Best Damn Day of My Life...

I shook Keith from my skin and found myself in town once again.

I was beyond bored. I am sometimes certain that no one else feels the burn of boredom quite as intensely as myself. There was little left to inspire me in this mediocre place. As the people drained from the city, back to warm beds and comforting arms - I was found at the fountain near the Abbey. A flagon of cider in one hand and some lost hope and abandon in the other. I smiled as he sat beside me.

'Alright girl?' Said Ian. And I thought about this for a moment before answering.
'Yes, I guess I am.''Gypsy wants to know where you are. She thought you'd fucked off somewhere for good.' His hair fell in dark greasy curls around his pale face, I knew that face so well now, I had seen it at its worst. I knew the smell of him.
'What me? Never!' I smiled back.
'I've got some business to take care of.' Said Ian. 'You can come with me.' He smiled 'If you like.'
Again I thought before answering, 'What type of business?'
'The sort where the less you know, the better.' He stood up and looked at me 'I'm sorry Patch hit you that time. I should have said that to you before. But there's no stopping Patch when she gets an idea in her head.'
I took a large glug of cider and wiped the excess from my lips with the back of my hand. 'Fuck her. She's an ugly bitch. But do us a favour and don't tell her that.' I offered the flagon to Ian, 'I'll come with you. But just for a bit.'

After all, I figured that on a day like today, I should take a risk or two.

We walked up towards the top of town. Not far from where Pug lives. Not far from my memories.

'Where are we going?' I looped an arm in his and pulled myself closer.
'We're not going, so much as looking.'
'What are we looking for?'
'For that!' He replied trying the handle of a parked car. Ian looked around and checked that no eyes were heading our way. He peered in through the car window before saying 'Maybe not.' And we were off again, arm in arm.
'Are you going to nick a car?' I asked, suddenly interested.
'Nah, just borrow one for a while.' He pulled a large bundle of keys from his pocket and began flicking through them. Stopping beside a blue Escort, he once again peered through the window. Selecting a key he tried the lock. No luck. he picked another and tried again. 'Bingo!'

We were in.

I had never ridden in a stolen car before. Adrenalin coursed as I jumped in beside him. My knowledge of Joy Riding extended to the stories that you would hear in the media. Images of smashed up cars and reports of fatalities. A risk indeed.

I thrived off such danger now.

The car started first time and Ian pulled quietly out from the parking place. 'Don't say I never take you anywhere.' He winked.
I watched him as he drove. I realized that I didn't know Ian at all. In this moment, here in the car with the street lamps strobing him orange; in this solitary moment though, I knew more of him than I could have ever known before. I realized that he too came from a place of pain. We talked of his childhood.

And mine.

October 1998

The elderly man to my left wore small round glasses stuck together with a piece of dirty tape. He was a thin and spiky man and he twitched like a mouse in sight of pray as he listened to us talk.

'Fuck it.' Said Paul. 'I ain't sitting here in a crap boozer when some wanker is holed up in my woman's place just round the corner. I say we go home Babe. We go home,' And here he patted the iron bar tucked inside his coat, 'And we wait.'

Paul's face was a battlefield of scars. A particularly good one adorned his chin where a prison guard smashed his jaw against a concrete ledge. Or so he said. You could never trust much of what he said; perhaps he fell off his bike as a child. His hair was shaved to a dark blond stubble, his pale skin vandalized with prison tattoos and ridged with self harm scars. His only redeeming feature was his eyes. I was deeply lost in that blue.

I stood slowly, pulling down the red dress so that it covered at least some of my dignity, 'He's going to be so fucking surprised to see us. How about you old man? You up for a fight too?' And Paul and I roared with laughter.

The old man twitched some more.

'Get your cash out John. I feel the need for one last drink before we leave.' And I bent down low, licking the old man on the side of his face whilst Paul pulled down my dress to try to cover my assets. I made my way to the bar, stilettos clicking on the wooden floor. Paul called out, 'Better make this round bottles Babe.' And he winked. I smiled at the barman as I surveyed the choice. An obvious one stood out.
'Three bottles of Newcastle Brown Ale please Mate.'

Now I smiled at the memories.

I paid with the old man's money, clicked my way back to the table, then clicked again to the toilets - still holding my bottle of beer. The girl in the mirror never ceased to surprise me. Long hair tied high in a ponytail, face plastered with makeup, dress not even long enough to cover her crotch - who the fuck is this girl? I raised an eyebrow at her and she did the same at me. I felt that my life was running away from me, like it was all completely out of my control. I thought of my daughter, her pretty face, her warm cuddles and of my memories. At this I almost shed a tear. I didn't though, because the girl in the mirror was no longer the sort to cry. Instead I finished the beer and tucked the empty glass bottle safely inside my bag. Newcastle Brown was sold in a thick glass bottle. This was the sort of bottle that could split a scalp at first strike and still survive for a second blow.

The sort of bottle that could crack bone.
That could destroy faces.
I knew this.

Paul and the old man necked the last of their beers before we all pulled on our winter coats and left. Those that saw us walking down the road would probably have assumed we were Pimp, whore and punter - but this relationship was far more complex than that. It was probably less than 100 meters from the pub at the Tube Station to the block of council flats where we were heading. There was that adrenalin again, feeding me and hiding the fear. One hand in my left pocket for warmth and one tucked inside my bag. Fingers on glass and ready for action, I wondered what tonight would bring. We waited for at least fifteen minutes before someone opened the door to the block, allowing us to push uninvited into the main entrance way. This building was built in the early seventies. A concrete and brick four story elevation that consisted of about 30 maisonettes stacked in rows. It was the first of six such buildings that formed the estate. The concrete stairwell that we began to climb gleamed umber in the corners with urine and damp. We ascended the four flights then made our way along the balcony to number 22. I pulled the wire coat hanger from my bag and unfolded it, forming a hook shape at one end. A quick glance either way, a hand flicking open the letterbox, wire inserted - we were inside in less than five seconds.

Home?

I turned on the lights.

