Poppy Shakespeare (20 page)

32. How Rosetta gone and done a Captain Oats

Poppy was next but one after me, with Omar in between. I ain't said much about Omar yet 'cause there ain't much to say to
be honest. He sat down the end between Candid and Faith and opposite Unity. Zubin called Omar 'Omar Bombing' because of Northern
Ireland. But Verna the Vomit said that was tasteless 'cause people died and lost their legs and you didn't ought to joke about
stuff like that and Sue said,
who
lost their legs,
who's
joking? And Zubin said Omar Bombing don't mind. Do you Omar Bombing? And Omar just shrugged like whatever they said, it didn't
make no difference to him.

Nothing mattered to Omar Bombing on account he was too depressed to care or else he was eating his pic 'n' mix, else sleeping,
or all three at once. One time I seen him down Borderline Woolies, walking round and round the stand, grabbing huge fistfuls
of chocolate eclairs and mini Mars and jelly snakes and piling them into his basket. He'd heaped his basket up so high they
slid off and on to the floor, most of them, but I don't reckon Omar even noticed, just carried on, like in some sort of trance,
cramming his hand into tub after tub 'stead of using the scoop like you's s'posed to. These two shop assistants was stood there
watching and one of them started giggling and the other one nudged her like 'Shut the fuck up!' before he come over and hacked
them to pieces, then grilled the steaks I shouldn't wonder, community care do you know what I'm saying, on one of those instant
barbecues they was selling, three for £ 5.

Fact Omar was pretty much a pacific; he only ever done one thing I know of and that didn't hurt no one anyway, aside of hisself,
or his big toe to be precise. What happened was Omar Bombing's dad died, drunk so much his liver exploded or something like
that; he was hazy on the details. Omar hadn't seen his dad since he got took into care as a kid, and he'd never mentioned
him neither, not once; fact we never even realised he even got one. When he heard his dad died, Omar never said nothing, just
slumped in his chair, eating pic 'n' mix and breathing so loud it sounded like he was snoring. First we knew was when he shown
up one morning pegging along on crutches, and his foot bandaged up the size of a polyfoam pillow. 'What's up with Omar Bombing?'
said Zubin. 'Don't call him that,' said Verna the Vomit. 'It isn't funny; people died. Children lost their legs . . .' 'What's
that?' said Sue the Sticks. 'Who lost his legs? Omar hasn't lost his legs. You ain't lost your legs have you, Omar? What you
done? You hurt your foot?' So Omar told her, yes he had, he'd broke his big toe kicking his father's gravestone. And he told
us it felt good as well, he'd never felt so good, he said, and you seen him, he was all buzzed up and the next day too and
the day after that but then it worn off and he slumped in his chair like normal.

So Poppy was next after Omar Bombing and she come out the toilets just as I was going past. She looked like a fucking film
star, no kidding, in her high-heeled shoes and her perfect legs, all freshly made up with her hair in a razor sharp bob. And
suddenly this shouting starts up, then I seen Fat Florence with a traffic cone held to her mouth like a giant loud hailer.
'One, two, three, four! What do we want?' And all the 'Ps are supposed to join in but instead they just stand there mouthing
the words, hiding behind their banners and stuff and looking down at their slippers. 'What do we want!' Fat Florence yells.
'One, two, three, four! What do we want?' but they's mumbling so low you can't hardly hear, and Fifth-Floor Praveen blows
his whistle a bit but so feeble it hardly squeaks. 'One, two, three, four! What do we want? Move down a floor! Five, six, seven,
eight! Ps want action; Ps won't wait! One, two, three, four! What do we want?' 'Ps want action!' whispers Paolo and she elbows
him so hard you can hear his ribs cracking, while Pepsi swings this football rattle so limp it don't even click.

So Fat Florence give up and just shouted herself, over and over again. And she made up more of them as well, 'Fee, fi, fum,
fo! Poppy Shakespeare has to go!' which stuck in my head for the rest of the day on account it was so fucking stupid.

'Alright?' I said as Poppy gone past, and she said something, 'cept I didn't hear what, but it sounded like 'Wish me luck.'

'Where can she be?' said Middle-Class Michael. Rosetta still hadn't come in. 'I wonder if somebody ought to phone? She hasn't
got long now; she's next after Quok.'

'Stop hassling, man,' White Wesley said. 'She coming innit. She told me she coming.'

'I'm not
hassling,'
said Middle-Class Michael (he got the hump on account of two 5.5s). 'I'm not
hassling;
I'm merely concerned.'

'You two!' said Verna. 'Oh my God!' She was staring over Brian's chair. The dribblers sat with their backs to the door twisted
round to have a look what she seen.

'Rosetta!' said Sue. 'What you
done
to yourself?'

White Wesley said nothing but he looked like he seen his own ghost.

Rosetta come round to her chair and sat down, smoothing out her skirt so's it didn't crumple. 'Afternoon,' she said, and she
smiled at us like nothing weren't different at all.

'What you
done
to yourself.' said Sue the Sticks.

'It's assessments!' said Astrid. She sounded suspicious but Rosetta just smiled and nodded.

