the right speed. It meant I could listen to her records. There was a much better set up downstairs, mind, but Mum hadn’t been allowed to touch it and I didn’t reckon I’d ever be allowed to either. It was Granddad’s. He didn’t share.
I played all her records at first, over and over, just because she’d left them. The Human League, Prince, the Police … After a while, I tended to play just three that I don’t think were hers at all. I think one of her old boyfriends had left them, probably Scotty. He was nice. He bought me comics and he played the guitar. I was sad when they broke up. The big three were the Stooges, the MC5, and the Ramones.
I’ve still got all those albums, every one, even the Human League. Whatever’s happened, wherever I’ve been, I’ve managed to hang on to them. And I still play them.
Back then, I wore her headphones to listen so I didn’t disturb Nana and Granddad. I could smell her on them at first, hairspray and chewing gum, Charlie perfume and menthol fags, but after a while that wore off. Her folks were mightily pissed off that she’d done a runner and saddled them with me. I did my best to be no trouble.