It was quiet and surprisingly tidy. These were the first things that I noticed. I sat old John in the armchair and began to look around. Opening the cupboard under the dresser, I move a sharp bin stuffed with syringes and find some cloths stained with old blood. I throw one at John and watch as he holds it to his face. 'Now shh. Just sit quietly. If he comes for you, just hit him with the bottle' Then I winked and pulled my underwear to the side to give him a quick flash. This was done with irony. There was nothing about the human form that Old John found attractive. I liked to remind him how fucked up he was from time to time though.

How fucked up we all were.

Paul and I lit cigarettes and we relaxed into the waiting. This scene may have appeared normal if it weren't for the fact that the bottles we were holding were empty.
'Best day of your life. What was it?' Asked the Paul with the iron bar on the sofa 'I'll go first. The best day of my life was the day that my Mrs, the beautiful Claire,' And here he winked at me 'Agreed to leave Rehab with me. That - that's fucking commitment. Right there. Better than a ring on her finger, eh Babe!'

The Claire in the armchair smiled.

'My best day.' Said the John on the armchair, 'Was the day that Claire and her daughter came to ride the Steam Trains with me. No one else has cared to go out with me for a long time. Not since Mum got ill. I thank her for that.'

I felt so loved.

Interestingly, neither of those 'Best Days' rated highly on my list. All four eyes were now firmly rested on me as I dredged my memory for a best, or even a mediocre day to hold dear.

But there was the sound of a key in the door now.

Silence stayed with the room as we turned to the noise and gripped our weapons tighter.

'Claire! You're back!' From his position in the hall, I was the only person that this man could see. From my position, I could see everything. Even how this night would end. He hung his coat on a hook and turned towards me. 'You're supposed to be in for another month. How was rehab?'

Three more steps and he would be inside this room. Three more steps. I couldn't bear it any more.

As he placed his first foot on the green carpet of the living room, Paul flew across the room and knocked him to the ground. The iron bar was lost in a hail of flailing fists and the Old Man and I watched with cruel curiosity. I walked over to them, smiling. Bent down to the ground where this new man was held and calmly said.
'Paul, meet Paul.' And the Paul on top hit the Paul below once again. The Paul on the ground was lifted, shocked, to his feet. 'Put him in the fucking chair.' I ordered. And the angry Paul did as I said. A fist flew again, knocking the shocked Paul's head sideways and showing me blood for the first time tonight. The sight of this made the old man squirm.
'I know all about you, you dumb fuck. Like to hit women don't you? Like to scare them?' Another punch, this time sinking the shocked head into the softness of the chair.
The shocked man looked only at me. He was hurt.

Hurting.

'Claire? What the fuck is going on here?'

Another punch. Submission.

'Don't you fucking talk to her. You aren't worth shit compared to her. She told me what you did. She wouldn't give a fuck if I finished you off, would you Babe?'

I yawned incidentally, but it spoke a thousand words so I left it at that. Then I sat in the armchair with the peculiar old man who clutched his cloth a little tighter. For a while nobody said anything.

I smiled at the peculiar old man and stroked the Grey stubble on his head.
The peculiar old man smiled at the Paul's, both shocked and angry.
Angry Paul looked at shocked Paul.
Shocked Paul looked at the ground. Tears, snot and worse dripped from his nose and chin onto the carpet. He really had been the best looking of my boyfriends by far.

A sudden movement, arms pushed upwards, body lunging forwards, broke the moment. Shocked Paul became fighting Paul and he made a run for the door. Angry Paul grabbed at him and caused him to hit the ground hard. Now he crawled desperately towards the exit. I was there before he made it even half way. Bottle in hand.

'Get back in the fucking chair Dickweed.' But he lay there sobbing, hands held in front of his face, fetal. 'Put him back in the fucking chair Babe.' I kicked out at him with my foot, 'You're pathetic.' Angry Paul lifted the broken man and threw him back in the seat.

'If I were you, Asshole. I'd stay fucking put for a while.' Angry Paul raised a hand to his head and felt the stickiness of blood. 'You scratched my ear you prick. Babe - he scratched my fucking ear. I'll kill the cunt.'

Did I care?

I just wanted out. Out this room?

'Old man. We need more beer.' I piped up chirpily. 'Fancy a trip to the Offie?' I turned to face the angry man. 'Is this under control?'

Paul nodded. He pulled a shiv from his trouser pocket and flicked out the blade. I took the old man's arm and we left this place. Off we went into the cold rain of the night, back into the city noise. There was history between myself and the staff of the Off License. A mutual history, best described as hatred. This always made me want to shop there more. They would watch me intently. Scan my every move from the second I entered the door. I always made sure that there was plenty to watch. 'Morning Muhammad.' I called out as we walked past the counter. He had long since given up on pointing out the obvious - like it wasn't morning and his name wasn't Muhammad, but he couldn't quite commit to stony silence today.
'You look...' And he looked right from the tip of my head to my toes, 'You look clean today.' Voice thick with sarcasm.
I opened the fridge and began passing old John the beers.

I'm Claire and I'm an alcoholic.

'It's such a pity Muhammad,' I smiled wide 'that my tits are so small and this dress so tight, or I reckon I could have stashed at least two beers already without you seeing. You should stare a little harder, it might prevent future theft on my behalf.' John and I headed back to the counter. 'Twenty Benny Hedgehogs and those.' I said, pointing at the beer. 'He's paying.' And I waved a hand at John. With the transaction complete we headed for the door as 'Muhammad' sprayed a good waft of air freshener at my back. He always did that, but I no longer cared.

I took my wet skin, my cold beer and my peculiar old man back to the flat.

Things had changed.

I felt fear as soon as I heard the laughter.