'What she
done
to herself?' said Sue the Sticks.

'Don't know,' said Verna, picking a bit at this patch of vomit, dried on the sleeve of her sweatshirt.

'The outfit, man!' White Wesley said. 'What's with the outfit!' He stared at Rosetta like blinking his eyes to see if she'd
disappear.

'Lord!' said Rosetta and she shaken her head, but she smiled to herself as well. 'Can't a woman take a little trouble now
and then without all this fussing and questions!'

'Suit yourself' said Astrid Arsewipe and she looked at me and rolled her eyes but I shown her the back of my head.

I'm not being funny, but Rosetta looked beautiful. She got this green scarf tied round her head like a turban, shown off the
rich brown skin of her face, not dusty no more but so shiny and polished you seen yourself reflected like in a mirror. Her
eyelids was painted in blue and gold all the way up to her eyebrows, and clamped on her ears was these massive gold clip-ons
the size of a pair of light-bulbs. Round her neck she got more gold too; on top of the necklace from Pollyanna, this thick
gold chain, I mean every link at least an inch side to side. I ain't sure it was 22 carat, do you know what I'm saying, I
mean sat there beside her you could see these bits where the gold had rubbed off and it looked sort of grey underneath, but
it didn't notice. Her dress was the same sort of thing as her scarf but long and flowing right down to the floor and the great
wide sleeves half-covered her hands so you couldn't see the fag burns hardly at all, just the gold rings on every finger.
Like I say, she did; she looked really good, but more carnival to tell you the truth than Dorothy Fish assessment.

It weren't like we didn't try telling her. But nothing you said made no difference. She just sat with her hands clasped, calm
and smiling, listening to Wesley, with tears in his eyes, saying how she been like a mother to him and he'd kill hisself if
she got discharged. 'Please man,' he said. 'Ditch the jewellery at least! For me,' he said. 'For Pollyanna. You'll never get
through looking like that! You're throwing your life . . .' but he had to stop on account of he started crying. Rosetta leant
over and patted his hand but she didn't take off her jewellery.

Quok-ho gone out and we sat and waited. The only sound was the creak of chairs as dribblers shifted this way and that avoiding
each other's gaze.

Rosetta stood up.

Good luck,' we said. My cheeks was burning.

'I may be some time,' Rosetta said, and, without looking back, she walked out the double swing-doors.

We all agreed how it weren't our fault, 'cause it weren't, but we still felt shit. 'It's not like we didn't say!' said Sue.'Thought
she knew better,' Astrid said. 'She was trying to get through on the ethnic bit.' 'What ethnic bit is that?' said Zubin. 'Yeah,'
said Sue. 'What ethnic bit?' 'The ethnic quota,' Astrid said. 'That's right, innit Michael?' Michael said nothing. 'The ethnic
quota,' Astrid said. 'Black people stand a better chance.' 'Ten
times
better,' Michael said. 'I never heard of that!' said Sue.
'You
heard of that, Vern?' 'Ten times!' said Astrid. 'That's not really what . . .' said Middle-Class Michael. 'I'm only saying!
Why do
you
think she did it?' said Astrid. 'Fuck off!' said Zubin.

Poppy was really upset 'cause they'd told her she got to stay another six months. 'You seem to have issues with trust,' they
said. 'We can't help until you start talking to us. We're not mind readers . . .' 'Well that's bollocks for starters!' I said when she told me. 'Tony is! He knows what you's
thinking before you thought it. This one time, right, there was Marta the Coffin . . .' 'I just can't stand it,'Poppy said,
and she started crying. 'I can't go on. I can't get through another day. I really can't. I'll go out of my mind.''Come on!'
I said. 'It could be worse. At least we got each other,' I said. 'Look on the bright side! Think of Rosetta. Most probably
top herself now,' I said, but she wouldn't be comforted.

33. How me and Poppy done mirroring and it was, it was really weird

When we come in next morning, Rafik had already moved down. He was sat in the 'R' chair so full of hisself he was spilling
out his own ears. 'Pleased with yourself, are you?' says Tadpole. 'Rosetta ain't halfway down the hill! Show a bit of respect!'
she said. And she shaken her head at me and tutted. 'Flops!' she said. 'We'd be better off without them.'

Poppy weren't in yet; she still weren't in by ten o'clock,when Communication started with Rhona the Moaner. 'Has anyone seen
Poppy Shakespeare?' she said and we all said no we hadn't, so Malvin Fowler gone off to look, tugging one fat pink hand out
his trousers to open the door and letting it slam behind him.

Me and Middle-Class Michael and Brian and Gita and Harvey and Rhona the Moaner was sat round in a circle in the games room.
'Last week,' says Rhona, 'we were looking at ways we sometimes use to communicate without saying precisely what we mean.
Does anyone remember?' she said.

'Hinting,' says Michael. 'Insinuation.'

