Lolito (2 page)

Carrie Machell is in a relationship.

I have won a free Macbook.

I take the sock off my dick and throw it at Amundsen.

2

Elliot and Hattie are kneeling on the pavement, rubbing Quiniderm into each other’s cheeks. Aslam’s leaning against the street sign. It’s cold. He’s holding a two-litre bottle of Tesco cola and a half-empty bottle of Captain Morgan’s, looking at something in the sky. The blurry orange streetlight overhead lights up his face and puts his reflection in a puddle between his feet. He flaps his arms.

‘Argh,’ I shout.

‘Bah,’ Aslam shouts.

‘Etgar,’ Hattie says.

‘Hi.’

‘Hold this,’ Aslam says. I take the bottle of cola out of his hands and sit crosslegged on the tarmac, wedging
it in the triangle of my legs. I unscrew the cap and grip it while he pours in rum. It splashes my hands. I spit and rub them on my jumper. Hattie crouches down and reaches into her bag.

‘Etgar,’ she says. ‘I got you something.’ She passes me a lump of yellow metal.

‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘What is it?’

Aslam yawns and rum runs down my finger gaps.

‘It’s a knuckleduster. You put your fingers through the holes.’

‘Do you have Parkinson’s?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘I meant Aslam.’

‘Oh. Anyway, I thought you could use it on Aaron. Or wave it around in front of him until he wets himself. I remember during that carol concert when that girl wet herself doing a solo at the front in the church and you could see her trousers go dark and then there was wee on the floor. It was amazing.’

‘Thanks, Hattie,’ I say. ‘That’s thoughtful.’

‘Why do you have a knuckleduster?’ Aslam says.

‘It’s shiny. I like it. Elliot bought it for me. He said I was so pretty that everyone would try to rape me at sixth form.’ Elliot’s the only one of us who isn’t going to go to sixth form in the town next door to ours. He’s going to work as a plumber with his dad, who smells of orange peel and cries when football players sing the national anthem before matches. ‘He says I should be
prepared to fight them or kill them and he didn’t want me to ruin my knuckles because they are the nicest knuckles he has ever seen.’

‘Gay,’ Aslam says. Gay doesn’t mean homosexual. It means something else. It means sincerely saying the kind of things our parents would say.

‘Sorry for being nice.’

‘Gay.’

The rest of the rum disappears into the coke and I screw on the lid and mix everything up. We pass it around.

‘Have you ever hit anyone before?’ Hattie says. ‘Loads,’ I say. ‘Once. No. Never. Zero times. Have you?’

‘All the time. I hit Ella last week because she said I use Brillo pads for tampons, which I don’t. It’s easy. The secret is to pretend they’re your dad.’

‘I like my dad.’

‘Someone you hate.’

‘I don’t hate anyone.’

‘Then you can’t really expect to be punching people.’ ‘He has to,’ Aslam says, putting his hand on my shoulder and grinning. ‘If he doesn’t, everyone will start fingering Alice.’ I roll a cigarette and light it, feeling unsure and insubstantial. Aslam makes a cupping motion with one hand. ‘Feeding his pony.’

*

A girl I almost recognise opens the door of the house on Huntsdon Street. She has cropped blonde hair and is smiling and holding a bottle of WKD blue against her chest. She tells us to come inside. We come inside. People are scattered throughout the house. People are sitting and standing and talking and kissing. We drop onto an empty island of carpet next to the electric fire.

‘There,’ Aslam says, pointing at a group of three boys sat on the stairs. ‘That’s him. The middle one.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Facebook.’

‘Is it really definitely him?’ The boy is wearing stonewashed jeans and a white v-neck so low that one of his nipples is visible. There is a tribal tattoo around his forearm. ‘Like definitely is it that one?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Doesn’t he look a bit tall?’ He looks extremely tall. The boy on his left looks like a tiger and the boy on his right looks like an aubergine. ‘He has an actual tattoo.’

‘He’s probably a fucking pussy. I’ll take his knees and you take his face.’

‘I think we should talk to him first.’

‘And say what? Thanks for raping my girlfriend. Fuck that. Let’s smash his back doors in.’ A girl to our right wrinkles her nose and raises an eyebrow. I try to smile but my face fails to make the right shape.

‘Aslam, that means bumming someone.’

‘I thought it meant punching the back of their head.’

‘Why would it mean that?’

‘I don’t know. Just go. I’ve got your back.’

‘I’m scared.’

‘Just drink.’

‘Fine.’