Back inside, I found the two Pauls relaxing on the sofa. Both were more battered and bloodied than when I'd left, but both were now smiling and chatting away like nothing much of incidence had just happened here.
'Babe!' Said Angry Paul 'You're back!' And both he and the previously shocked Paul shared a glance. 'Crack open the beers girl and take a seat.' I saw the look in Paul's eyes and I knew to be wary. There is lot's to be frightened of when you choose to bed down with a man who scares you.
'Paulie here, he was just telling me that the Adams are running the Pawn shop on the corner. I wonder if my Uncles know about that?'
'That's yesterdays news Paul. Fuck the Adams. What about him.?' I nodded at the man on the sofa. The man who it appeared had been clever enough to turn around a very sticky situation.
'There's room here for us all tonight Babe. And first thing tomorrow, Paulie here is going to go score for me.'
'What the fuck do you mean? Score?' I felt this betrayal worse than infidelity. The thought of him taking heroin made me feel physically sick, I would prefer that he fucked another woman. 'You promised me when we left Weston that there wouldn't be any more Heroin. You said that we were fucking clean now. I won't get my kid back if we use. They'll take Alice off me.' I stormed to the kitchen, pushing John aside from where he stood, washing his face at the sink. I tried to run through my mind what the options were. Clever Paul had been clever indeed to bring Heroin into the mix. A hungry junkie will always side with a likely deal.
'John.' I whispered 'How much money have you got left?'
John checked his wallet 'About five hundred I think.'
'When I go back in there, put the money in the pantry. Hide it behind the flour at the back. Will you do that for me?' John nodded.
'Are you going?'
'Just put it in there John.'
He held my arm and begged. 'Ring me. Don't disappear.'
I promised I would.

Paul grabbed me affectionately as I walked back in the room and pulled me to his lap where I sat submissive. He was tapping the side of his beer can with the open knife, a reminder to me that things were more complicated than they appeared.
'I think it's best if Paulie sleeps in the bed upstairs. Old John can fuck off home. We'll sleep down here.' And he waved the knife at Paul continuing, 'With the door open. That way I know you'll still be here in the morning.'

My mind stayed focused on what I was going to do next. I knew that I had to get out of here. But I also knew the danger in leaving him and I didn't know where I would go. Islington was his manor, he had family here. He had eyes.

'You still here Old Man?' Paul said as John joined us. 'We were just saying it was time for bed.'
'But you promised me...' Stuttered John.
'Shut the fuck up fool.' Shouted Paul angrily. 'Go home. Claire will call you tomorrow morning. Won't you Babe.' I looked deep into his pretty blue eyes and tried to remember why I was here. 'This weirdo...' Said Paul to Paul 'This weirdo has a thing about filth. That's why he likes my Claire so much, she's pure filth my Baby.' He squeezed my breast.
I looked up at John. 'I'll ring you. Now go home.' I heard the door shut quietly behind him and I prayed that he'd done as I asked.
'Now you.' Paul waved the knife at me now. 'Take your fucking dress off.'

I did.

'And you, fuck off upstairs. We'll talk in the morning. Right now I want some quality time with my Mrs.' I watched as clever Paul did as angry Paul said.

I had to wait about an hour before he fell asleep. Loud, deep snores penetrated the silence of this room. I eased myself away from him gently, rolling from the cushions on the floor I lay there very still and waited for a response. Nothing. Unfortunately he was lying on my dress. I would have to make my move without it. I backed crawling on all fours towards the doorway. Still nothing. Just the snoring. Carefully I pulled myself to standing using the door frame for support. I looked towards the front door, relieved to see that the key was still in the Chubb lock. I looked towards the door, then back up the stairs. Clever Paul was there. Stood silently at the top. He motioned to me to come up.

I looked at the door. Then back up at him.

He motioned again. I placed one foot on the bottom step and tested for a creak. It took my weight silently. I tested the next. Then the next. At the top of the stairs I could still hear that asshole snoring.

Clever Paul motioned towards the bedroom. I crept in behind him and we shut the door.

'What the fuck is going on Claire?' He whispered.
'You've got to help me. He's dangerous. We're not safe.'
'No fucking shit Sherlock.' Paul shook his head in disbelief. 'Why the fuck should I help you? You brought him here to do me over. He's your fucking man, you sort him out!'
I was sobbing quietly now. 'Please Paul.'
He grabbed me by the wrists, it was almost an affectionate gesture.
'Claire. I'm sorry. I'm sorry it got so messed up between the two of us. And I'm sorry if I hurt you.' I was shaking from the cold, stood only in my underwear. 'I'm sorry but I can't help you here. If you want to walk away from this, then go. Go somewhere he won't find you. Go back to your daughter.'
'He'll find me.'
'Only if you want him to.' He said, dropping my wrists and turning away. That burnt because I knew that it was probably true. Opening the bedroom door I was relieved to be greeted by the familiar snores. I made my way silently down the stairs and into the kitchen. The wad of money I clasped tightly in my left hand.

Thanks John.

Back in the hallway I placed my free hand on the key. Taking a deep breath and holding it in, I turned the key 180 degrees to the right. There was a dull thunk as the Chubb slid back. The rain was torrential now. I transferred the money from my left hand to my right and reached back towards the coat rack, carefully unhooking my jacket before silently stepping forward. I pulled the door closed on this world, stepped out into the new one with my knickers on display for all to see.

Brazen.

That's what Mum would have called me. Head held high and bare feet tapping boldly along the damp balcony, I wore a big smile and even wriggled a wave as one of my old neighbours passed me. I was laughing as I danced down the concrete stairwell. That feeling was in my bones again. I was on the move and I didn't care where. Rain. Glorious rain fell heavily, making the pavement glass and sparkle with the reflection of the street lights. I was in love with London at night. Always had been. From the very first moment that the lights of Soho had drawn me here. I turned into the main street with more than a vague idea of where I was heading. Paul's house.

A few heads turned and some faces stared, occasionally a comment bounced off my back but I felt freedom greater than shame.

'You OK?' Called out a friendly looking gentleman with a golfing umbrella.

I stopped to speak to him. 'Sir,' I reached out and touched his face gently, one hand on either cheek. 'Thank you Sir, for asking. But the honest truth of this matter is...' And I held my arms skyward to embrace the rain, 'That this, is the best damn day of my life!'

************************American Beauty************************

ARIEL VIEW FROM ABOVE. CAMERA TRACKS CLAIRE AS SHE MAKES HER WAY DOWN A BUSY ROAD.

