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...
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...
posted by Claire at 4:05 pm
1 Comments:
Claire, we miss you!
Michelle (aka Mississippi)
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