I Came to Find a Girl (18 page)

“
Aftermath
,” he announced. The lights were dimmed, the screen flickered and there it was: that hotel room with its panelled walls, floor-to-ceiling windows and ornate cornicing. The camera felt its way round the room picking up on moved or used items as if it were recording evidence at a crime scene: the discarded champagne flutes, a barely touched bottle of Cristal and into the bathroom where a cream towel lay crumpled on the limestone floor alongside a brown one. There was a designer egg-shaped bath and taps and a designer radiator. The camera swung back round into the room and slowly closed in on the bed: a satin bedspread, dishevelled sheets, possibly a stain and then moving down onto the floor, discarded underwear –
my discarded underwear
.

A strangled cough escaped my throat, and I couldn’t stop. I hid my face within the neck of my jumper as a few people turned to look at me. It made it worse.

There was no mistaking them, my pale pink cotton knickers and mismatched purple bra.
God, why am I so slovenly about lingerie?
My fists clenched tight as I tried to look anywhere but at Flood.
When will it end? Get on with it. Stop.

The camera took off again, and then a close-up – the bedside table, a twenty-pound note...
So, I’m a whore – is that it?
He had shown I was a whore, so I was a whore, and a particularly cheap one at that. It began again, focusing back on the panelled walls. The film was looped as if this exchange were never-ending.

Emily had her hand up.
 

“Yes, the girl with the long hair,” Flood said, and Emily proceeded to completely fawn over him saying some rubbish about how intriguing it all was “and at the same time so decadent”.

Flood nodded. “It’s always interesting to hear interpretations of your work.” Another few questions, some effusive thanks from Mike Manners and it was over.

“Hide behind me,” Kelly said, as she got up and shuffled along the row before stepping out onto the steps with everyone else. I clung to the back of Kelly’s jumper as we began our descent.

Flood was down at the front surrounded by young admirers looking for individual guidance on how to find success in the art world. For a moment I thought he hadn’t seen me but a quick flick of his eyes let me know that he knew I was there. As I drew closer, at the most opportune moment, he turned and said, “Remember?”

I kept moving. It was all I could do.
Get out of there
.

Twenty-eight

Interior, Maciek’s cab: Flood films a council estate, Sixties prefabs that lead to back-to-back Victorian terraces. There’s a gang of teenage boys, a lone middle-aged woman in high heels and a man walking two small dogs.

Maciek glances in the rear-view mirror. “I have to tell you – it is the last time.”

“What’s that?” Flood isn’t listening.

“I move to London.”

“London?” Flood sounds irritated.

“My wife – she go to University College.”

“She works in a coffee shop, right?”

“She study law in Poland. Now she start once more in London. We find house-share in Acton.”

“You’re kidding me? This is terrible news.”

“There are plenty cab drivers – you say so yourself.”

“We have an understanding, you know the ropes...”

“I save for flat deposit, now we go.”

“You have no idea how heavily you have rained on my parade.” Flood sighs. “Head to Forest Fields, the usual place – they’re expecting me.”

Maciek glances repeatedly in his rear-view mirror.

“Is something up?” Flood asks.

“Not every day you have famous artist in back of your cab. My wife – she saw you in newspaper. You are up for big prize.”

“That’s right, the biggest art prize in Britain.”

“There was picture in the paper also – I recognised the young waitress.”

I know what the driver is referring to – a still from
Aftermath
, shot from the neck down and reprinted in the press. What a shit. But how did the cab driver know it was me?

Flood films the university buildings, the terraced housing of Forest Fields and the crossroads with the waiting wall
– my old street.

“Sadie, baby,” Flood calls out from the car window. “Slow down, Maciek.”

Sadie (Girl-with-braids), dressed in a short egg-yolk yellow skirt and low-cut T-shirt with cherries on the front, keeps walking.

“Sadie – the only sunshine in my life, jump in, sexy girl.”

“Do one – fucking pervert.”

“Don’t be like that. You know you can’t say ‘no’. I pay too well for that.”

“You’re not filming me no more, I’m not having it. Fuck off.”

“You gave me a bead from your hair – that means something.”

“Just fuck off and leave me alone, I’m busy.”

“Don’t look busy. How much you made today – enough for your gear or are you feeling a little jittery right now?”