[CLAIRE] VOICE OVER
Best damn day of my life?
Probably.
Although that doesn't say much when you inspect the competition. Here I am, twenty seven years old and the highlight of my fucking life amounts to no more than a bad script.
I am about to embark on the most remarkable period of my life. If I knew then what I know now, I would have gone back to the flat and killed him.
In less than a year I am as good as dead.

THE CAMERA DESCENDS SLOWLY FINISHING WITH A CLOSEUP OF CLAIRE'S HAND AS SHE OPENS THE DOOR TO A PHONE BOX. SHE SEEMS HAPPY AND PLEASED WITH HERSELF. SHE DIALS A NUMBER AND WE HEAR THE PHONE STARTING TO RING.

[CLAIRE]
Dave! Is Paul there? It's Claire

INTERIOR. PAUL'S FLAT. CLOSE UP OF MOUTH TALKING WITH HUGE CANNIBIS JOINT BOUNCING ON LIPS. THE MAN APPEARS TO BE WEARING A WHITE BURKA WITH THE MOUTH PIECE HANGING LOOSE

[DAVE] STONED
Wow it's Claire. You in rehab, cause I shouldn't be talking to you if you're still in the rehab.

INTERIOR. PHONE BOX. CLOSE UP OF CLAIRE'S MOUTH.

[CLAIRE]
I'm right outside Dave. Rehabs just a distant memory. Is Paul there?

[DAVE] CLOSE UP. MOUTH ONLY
Paul, are you here. It's Claire. She says rehab is a distant memory

[CLAIRE] CLOSE UP. EYES ONLY
So can I come in? Ask Paul if I can come in.

[DAVE] CLOSE UP. EYES ONLY
Yes she says a distant memory. She wants to know if she can come in.

[CLAIRE] CLOSE UP. MOUTH ONLY. IMPATIENT
Dave, can I speak to Paul

INTERIOR. PAUL'S FLAT. IT'S DISGUSTINGLY MESSY. DIRTY CLOTHES, ROTTING PLATES OF FOOD, DRUG TAKING EQUIPMENT ARE SCATTERED EVERYWHERE. IN A FILTHY RECLINING CHAIR IN THE MIDDLE OF THIS MESS SITS A LONG HAIRED HIPPY WEARING A RIPPED WHITE TOWEL AROUND HIS CROTCH LIKE A LOIN CLOTH.

[CLAIRE] VOICE OVER
That's Paul. Hippie Paul. I can't remember how we met. But that doesn't mean it was inconsequential
HIPPIE PAUL IS IN ANOTHER WORLD. HIS VIEWING OF THE TELEVISION BROKEN ONLY BY THE OCCASIONAL BOUT OF SCRATCHING.

INTERIOR OF CLAIRE'S FLAT

CLOSE UP OF DROPS OF MOISTURE ON THE OUTSIDE OF A CAN OF BEER. A SCARRED HAND REACHES INTO SHOT AND SNAPS OFF THE RING PULL

[CLAIRE] VOICE OVER
See that beer he's holding? Skol Super Strength. It's 9.2 percent alcohol, 0.2 percent stronger than Special Brew. That's not an accident. He actually cares about that.
CAMERA PANS OUT TO SHOW ANGRY PAUL SAT CRYING IN THE CHAIR

WIDE SHOT. WE SEE BOTH PAUL'S SAT IN THE ROOM IN ANIMATED CONVERSATION. BOTH APPEAR DISTRESSED. WE CANNOT HEAR WHAT THEY ARE SAYING

[CLAIRE] VOICE OVER
He used to beat me.
THE CAMERA ZOOMS IN ON CLEVER PAUL
But do you want to know the real truth. I made him. Him beating me, made me feel so much better. Made me feel redeemed somehow. I bet he never beat another woman before me.
Or after.
I wasn't always like this. I used to be happy

INTERIOR PHONE BOX. CLAIRE LOOKS DESPONDENT. TIRED. HER HEAD IS LEANING AGAINST THE GLASS OF THE PHONE BOX. HER EYES ARE SHUT.

[CLAIRE] VOICE OVER
I have lost something. I'm not exactly sure what it is, but I know I didn't always feel this... sedated. But you know what? It's never too late to get it back.

THERE IS A SUDDEN LOUD BANGING ON THE PHONE BOX WINDOW. CLAIRE STARTLES, DROPPING THE PHONE SHE TURNS TO SEE THE WEIRDLY DRESSED DAVE. HE IS WEARING WHITE MICKEY MOUSE BOXER SHORTS, A WHITE 'I HEART LONDON' T-SHIRT AND HE HAS A WHITE TABLE CLOTH TIED AROUND HIS HEAD LIKE A BURKA. HE IS STILL TALKING TO HER ON THE MOBILE PHONE AND WHEN SHE GOES TO OPEN THE PHONE BOX DOOR HE SHAKES HIS HEAD ANNOYED AND POINTS TO THE PHONE HANDSET, NOW HANGING NEAR THE FLOOR. CLAIRE PICKS THE HANDSET BACK UP AND HOLDS IT TO HER EAR.

[DAVE]
Paul wants to know what you are wearing.

[CLAIRE]
A Puffer jacket

WITH HER FREE HAND SHE GESTURES AT THE JACKET, FRUSTRATED BY THIS CONVERSATION NOW.

[DAVE]
No, he wants to know what colour you are wearing

CLAIRE GESTURES AT THE JACKET AGAIN. DAVE SHRUGS AS IF HE STILL NEEDS AN ANSWER

[CLAIRE] VERY FRUSTRATED NOW
It's black

[DAVE]
It's not white. We're having a white day.
HE GESTURES AT HIS OWN ECLECTIC ATTIRE

CLAIRE UNZIPS THE PUFFER JACKET SLOWLY. CLOSE UP ON DAVE'S EYES AS HE WATCHES TRANSFIXED. SHE PULLS HER JACKET OPEN AND A PROFUSION OF WHITE ROSE PETALS SPILL FORTH TOWARDS THE CAMERA. SUDDENLY THEY STOP AND WE CUT BACK TO REALITY. AN ANNOYED CLAIRE STANDS IMPATIENTLY IN THE PHONE BOX IN HER WHITE BRA AND KNICKERS WEARING AN 'IS THAT GOOD ENOUGH?' LOOK ON HER FACE.


