by t’ stomach-aching ordinariness of it all. I found it hard to fathom what it wor all about, and my attention drifted off into musings on some of t’others about me. Such as the man in t’ Michael Caine glasses and mustard poloneck sweater. Or t’ long-haired man in black velvet loons who perched cross-legged on his chair all evening. The woman in t’ white denim all-in-one, the bib decorated wi’ flower patches. The thin-faced Asian bloke who listened wi’ his chin tilted toward t’ cornice.
My stomach wor growling so loudly I wor sure everyone could hear it. The weasly, freckle-headed man sitting next to me must have heard. And yet, somehow the demons beneath t’ skin stayed quiet.
Mustard-poloneck man stood up, took off his specs and wiped them, then welcomed everyone, ‘especially the new faces’. A few heads swivelled my way, so I looked down at my boots.
There wor an agenda. And friggin’ points.
Point one: Should the women have separate meetings? This wor held over, cos there wor so few women present. Maybe they wor stuck on t’ island Jim said they’d bought.
Point two: Back copies of Gay News should be collected and donated to fish-and-chip shops as politicised wrapping. This wor passed, and two people said they’d take care of it.
Point twelve: Should PIE be part of t’ meetings?
I turned to t’ weasly man next to me. ‘Pie?’ I whispered hopefully. I wor friggin’ famished.
‘Paedophile Information Exchange,’ he replied.
This caused a long and heated debate about t’ Gay Lib position on t’ age of consent, wi’ some saying there shouldn’t be one at all, and others saying it should be lowered from twenty-one to sixteen, which one of t’ PIE men said wor discriminatory against kids, and then he got into a right shouting ruckus wi’ this other bloke which ended wi’ t’ PIE man calling us all fuckin’ fascists and storming out. Finally there wor a show of hands. I didn’t raise my hand. PIE would still have lost.
There wor more friggin’ points, and then we wor asked if anyone had owt else to say, and of course some goon wi’ a stammer did. The meeting lasted a friggin’ century, and I clenched my buttocks, trying not to fart. ‘Any other business?’ took a whole half-hour.
Eventually we ‘adjourned’ downstairs. In t’ bar, the men flocked about me like gulls fighting over a morsel. Someone wor asking me loads of questions, someone else plied me wi’ drink, someone squeezed my arse. I knew I wor getting khalied, cos I wor drinking too fast and my teeth wor becoming numb. I fell against a table.
‘I should be off,’ I slurred, unable to will mesen to move. Then, somehow, I wor pushing through t’ pub doors and stumbling into a street bin. I heard a voice calling out after me, calling out my name.
05/02/1977
The Saturday after Irene Richardson wor done over, we called in on Vanessa as usual. We found her in a bit of a state. The police had been doing door to door. She had hid hersen in t’ kids’ room, wi’ t’ kids, waiting for ’em to leave. Then a reporter came nosing, doing t’ same.
‘She wor here,’ Vanessa said, rocking little Jase on her knee and chain smoking.
‘Who wor?’
‘Irene. Not long before she wor done over, Irene turned up here.’
‘Jeez, Vanessa, you haven’t told the cops?’
‘Tell them owt and they’ll never be off yer doorstep. So don’t you go saying nowt neither, hear me?’
Eric nodded. Vanessa eyeballed me and I nodded also. She stroked Jase’s hair.
‘When I heard a banging at t’ door I knew summat wor up. I rolled over in bed, hoping that whoever it wor would go away. But it wor t’ kind of knocking that has the devil right behind it, if yer know what I mean. Then I heard my name called – or at least the name I use on t’ street – and I wor surprised, cos it wor a woman’s voice. I remember what time it wor cos the alarm clock said it wor after 3 a.m.’
I could picture the alarm clock. I’d spotted it one time through t’ open bedroom door: a kiddies’ clock wi’ Mickey and Minnie Mouse seesawing through time. Vanessa took a long drag on her ciggie.
‘I got up, wrapped mesen in my bathrobe’ (the pink one she often wore) ‘and shouted, “All right, all right, I’m effin’ coming – Jesus bloody Christ!”’
I pictured Vanessa pulling her fingers through her tangled hair as she padded barefoot down t’ corridor lino and unslotted the safety chain to find hersen peering through t’ door crack at a small, dishevelled woman. ‘Only I couldn’t see her proper,’ Vanessa said. ‘Not in that light. But she wor somehow familiar.’
Before she’d been able to say owt Vanessa had been hit by Irene pleading in her Glaswegian accent. ‘Cannae stay … I’m sorry, please … I need somewhere to stay … just a wee while, just for tonight, just one night, it’s so cold, and I won’ be no trouble …’ on and on she’d gabbled, plainly fearing that if she stopped for a moment the door would be closed on her.
‘What could I do?’ Vanessa said, looking at us both. ‘I unhitched the chain and told her she could have t’ sofa. She stood in t’ middle of t’ room in her fake suede coat, this wild look in her eye. I know that look, when someone’s hanging on by their last fingertips. Scared me shitless, I can tell you. Maybe, not far behind, there wor some very angry bloke, a pimp, a punter. I said to her, “Do I know you?” And that’s when she told me her name. Said she’d seen me out working once or twice, and knew where I lived.’
After that Irene had fallen silent, as if suddenly struck dumb by some affliction. She’d stood there, shivering, clutching her bag to her chest. Vanessa offered her a ciggie and she took it, then Vanessa lit one for hersen. Irene’s fingers wor dark and unsteady.
‘I fetched her a blanket, and told her where to find a towel in t’ bathroom, but she said she wor fine. Said she’d been roughing it and tidying hersen up at a public lav. Then she asked me if I’d got kids. Turns out she’d got two an’ all, only hers were in care. She said it wor just for a while, ’til she got back on her feet.’
Vanessa pulled her robe tighter about her. ‘Then she asked if she could see my kids. I held the door open just a little, cos I didn’t want her going in there, but then she wanted to stroke their hair. So I told her I didn’t want ’em woken up.’
For most of t’ night Vanessa had lain awake, anxiously listening through t’ bedroom wall to Irene crashing about like a restless horse in a stall. Across from Vanessa, Barry and Jase slept on, top and tailed on t’ single mattress.
Gradually the noises grew less frequent, then ceased altogether.
The next morning Irene had tried to negotiate another night, but Vanessa had told her bluntly that she couldn’t stay. Irene’s chillingly blank stares and constantly furrowed brow sapped Vanessa’s strength, and she wanted to be shot of her. Vanessa pulled a fiver from her purse – her only punter the previous afternoon.
‘Here,’ she said, holding it out. Irene didn’t hesitate.
‘Vanessa,