We take turns downing as much of the rum and coke as we can. It makes my belly pinch itself a little but I get more brave. When we are drinking I feel like my body becomes more solid and I am less likely to float into the sky or sink into the ground or disappear into nothing.

More people arrive and the house shrinks. It gets loud. Someone tells James that there’s nitrous upstairs and he takes Hattie and they go.

‘Ready?’ Aslam says. We’ve been watching two people flirt with insults by the TV.

‘Yeah.’

I stand up and fall to one side slightly.

‘No,’ I say.

‘Yeah,’ he says.

I right myself. My chest feels wobbly. I dig my fingernails into my hands until it feels like they’re going to go through the skin. It takes twelve steps to reach the staircase. Twelve tiny steps. When I arrive, I panic. I stare at Aaron Mathews’ shoes. They are white-and-blue Nikes. They are big. They are bigger feet than anyone I know has. I should make new friends. I should make new friends with atypically large feet and intimidating physiques.

‘Hi there,’ I say. I don’t understand why I said ‘hi there’. I have never said ‘hi there’ before in my life.

‘Hi there,’ Aaron Mathews says. He’s smiling. He looks at his friends and his friends look at him and they all do little laughs. I think about my bed and how I don’t understand why I’m not in it.

‘Hi there,’ I say again. I have no idea why I’m saying ‘hi there’. He should hit me. I would hit me. ‘Nice shoes,’ I say. ‘Very cool shoes.’ A reason I don’t like talking to strangers is because I find it difficult to simulate casual chat with them. Sometimes I memorise sporting news for use while standing next to men at urinals, checkouts and bus stops. Or quotes from films to fill in silences. But nothing seems relevant to now.

‘Are you taking the piss?’

‘No way, hoselay.’

‘What?’

‘Um.’

‘Is there something you want?’

‘Are you Aaron Mathews?’ I say. I look up at his face and his face is scary so I look back at his shoes. His nice shoes. His massive, nice shoes. I wish his face was a pair of nice shoes that I could put my feet into and jump up and down in until he apologised for what he did.

‘Yes.’

‘Great,’ I say. ‘That’s great. Do you know Alice Calloway?’

He laughs. ‘Yeah,’ he says.

‘Did you rape her with kisses at all?’

‘Did I what?’

‘Did you force yourself on her?’

He laughs more. ‘Forced her off me. Little slut.’ He winks at one of his friends.

‘Great,’ I say. ‘Thank you loads.’ I turn and shut my eyes as hard as I can. I want them to stitch themselves shut. I try to walk back to Aslam with my eyes still closed. Laughing happens behind me. Someone shouts at me to fuck off. I think, fuck off telling me to fuck off. I think, where do I fuck off to? My body is as heavy as one hundred bodies. I feel like a magician who has accidentally sawed his assistant in half. I want to disappear.

‘What the fuck happened?’ Aslam says.

‘He says she forced herself on him. I’m going to go.’

‘Fuck that,’ he says. ‘He wouldn’t admit to raping her. It’s not cool any more. Go back and punch him.’

‘I think I’m going home.’

‘Fucking go back to him.’ He stands up and pulls me up and pushes me forward. I hold my sleeve against my eyes. I look behind me. Aslam’s leaning on the mantelpiece with his arms crossed, nodding wildly. I step forward. I have no idea what I’m doing. I’m a suicide bomber. I don’t believe in anything.

I walk back to the stairs and stare at Aaron Mathews and lift up my hand. It has become extremely heavy. It
doesn’t feel or look like my hand. Is it my hand? Probably, yes. I wonder where I should put my hand on his face. In films, people punch other people in their eyes. I don’t want him to go blind, though. That would be terrible. He would sue me and I would have to give him all of the money I got after Nan died. I should punch him in the forehead. I should say something intimidating and then knock him out.

‘You better get ready,’ I say. ‘Because at three o’clock today, I’m going to rape you.’

I blink.

Aaron Mathews punches me in the face.

I can’t tell where exactly, but it is definitely the face. I fall over. Aslam jumps over me and lunges at Aaron Mathews. He grabs Aaron Mathews’ hair. I don’t think pulling hair is a very good fighting move. Jackie Chan never pulled anyone’s hair. I start to stand up and The Tiger knees me in the chest. That is a good fighting move. It hurts. Fireworks explode inside my ribcage. I lie on the floor and roll to the side and look upwards. The Aubergine is going through Aslam’s pockets. The Tiger tries to put his hands into mine. I grab hold of his collar and throw my head against his nose. It isn’t my head any more. It isn’t anything. I take Aslam’s arm and pull him towards the door and we fall through the door and we run up the hill, looking backwards. Nobody follows. Hard air collects inside me and burns. I imagine my legs falling off and my arms falling off and my
dismembered head floating slowly up into the sky like a hot air balloon, clouds gripping the sides of my head, flashing planes reflecting in my eyes.