CUT TO INTERIOR PAUL'S FLAT. CARTOONS ARE PLAYING ON THE TV AND WE CAN NOW SEE THAT EITHER SIDE OF THE TELEVISION ARE BANKS OF ELECTRIC ELEMENT HEATERS AND A MESS OF CABLING.
PAUL HUGS CLAIRE ENTHUSIASTICALLY. THERE APPEARS TO BE GENUINE AFFECTION BETWEEN THE TWO OF THEM. DAVE IS BUSY IN THE BACKGROUND CUTTING A PILE OF BROWN POWDER AND FOLDING PAPER WRAPS FROM A PORNOGRAPHIC MAGAZINE. CLAIRE AND PAUL REMAIN STANDING WITH BIG SMILES AND CONSTANT EYE CONTACT. THEY EMBRACE A SECOND TIME.

[CLAIRE] VOICE OVER
Can you even imagine the determination it takes to be an addict. I used to work every almost every waking hour just to finance that particular colour of fun. I was busy. Desperately busy. Between that and the quiet calm of a hard earned fix, I had little time left to think. I like it best this way.

CLAIRE REMOVES HER JACKET AND STANDS THERE IN ONLY HER UNDERWEAR. SHE IS ALREADY SWEATING FROM THE HEAT IN THE ROOM.

PAUL COCKS HIS HEAD TO ONE SIDE, SMILES AND NODS APPROVINGLY.

[PAUL]
White. You're wearing white


HE SWEEPS THE CLUTTER FROM A CHAIR TO CLEAR A SPACE. THEN GESTURES TO CLAIRE TO SIT. SHE DOES. HE RETURNS TO HIS SEAT. BASKING IN THE WARMTH OF THE HEATERS.

[PAUL]
So tell me about rehab?

[CLAIRE] VOICE OVER
Dave and Paul are also addicts. They however aren't particularly busy. They are drug dealers. This means that they can fund their own addiction.
With relative ease.
PAUL SWITCHES CHANNEL ON THE TELEVISION TO A BRITISH TALK SHOW. TRISHA. VOICE OVER CONT.
They are bored.
Boredom brings with it its own peculiarities.
It makes you behave like this.

CLOSE UP OF DAVE IN HIS BURKA OUTFIT DANCING AT THE TABLE TO THE TRISHA THEME MUSIC.

CLOSE UP OF CLAIRE'S MOUTH.

[CLAIRE] DREAMILY
Rehab.
SMILING
It's just a distant memory.

CUT TO SHOT OF DAVE AND PAUL SLEEPING, TOP TO TAIL IN A SINGLE BED IN CORNER OF ROOM. CAMERA PANS TO CLAIRE WHO IS NOW IN PAUL'S CHAIR, FULLY RECLINED LYING BACK AND STARING AT THE CEILING. WE CAN HEAR THE WHITE NOISE OF A TV WITH NO SIGNAL IN THE BACKGROUND. SHE IS ILLUMINATED WITH A STRANGE ORANGE LIGHT FROM THE BAR HEATERS.

CLOSE UP ON A SOLITARY DRUG SYRINGE AS IT FALLS SLOWLY THROUGH THE AIR.
WE LOOK DOWN ON CLAIRE, STILL AWAKE, STARING UP AT US.


[CLAIRE] VOICE OVER
It's the weirdest thing
THE SYRINGE DRIFTS INTO VIEW LANDING ON HER BARE STOMACH
I feel awake. Dangerously awake now. I wonder how much longer I can survive like this

CLAIRE'S POINT OF VIEW. SHE IS STARING AT A FLOATING NAKED VERSION OF HERSELF IN THE MIDST OF A DELUGE OF SYRINGES, FLOATING AROUND HER. THIS FLOATING CLAIRE LOOKS DOWN AT THE CLAIRE IN THE CHAIR WITH A SMILE OF SERENITY. A SMILE THAT INCITES.

WE LOOK DOWN AT THE CLAIRE IN THE CHAIR NOW COVERED IN HEAPS OF THESE SYRINGES. SHE LOOKS LIKE SHE HAS NEVER BEEN SO HAPPY.

SUDDEN CUT TO CLAIRE STANDING NEXT TO THE BED SHAKING PAUL AWAKE

[CLAIRE]
Paul. I've got some money. I need a ten bag. Wake up.

PAUL OPENS HIS EYES

[PAUL]
What if you die?

FADE TO CUT. BLACK & WHITE. CLAIRE, DAVE AND PAUL ARE NOW ALL ASLEEP IN THE BED WHICH IS RIDICULOUSLY CRAMPED. THE CAMERA ZOOMS IN TO A CLOSE UP OF CLAIRE'S HAND WHICH HAS A SMALL TRICKLE OF BLOOD RUNNING DOWN TO A STAIN ON THE WHITE SHEET. THE BLOOD IS RED.

[CLAIRE] VOICE OVER
In a way. I'm dead already.
My life is fucked.
It's a car crash.

EXIT AMERICAN BEAUTY

I am in the car and I am screaming. Ian's head is jammed against the horn and he doesn't appear to be moving. There is blood on the steering wheel. I don't know how long I screamed for, but when I stopped I was aware that Ian was awake. He lifted his head painfully, bringing a hand to feel the damage to his nose and forehead. Bubbles of blood splashed onto his cupped fingers.
'Shit.' He wiped the blood away with the back of his hand. 'You OK?'
The car was folded around a concrete bollard at the top of a lane. The bonnet was buckled and steaming. It took a while for me to mentally check how hurt I was.
'I'm fine. My neck hurts a bit, that's all.' Wherever we were, it was quiet. Nothing but the clicking of the indicators and the continual rush of steam.

We started laughing.

Him first, but it was so ridiculous as to be infectious.
'Fucking Bastards.' He said through the bubbles of blood and the laughter. 'We're not even fucking dead.'
'Well at least you're hurt. I'm not even fucking injured much.' I felt overwhelmed with the reality that we were still alive, despite our best efforts.