Sadie shoots him a look, but says nothing.

“I got candy – enough for two. Don’t be silly now.”

Sadie bites her thumbnail and looks around.

“OK, Maciek, she doesn’t want to know, drive on.”

“Wait,” Sadie says. “What you offering?”

Twenty-nine

The call to the helpline did help. Drugged date rape happens – ‘Julie Walters’ confirmed that. I’d call again when I next had the house to myself. I’d tell her everything. And so, over and over, I rehearsed my story, determined to make it clear that I was a sensible person who had the misfortune to be momentarily duped. In the meantime, I did as ‘Julie Walters’ advised.

There were orange chairs at the STD clinic – the stackable, plastic type. They’re everywhere: doctor’s waiting rooms, the dentist and even in museums. Those chairs are institutionalised and whenever I see them I think of the time I sat, waiting to hear whether or not I was going to die prematurely of HIV/AIDS.

The waiting room posters were apocalyptic and hard to ignore. ‘Been given any little gifts recently?’ said one, with a picture of a purple Care Bear-type teddy with Chlamydia embroidered across its belly. ‘HIV hasn’t gone away,’ warned another.
I know that. I’m here, aren’t I?

I tried going cross-eyed, letting the colours and words blur into each other in the hope that would make the threat go away. It was ridiculous me being there. An AIDS test was not supposed to be part of my life.

“Mia Jackson,” the receptionist called out in a girlish voice. “The counsellor will see you now – second door on the right.”

Counsellor? I don’t want counselling.

Second door on the right, and, oh no, just my luck, a great beauty’s sitting there, staring at her computer.

“Take a seat,” this young Elizabeth Taylor lookalike said. Glancing at her raven hair, flawless skin and lilac-blue eyes I felt grubby.
Did she forget to go to Hollywood?
She was Irish, and probably on a mission to turn bad girls good and get them on the born-again virgin train. I had seen a programme about that. Out in Texas somewhere – all these young kids taking purity pledges to remain virgins till they wed. But if they should happen to be human and fall off the sexual wagon then they could re-zip their legs and proclaim themselves secondary virgins – very convenient.

“It wasn’t my fault.” I didn’t want Elizabeth Taylor to get the wrong idea.

“We’re not here to judge you or anyone else,” Elizabeth Taylor said.

“Someone spiked my drink. I don’t even know what happened.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” she said.

I read her name badge: Dr Ailene Shaw – not so glamorous after all.

“We’re seeing more of this,” she said. “You’ve done the right thing by coming in. When did the incident occur?”

I told her the date.

“Let me see now. Right, because it was a while ago you’ll only need the one test. HIV is a virus, so if a person has contracted it, they will produce antibodies. This takes between three and six months. The HIV test looks for antibodies. We do a rapid HIV test here, which means you’ll get your result back in less than half an hour.” Dr Shaw went on to explain what would happen if my result were positive. I nodded politely at intervals but my mind was drifting. I was banking on a negative.

“Now, if you’d like to follow me, I’ll take you through to the nurse.”

Nurse – not even a doctor for this test that could change my life?

Nurse Battleaxe was more what I had expected: old, spindly and abrupt in a no-nonsense seen-it-all-before way. “You’ve no veins,” she said, inspecting my arm.

“I won’t bother taking up heroin then.”

The nurse ignored that comment. “I’ll try here.” She looked at my blank skin – my veins buried so deep it was like staring at the sea looking for the Channel Tunnel. Finally she found a spot and I looked away as she pushed the needle in and a dull ache ensued as a vial of my blood drained away.

Half an hour to wait – there was a cafeteria somewhere if only I could find it. I wandered through the hospital corridors – more shades of asylum, just like the police station – overcooked peas on the lower half of the wall with old string vest above. Seasons Café meanwhile had chairs and tables screwed to the floor like a young offenders’ institution. There was a bloke with Down’s syndrome sitting near the exit sucking loudly on a pink milkshake.