We collapse onto the grass at the park and lie on our backs, panting.

When our breaths are smaller, I say, ‘Thanks for trying.’

‘Are you okay?’

‘No,’ I say.

‘You made the purple one’s nose bleed.’

‘Oh.’

‘What was that rape thing from?’

‘Welcome to the Dollhouse
.’

‘You have to stop doing that.’

‘People say things better in films.’

He leans back on his elbows and tips his head. ‘I think he was lying.’

‘I don’t know.’

‘What will you do?’

‘I don’t know.’ I tug handfuls of grass out of the earth. In the film version of right now, I would sprint back to the house, hoist Aaron Mathews up by his Adam’s apple and shake him violently until he confessed to lying. Then I would helicopter to Antigua and kiss Alice on the nose. ‘I’m sleepy.’

3

When I was eight, Mum and I climbed onto a train, fidgeted and napped for six hours, then climbed off again in a place with sky the colour of huskies and a long edge of sea. It was Scotland. Mum said that I had to stay with Nan for the summer. I was too young for clear memories of her before this one. Before this one she only existed as a collection of smells and feelings. Piss, tea, sugar. Presents, hard hugs, boredom.

‘Someone’s grown,’ Nan said, holding open the door of her cottage. I smiled. ‘Fat.’ She frowned at Mum.

‘Mum,’ Mum said.

‘Nan,’ I said. She pulled my face into the itchy valley between her tits. Her chest smelled of tea and old biscuits.

‘Ahoy,’ a man said, appearing at the end of the hallway.

Nan had married a Polish man, who was twenty years younger than her and wore only England rugby shirts. I was supposed to call him Uncle Sawicka. When I shook his hand, he barely squeezed, like he was scared I’d break.

‘Someone looks hungry,’ Nan said. ‘Has Mummy been eating all your food?’

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘Mum,’ Mum said.

‘Nan,’ I said.

Uncle Sawicka bought fish and chips and we ate in front of the TV. Nan discussed the royal family with herself. Mum asked Uncle Sawicka about Poland. Are they pagan? Do they like chocolate? Do they have gays? I chewed my toenails until I fell asleep, balled like a foetus in the armchair. In the morning, Mum woke me up, told me to be good, and went away.

*

Nan’s cottage wasn’t really a cottage, it was only called that because of how it was surrounded by grass and if you pulled the corners of your eyes upwards you could kind of see the sea. There was a caravan park above it and a university across the river. I mostly stayed inside with Nan. Even when the sun visited, grey wind scared away all the warm. We pieced together jigsaws of Scottish cottages and watched
Murder, She Wrote
and drank tea that tasted different from the tea at home. Nan took me
down to the sea on bright days, but she got tired quickly and we spent most of our time recovering on the rocks (‘on the rocks’ also meant when Nan wanted ice in her gin and tonic, which mostly she didn’t. It gave her severe brain freeze).

Uncle Sawicka didn’t spend a lot of time in the house. Sometimes, when we met in the hallway, we’d pause and try to talk.

‘Heavy weather,’ he’d say, looking through the glass in the front door.

‘Yeah,’ I’d say.

‘Rain,’ he’d say.

‘Yeah,’ I’d say.

‘Hungry,’ he’d say, patting my shoulder and going through to the kitchen. It’s hard not to think that people who don’t speak your language are morons, even when you’re eight.

After two weeks, we’d established a quiet routine. Uncle Sawicka and Nan woke up early, ate together, and he left for work. I woke up at ten, came downstairs, and ate whatever Nan had made (scrambled eggs, toast, cornflakes, or hot Weetabix). Nan read and I watched TV until lunchtime, then we visited the shop or the beach, then we napped, then Scrabble, then dinner, then bed.

That day we ate without Uncle Sawicka. He was working all night posting computer parts to people who ordered them on the Internet. It was seven. The grey outside had gone black and light rain was prickling the
windows. Me and Nan were watching a repeat of
Bargain Hunt
on channel 409. The electric fire was on and I was sitting close, even though I wasn’t cold. It was never allowed to get cold in the house. If it wasn’t warm enough, Nan could die.