'Claire.' Ian was suddenly serious. 'Did you leave that video tape at your parent's house?'
I grabbed a box of tissues from the back seat and began wiping the blood from his nose and chin.
'Yes. I left everything. Why?'
Ian looked at me, serious now. 'Promise me you'll go back and get it one day.' He punched a bloodied fist against the steering wheel. 'Promise me you'll destroy it.'

I promised.

What else could I do?




"I don't know why I kept it and it felt very strange to put it on. But as Scout would say 'This post is useless without pics!' So here it is. The little red dress, snapped secretly last night on my mobile phone in the bathroom. To think, I once wore this in public with only a thong!'

Continued...

Topical Application to All Affected Areas...

Bath was bustling with daily shoppers by the time I arrived. The Central Cafe was quiet however as most of the local travelers had left for the festival already. I ate alone, genuinely annoyed that there was no one here to pay me attention. After some idle time at the shops and a new pair of shoes I headed to the Boater, but it was the same story there. No friendly faces, just strangers.

No John.

I guessed that he could be at college.

The men at the Boater were more interested in the Rugby than in me. I should have stayed here amidst their indifference. Instead I left, just as the first few large drops of rain plummeted from the clouds and splashed upon my skin. Thunder crashed in the distance and the pedestrians ceased window shopping to dash for cover. Within moments it seemed that I was the only one left. I walked through the town centre, occasionally being passed by a dashing figure with an umbrella at hand. The rain fell harder and the thunder crashed closer. I walked slowly, chin up, never shrinking from the wind or the rain. Unlike the other people, I had nothing to lose in this sensation of cold wet skin. 'What did they fear?' I wondered.

I soon found myself in a quiet square with pretty trees and expensive boutiques.

On the corner of the square was a pub. A biker pub.

I thought for a moment that John might be there, but by the time my damp fingers contacted with the cold glass of the door - I no longer cared. The barman handed me a dry bar towel, offered by his heavily tattooed hand, tipped with dirty fingers.
'You look a bit damp love. Dry yourself off with this.' I nodded my thanks and looked around as I scanned the crowd for sight of him, rubbed my neck and shoulders dry.
'Newcastle Brown please. No glass.'
'Newcastle Brown. No glass.' He repeated as if to remind himself. 'So what brings you here love? I've not seen you before.'
'Sheltering from the rain I guess.'
'I'll buy her drink.' Said a voice from my left. And I turned to see a man I had not seen before. 'Keith.' He said holding out a hand to shake. Keith was at this point oblivious to the fact that in this one simple gesture, he had become a very lucky man.

I shook Keith's hand firmly and smiled. 'I'm Claire. Thanks for the drink Keith.'

Keith nodded towards a table and asked if I cared to join him. I did.

'I've seen you in the Hat & Feather.' Keith offered me a cigarette. I took two. One for each of us. Lit them both then handed him a lipstick stained smoke.
'I've not seen you there.'
'You are more memorable than me then. I gave you a cigarette in there once.'
I waved my smoke in the air. 'Guess that makes two then.'
Keith was in his early twenties. A tall, slim, dark skinned biker that was uneducated but a great fuck. Ok. So the first three were observations and the latter two assumptions, but who cares. Tonight was not going to end in a cold damp bender for me.
'Are you cold?' He asked.
'Do you want to fuck me Keith?'
Keith laughed raucously. 'You're not backwards in coming forwards are you!' He took another swig of his beer 'I don't think a girl has ever had the balls to ask that one before.'
'Do you live near here?'
'Well the answers are yes - and yes. Just a short walk down the canal. Why? Are we going?'
'Not yet.' I reached out with one leg under the table and placed a foot on his groin. 'I wouldn't want you to think that I was easy after all. Two more beers and a packet of peanuts might tempt me back out in the rain though.' And I pressed my foot firmer into his crotch.

The rain. It still pelted against the windows. Still sat damp against my skin.

'I like the rain.' I said, chasing the trail of a rain drop with a finger.

'I'm glad you do.' He smiled as he headed to the bar for some beer and nuts, calling back to me, 'The rain suits you.'

I watched as he brought the beers to our table. Enjoyed the pretense of normality for a moment. It felt good to laugh and flirt with a man again. Then, I watched as he went to the upper part of the bar and spoke with a heavily tattooed man. I smiled wide as he showed me the plastic bag on his return.

'Let's save this for the 'Fucking' part of our afternoon.' He said with a wink.
'Speed?' I asked.
'Coke.' Replied Keith. 'I don't mess with cheap shit.'

I put money in the duke box. The Specials. The Cult. Some heavy metal requested by him. The thunder hit louder and the storm showed no sign of passing.

We held eye contact but said nothing for the longest time. Spoke only with our eyes. He broke the silence first. 'You should dance in the rain for me.'
'Ok.' I replied.

And dance I did. After, he threw his jacket over my shoulders and led me running through the town. Both of us were soaked by the time we reached the canal. I don't recall a single word said on that journey. I just remember really wanting him. I had not felt a moment of equality with a man for a long time. I was tempted several times just to push him to the cold wet grass, but the anticipation of this promised liaison was too much fun.

By the time we entered the block of flats I had imagined fucking him a thousand times. As he fumbled with the keys, I ran a hand up his back and felt his bare warm skin properly for the first time. Once inside he pulled off his t-shirt and threw it to the floor, then he lifted me up and threw me over his shoulder.

I giggled as he ran up the stairs with me.

'Put me down!'

He booted the bedroom door open with his foot and carried me to the bed. I lay there looking at Keith, breathing heavily. Keith stood there, staring back at me.
'Music!' He suddenly shouted, fumbling through a pile of vinyl and selecting an album. 'Oh and by the way, it's your turn now.'
'My turn to what?'
'To get your bloody kit off girl.'
'How about some coke?' I looked about the room, absorbing every little thing I could. Learning as much about him as my eyes could take. This room was messy but comfortable. Lived in. Partied in. It was his room. It hadn't escaped my notice that not all the items in the room were masculine either. If a woman didn't live here, she stayed here often.
'You'll have to get that dress off, 'cause the coke ain't for you nose Babe.' He pulled off his jeans then joined me on the bed wearing only a pair of boxer shorts. 'The coke...' He lay a hand between my legs, 'Is for here'. Then he pulled down the top of my dress and kissed each nipple 'And here...and here.'