I took a tray, ordered a comforting plate of chips and a chunky flapjack and latte and sat at the other end until I spotted a CCTV camera positioned overhead in the corner. I swapped seats, turning my back on it, trying my best not to think about that shitty film
Aftermath. If Flood filmed that, what else has he got?
I pushed the remainder of my chips away, imagining myself on all fours; face to the wall, as Flood sat on some designer chair, beer in one hand, prick in the other, as he watched my drugged, forced performance on his forty-two-inch plasma screen.
What an arsehole.
And then it came to me –
Somehow, I’m going to make that creep pay.

I wasn’t dying as it turned out and I left the clinic feeling like I’d got away with something. I caught the bus home, and sat at the back away from everyone else, happy to look back at the hospital with its brown-brick brutalist exterior.
I’m okay. Now all I have to do is get my work back on track.

I had sketched three large self-portraits on A1-size stretched canvases. I completed them at home with my door locked – each incorporated my naked torso, onto which I daubed layers of thick acrylic paint in crimson and Prussian blue. The facial features were obscured and weren’t obviously me. And then onto each canvas I fixed a graphically correct replica of a section of a Rohypnol packet. On the first, the Rohypnol packet covered the eyes, on the second each ear and the third the mouth. See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil. I needed a title.
Date Rape
seemed too obvious, as did
Sex Crime
.
Three Monkeys
? No.

Once again I bribed Slug to help me down the hill. Finally, I had something tangible to hang in my space. I cleared away the fashion magazine cuttings, knocked three nails into the partition and hung my triptych. I had made it in time. The two Mikes were doing the rounds. To the right, I could see Mike Manners’ cowboy boots tapping away in Graham’s space. We had individual crits now it was our third year. The ritual group humiliation had subsided. After ten minutes or so, Mike Cherry and Mike Manners finished with Graham and made their way over.

Mike Cherry sighed. “Mia, what have we here?” They stood in silent contemplation. “Is there a title?” Mike Cherry asked.

“
Modern Romance
,” I said.

Mike Manners gave a little nod and went up close, peering into each of the canvases in turn. “Can you elaborate?”
 

“It’s what it feels like for a girl,” I said.

“Go on,” Mike Manners said.

“It’s like the Sixties gave us the sexual revolution and now we have the fallout. I want to address whether sexual freedom has left women too vulnerable.”

“Good, keep it up,” Mike Cherry said.

Did I hear that right?

“I didn’t realise you were capable of such fine work,” Mike Manners said.

“I agree,” Mike Cherry said. “Bravo, more of this please.”
 

‘Julie Walters’ wasn’t there the next time I called. Someone else answered the phone. “I’ll call back some other time,” I told the alien voice. This other person couldn’t help. Julie and me had something going. I couldn’t just switch to someone else: there’d be too much to explain and I couldn’t go through all that again. I thought about calling back to ask when Julie would next be in, but I could hardly call her Julie Walters. I’d have to sit tight and try to help myself.

I decided to wash early and then watch TV in my room, hoping for something to take my mind off things but everything seemed to relate to death and murder:
EastEnders
,
Holby City
and
Midsomer Murders
, just for a start. Perhaps I’d never be able to watch anything to do with murder ever again?

Jenny’s brutal death had made the world a different, harsher place. I considered incorporating that loss into my work.
Disappearing Friend
? I could do some mock-up CCTV pictures and have a girl frozen in time leaving a building then in photos two, three and four she would fade to nothing.

Did it have to be Jenny or could it be any woman? Was it wrong place, wrong time or did her killer seek her out? I went through everyone at the restaurant, questioning whether they could harbour twisted fantasies or be capable of some heat of the moment mistake. Jason could certainly be hot-headed but all his reactions to her loss and murder seemed genuine.
I like Jason. It can’t be him
. Warren? He was a fool whose fantasies probably didn’t go beyond Page Three of
The Sun
. While Clint was more obsessed with indie bands than any girl and Duncan was loved-up with his Japanese girlfriend
. No, it’s not anyone from Saviour’s.

When Jenny first went missing, the police had mentioned her interest in the Internet. Perhaps she’d met some dangerous stranger from a chat room? It didn’t seem like something Jenny would do and besides why would she? She’d just started seeing Jason. Then there was the running club. Was there an oddball there? Someone who saw her every week in her shorts and T-shirt and wanted to do her harm? And what of the local attacks that had been going on for nearly a year? There was a murderer who preyed on prostitutes; could he have targeted someone else?