'Which is hinting isn't it, more or less,' says Rhona the Moaner. I smirked, couldn't help it. 'Thank you, Michael. Anyone
else?' She smiled round us all. Brian the Butcher looked down; I could hear him going through his sevens. Gita kept turning
her magazine. 'Anyone?' says Rhona. Harvey snorted and woke hisself up, then shut his eyes again. Middle-Class Michael started
to twitch, sounded like a packet of crisps, on account he was sat on a Woolworth'sbag, said the chairs was unheygenic. 'One
second, Michael,' says Rhona the Moaner. 'Anyone else? OK, well let's move on.'

Normally I
would
of spoke, made the groups go quicker I reckoned. Before you knew it you was back outside with a fag in your hand and a cup
of tea and last one done for the week. But I got a bit of a headache that morning on account of the six cans of Tennents I'd
drunk the night before, say well done for my perfect 6s.

'OK,' says Rhona, smiling around. They didn't half perk her up, them groups; you never seen her so cheerful. 'OK,' she says.
'Well I thought today we'd try a bit of non-verbal communication.'

Then we had to clear the chairs to the side and get into pairs together. So guess who winds up with Rhona the Moaner? Billy
fucking No Mates, that's who. And she makes me go and stand opposite her, like to show them all what to do. And we're doing
this thing called 'mirroring' so she starts doing circles and stuff with her hands and lifting her feet up and I'm s'posed
to do it back. 'That's right,' she says. 'That's right, N. Good! That's right, point your toe . . . Now
your
turn!' she goes, and all I can think of is waving my hands, so I wave at her and she waves back and I wave some more and she
waves some more and I feel like a total toolhead. 'Well done!' says Rhona. 'That's excellent, N! Now, everyone, decide who's
leading and who's going to be the mirror. OK? Are we ready? Three minutes. No talking. Begin.'

And that's when Malvin and Poppy come in. I ain't saying she'd been on top form exactly when I'd left her the night before.
I mean, I knew she was upset about the assessments. But the way she looked now, do you know what I'm saying. Her face was
as pale as a puffball mushroom, her eyelids so swollen, there was barely two slits for her bloodshot eyes to see out of. 'Jesus!'
I thought. ' Something
terrible
must of happened.'

'Poppy!' says Rhona. 'You're just in time!' And she paired us off just like that. I mean, not even 'Are you alright?' or nothing;
could be dying, could be
dead
for all they care, so long as they ticked you off. First it was me had to mirror Poppy. She didn't move. Just stood there
all limp and dropping down from her shoulders. I'll tell you what she reminded me of: one of Mum's plants she'd forgot to
water, just before it died.

'You alright?' I whispered.

'No talking!' said Rhona.

Poppy shrugged. I shrugged back at her. She folded her arms. I folded my arms.

'What?' I mouthed. She shaken her head. I shaken my head.

'That's lovely!' said Rhona the Moaner.

All I could think of was Saffra was dead. That was the only thing I could think of. Saffra been run over. And if she weren't
dead she was dying anyway. Or maybe she got leukaemia and she needed a bone-marrow transplant. And what if I was the only
match and I give her some and I saved her life and it turned out Poppy was really rich and she said she could give me anything,
anything in the whole wide world, but I'd just shrug and say, 'S'alright; don't worry about it!' . . .

Behind Poppy, Michael and Brian the Butcher was turning their hands like over and back, over and back, over and back. They
done it so perfect you couldn't tell who was the mirror. 'Lovely!' said Rhona.

Then it was my turn. I give her a grin, but Poppy didn't grin back. I frowned. She didn't frown back neither. I couldn't even
tell if she was looking at me on account of her eyes was too swollen. 'Poppy!' I hissed.

'No talking!' said Rhona.

I waved. Didn't wave. I tutted - weren't
talking,
but Rhona still gone 'Shhh!' So then I give up and just folded my arms, and I felt a bit pissed off, to be honest. I mean,
I'd
copied
her,
do you know what I'm saying. And I'd give her my marrow for nothing as well! So I changed my mind. I wouldn't say no. But
I'd charge her; that's what I'd do, fucking charge her. Like so much a pound, do you know what I'm saying? I'd have to think
about how much. I weren't sure what people would pay for good marrow. Quite a bit though,
quite
a bit. The way she gone on about that kid. But what about meds? What if that meant you couldn't? Well, I'd come off my meds
then, wouldn't I? But what if the meds meant you couldn't
ever?
So I wouldn't
tell
them; how would they
know?
And that's when I noticed Poppy had folded her arms.

I thought it was a coincidence, but just to see, I unfolded my arms and, straight off, Poppy done the same. I shrugged; she
shrugged. I scratched my head. She scratched her head, exactly identical. I turned around; she turned around; it was really
weird how it felt like. I frowned; she frowned. Do you know what I'm saying! And she done it so perfect, so exactly together,
it was like she knew before I done it. And I ain't being funny but it got to the point where I didn't know who was mirroring
who. I weren't even thinking no more, just moving; and Poppy the same, we was both just moving, like wheels on a bike, both
exactly together, spinning all over the room.

'That's lovely!' said Rhona. We flown up in the air. We circled around the panic alarm. We ducked and we dived and we dived
and we ducked. Fowler tried to catch us but we flown through his fingers. We was two wings of one butterfly. We flown out
the window and off round the tower. Round and around and around the tower, higher and higher, we flown in the autumn sunshine.