Coke sex.

Best darn sex in the world.

Afternoon merged into evening and the coke merged into everything. Lines snorted on stomachs. Smears licked off genitalia. His eyes got sexier with every dilation of his pupils.

Evening merged into night. I remember a visitor coming, the man from the pub maybe. More coke in a second bag. More lines on skin.

Skin on skin.

'You have the prettiest eyes that I have ever seen.' I spoke to him through coke numb lips 'And the prettiest tongue.' So I probed a coke dipped finger, first in his mouth and then in mine.

'I like you Mr Keith. You're more fun than a bucket of sand.' We both giggled at the stupidity of this analogy. Lay back coke tired on the pillows, all of us tender from drugs and kissing, we smoked cigarettes and contemplated more.

More coke.

More sex.

Morning.

I padded to the bathroom, barefoot, softly. Showered. Noted the box of tampons on the shelf and the contraceptive pills in a drawer. Where was she?

Keith met me on the landing. Back in his boxer shorts with his hair all fucked up and sticking out all over the place, he hopped from foot to foot.
'I'm dying for a waz Babe. Don't go anywhere...' And he rushed into the toilet.
Back in the bedroom I lit up a cigarette and searched for the glass of water that I had fetched in the night. My mouth felt like shit and my head was throbbing from the lack of sleep.
Funny, but he was better looking than I remembered, I watched him again as he walked back into the room. My Rock star. Mine.
'One fucking hell of a night eh?' He rubbed his face in an attempt to shake back reality.
'I had fun.'
You stupid cow. Is that the best that you can manage? I chastised myself for not thinking of a better line, a line of girlfriend leaving greatness.
'Fun! Oh Man, the boys aren't going to fucking believe this one. I'm the luckiest bastard in Lucky Bastardville. You are a top bird. Top night Babe. One of the fucking best.'
'Marry me then.'
Ok, a little extreme maybe.
Keith did no more than laugh, 'Chicks like you are out of my league Babe. Besides, I'm already married.'

Pity, because I would have married him that day.

Continued...

That Dress...

I woke with a rested soul and the dulcet tones of my screaming Mother breaking the silence that had protected me.
'What have you done in the bathroom? I just can't bloody trust you. I wish you'd never come back. You'll never change'
Wiping the sleep from my eyes, I ignored her words, held the sheets to my nose and breathed in deeply. The smell of cleanliness, small sanctuary in this place.
'Morning!' I called out as she disappeared down the hall still mumbling her concerns.

'What have I done in the bathroom?' I wondered.

I pulled back the curtains and gazed at the familiarity of it's view. Drugs change everything. Take enough of them and a definitive switch happens. Everything seems normal when you are on them and perversely surreal when you are not. This house was indeed perversely surreal.

I took myself and the floral nightgown to the bathroom next door. Everything appeared fine in there. Whatever I had done in the bathroom last night, it had been forensically cleansed by the Queen of Clean already. I walked downstairs, watching my clean toes press into the softness of a piled carpet, a simple luxury. I smiled as I caught a reflection of Claire in the hall mirror. I looked ridiculous in my Mother's nightgown. But there again, everything looked ridiculous to me here. Mum looked so much older than I remembered too. Foolish in her agony. She sat at the dining room table with a plate of buttered crackers and a cup of hot tea, every inch of her lost to me.
I lit up a cigarette and sat beside her, once again smiling at my reflection, this time in the glass door of the china display cabinet. Mum began to sob. I could see her shoulders jerking up and down with stifled emotion out of the corner of my eye.
'I still see that bitch Emma.' She spluttered. 'Butter wouldn't melt nowadays. And look at you...' I raised an eyebrow at the me in the cabinet 'All messed up and your whole life ruined. She made you like this. She got you in all this trouble. Everything was fine until Miss Short came to town.' I took a deep draw of satisfying smoke and thought of Emma. Mum could say what she wanted, but from where I was sitting, blame lay much closer.

We had gone to therapy once. My entire family. Well, when I say my entire family, it wasn't much of a show. Dad doesn't speak to his family, nor Mum to hers. I don't know why but I thought of it now as I sat here with my Mother's sorrow for company. I had just turned 15 then and had taken a concoction of pills in a failed and half hearted suicide attempt. 'What's wrong?' asked a white coat in the hospital Psyche Ward as he stamped a referral for Family Therapy. I drew pictures for the counselor back then. An intricate sketch of a naked anorexic, falling in to a large crack in the ground. A screaming face with it's eyes sewn up. A ballerina, posed and happy. But nothing was resolved in those trite smiling sessions with all four of us sat around a table grained with detachment.

'You're a monster.' Mum threw her head in her hands and I rose to standing.
'Whatever I am, you made me. Whatever you say I am, I'm a product of you. You hate me? Tell you what I hate you more. Every fucking night I hate you. I hate everything about you. I even hate hating you.'
'Then get out' She screamed.
I finished my cigarette and moved closer to her.
'Did you think I was going to stay?' I bent right down and held my mouth close to her ear 'I'd rather sleep in the fucking gutter then be here.'
'Please stop it.' She cowered from my words, making me hate her more for her lack of strength.
'I'll be out of here as soon as I'm dressed.' I began to walk away from her, turning back only to add with a smile, 'And in case you're wondering, I'll be dressed whenever I'm fucking ready.'

Strong words indeed.

My clothes flapped on the line, innocent to the suburban nightmare that continued here. Everything was winter damp so I took it upstairs to the airing cupboard to finish drying. At the top of the stairs was a landing and off it came six doors. The first door was my Mother's room. The second door, my Father's was slightly ajar. Next to my Father's door was the airing cupboard, then Hayley's room, my room and the bathroom. As I placed my clothes on top of the hot water pipe, two things caught my eye. On the top shelf of the airing cupboard, hiding between the sheets and the disturbed pile of nightdresses that I had rummaged through last night; There, folded neatly as only my Mother could, lay my favorite black dress. I smiled at the thought that some of me was left here and pulled the dress close to my chest. As I held it there, my eyes settled on the second thing. Just inside the open door to my Father's room, sat atop the dressing table amidst the cozy china collectibles - there was a writing book with a title scribbled on the front. Just three words...

CLAIRE - TO DATE

I stepped back, still holding the dress,to the top of the landing. Listening carefully for any sign that my Mother was heading this way.

Silence.

I stepped tentatively forward and entered his room. Thumbing the cover for a moment I listened again.

Nothing.

I flicked the pages from back to front, stopping at the first sign of writing. Yesterdays date was at the top of the final entry and below it Dad wrote that he had received a phone call from Brenda and that he was going to drive to collect me. I flicked back further, more entries. A photo of me on the television from the documentary. Transcripts of phone calls to the director Mike Dornan. I flicked again, forwards, towards the last entry and one word jumped out at me like a sledgehammer.

GYPSY

'What the...?'

Next to the book lay a pair of scissors. Dad's scissors. I put the book down and thumbed the smooth metal instead, then headed to the bathroom. Looking in the mirror, I didn't like the girl that looked back. He had never wanted us girls to cut our hair so it seemed a delicious irony to do this here. I held each dredlock up by the tip and snipped them off near the root. Most of the green hair dye had washed out last night, so when I finished I was left with closely cropped, short brown hair. It felt so empowering. Whatever I was cutting off in that room it was more than hair. I removed Mum's nightgown and stepped into the shower, washed the 'old' me from my body. I could hear Mum moving around upstairs now, but I didn't care. Once dry I fumbled through her makeup bag, finding a black eyeliner, some black mascara and a dark grey eyeshadow. I took great care with my makeup. I had indeed changed and evolved. This was not the Gothic me. Not the Gypsy me. But the me that was going to walk out this door and screw the pants off a certain John McKenna. I pulled up the black dress and looked in the mirror.

'A Princess Moment!' I smiled. The look worked better than I had thought.

I took the makeup, threw it in a bag with my now dry clothes, grabbed my cigarettes from the bedroom and did exactly what my Mother wanted. Left this home.

'Keep the change.' I laughed at the bus driver, throwing him a five pound note from the roll in my hand and clutching the stolen bottle of Fitou in my other. My Mother's house had its uses after all. I made my way upstairs. To the back where I could smoke in peace, I leaned back and rested my bare feet on the seat in front. I saw a new future heading my way. A good feed in the Central Cafe was on the cards for starters. Some new shoes, more makeup, some clothes maybe, but most importantly a night on the town in the hope of stumbling upon John. I smiled at my own shallowness as I realised how much I wanted the city of Bath to see me pretty again. I thrived off these moments of fleeting attention. My eyes were closed and my thoughts on Dad's book when I heard laughter and a voice call out,
'Fucking 'ell. It's Spiff!'

Spiff was my nickname from school. Back then, posher than the masses in my speech and mannerisms, it earned me cruel jaunts and fury. I opened my eyes and saw Eric. Big fat ugly smelly Eric. And Tommy, tall thin fucked up tattooed Council Estate scum Tommy. It seemed amusing to me that I had seemed more teaseable than them. They sat on the seat in front of mine.
'Alright Spiffy! We heard that you were sleeping in Bristol with Steve Carter.'
He placed his chubby fingers on the back of the seat, brushing his hand against my bare foot and causing me to shrink away. I tucked my feet into my body, curling up on the seat. 'We heard,' continued Eric 'That you were fucking Steve. In fact we heard that you were giving it out to half the Bristol Posse.' He laughed and reached out to tousle my hair.
Tommy turned to face me too. 'Well lookie, lookie. Little Spiffy gone and grew up on me. Where's your violin and your plaits now bitch. You playing in the real world for a while?' He spied the bottle lying by my side. 'Give us a drink then.'
And he took the bottle from beside me. I didn't argue. I couldn't.
'How's Emma?' I asked Eric. Of these two it was him that I found more bearable.
''Shorty's the same as ever. Big tits, small brain. Opposite of you really.' And he laughed. Which, for some incomprehensible reason burnt me, just like it had in the old days. I also realised how much I missed my old friend Emma.
'Tell Emma I'm in Bath now. If you see her, tell her to come find me.'
'So where you living?' Eric was shaking his head at Tommy's futile attempt to push the cork into the wine bottle with a plastic pen. 'Give it here you wanker.' He took a knife from his pocket and pulled out the corkscrew attachment.
'I'm between homes at the moment.' Was the best I could come up with.
'Between homes.' Jibed Tommy putting on a squeaky posh voice, 'What the fuck does that mean?'
There was a loud pop as the cork was pulled from the bottle.
'Ladies first' Said Eric as he passed the bottle to me. I took a large glug and wondered what Eric wanted, as to be so nice was outside the ordinary. Eric flicked the corkscrew closed and pulled out a short blade. 'Where you getting off Spiff?' I watched as he began to carve a name on the back of the seat, scratching at the Formica with his penknife.
'Town Centre.' I replied.
Outside the bus window, the houses muted from red brick to the cream stone of Bath telling me that we would arrive at my stop in about fifteen minutes.
'Well this is our stop.' Called Eric as he jumped across Tommy to the aisle 'And give the girl her wine back.' Tommy lent over the seat and passed me the wine, at the same time looking down to see what Eric had carved on the back of their seat.
'You total wanker! You'll get me nicked' He shouted, punching Eric hard on the arm.
Eric ran towards the front of the bus laughing, shouting back at me, 'By the way, you look really nice in that dress and Tommy, he's on a suspended sentence for vandalism of public transport!'

And I laughed too as I ran my finger over the etched words 'Tommy Taubman was yer, April 88.'

Hands curled around the bottle of red I thanked the weather for it's warmness and the God's for not living in Longwell Green any more. I lit another cigarette and thought once again of Dad and Gypsy and the entry in the book. Their secret was now my secret. But did this mean that the Wolves were real?

Continued...