The Devil's Staircase (14 page)

‘Must have been our bong, or someone having a barbecue,’ Fliss said. I sniffed the air again, sniffed the boards, but there was no trace of smoke
or
heat. Jesus Christ, I needed to do more than stop taking drugs. I needed a psychiatrist.

‘You don’t need a psychiatrist,’ Fliss said, sitting on the boards beside me and popping one of her magic pills into my mouth. ‘You just need to get dressed.’

I looked where she was looking. Shit, I was naked. I had been lying naked before another human being for minutes, sprawled face down on the floor, sniffing and groping at the boards with my hands like some barenaked madwoman.

‘Sexual Lesson number 34b,’ Fliss said, ‘. . . and this is very, very important . . .’

I had covered myself with the sleeping bag, and was listening carefully, although in truth Fliss’s sexual lessons had proved bloody useless thus far.

‘Is to never, ever . . . stink of shit.’

I was gobsmacked. Did I really stink of shit? Why had no one said anything? ‘The burning smell’s a welcome change,’ Fliss said, opening my window and spraying some perfume into the air. She told me the smell from my room seemed to have seeped out into the hallway and that I should think about giving up peanut butter. She also said that I lacked conviction.

‘All a girl needs to do is
decide
she wants sex, then have it. Simple. Do you want to?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then pick someone, and do it, tonight.’

‘Okay,’ I said, before scrubbing myself so hard in the shower that I almost bled. Before heading out, I sprayed my room with Fliss’s perfume again and threw out the catering size tub of crunchy peanut butter that Hamish had given me.

An hour later, a bunch of us shared a taxi to Club Wolf. As the black cab motored along Ladbroke Grove, I began to forget the goings-on in the house and smile at the London sights that whizzed by – the people of different colours, different styles, walking fast along busy streets. I loved London. I loved everyone in the taxi, and the neat queue at the door of the club, the music inside, the way Cheryl-Anne grinned widely as she danced even though she had a child who was 12,000 miles away and even though she had used the phrase: ‘Those bloody Abos’ on more than one occasion. I loved how Fliss nabbed a man who wasn’t Zach ten seconds after arriving. How Zach didn’t seem to give a shit. And I loved my men – all three of whom danced with me for hours: Pete, self-conscious and awkward, thinking about each step and oft-times pointing; Francesco, groovy and outlandish, dancing with me but
not
with me; and Hamish, cute and comfortable, at home with the beat, always smiling. Although I had planned to lose my virginity to Francesco and Francesco alone, the lights and the music spoke to me clear as day. I could lose my virginity to any one of these men, because at 12 o’clock, when the dancing ended, I loved each of them just the same.

It was time to huddle in a quiet club corner and look at each other. Cheryl-Anne had tried it on with Pete some time earlier. ‘I think he’s retarded,’ she’d announced after several raunchy dances and an actual quad lick. He’d pulled her up from her licking position and asked if she would like a glass of water. When she said no, he said: ‘Well, I do. Could you get it for me?’ Cheryl-Anne flicked her hair and set about finding a set of biceps that would appreciate the acrobatics of her tongue. Zach ended up on stage with someone else’s guitar. Fliss snogged three men then took one of them outside for a walk.

‘What time is it?’ I asked Francesco, whose forehead seemed very shiny. ‘Midnight,’ he said, ‘Can you believe it?’

I didn’t answer him. Didn’t need to. We all knew that it was unbelievable and amazing for the time to actually be midnight.

‘What’s the time?’ I asked Francesco a moment later. ‘Midnight,’ he said.

‘Wow.’

‘You guys are fucked,’ said Pete from his non-drug-taking position of superiority.

The staring turned to touching when Francesco stroked my face. I loved Francesco. When I reciprocated the stroke, I noticed his face was moist. Pete’s felt rougher, manly. Hamish’s was a bit weird . . . like polystyrene. Apparently my face was soft and beautiful. All of them agreed on this.

We took turns ordering drinks. Francesco ordered real champagne. Hamish ordered vodka and lemonade. I ordered red wine and tonic with a splash of Bailey’s for colour and texture. Pete ordered water. Apparently my concoction was the worst drink any of them had ever had.

‘I’m a virgin,’ I said as the four of us taxied home. ‘I’ve been trying to give it to Francesco but he won’t take it and his option is running out.’ My head was out the window. London was rushing through my hair. I brought my head back inside the taxi and looked at my boys.

‘Why won’t you fuck me, Francesco?

‘I’m a slut.’

‘But that’s perfect!’

‘I’m in slut mode. Wham. Bam. Piss off. I accidentally got to know you. I don’t fuck people I know . . . God, too much responsibility.’

‘So have you been with anyone since we met?’

‘Let me think . . . yes.’

‘No!’

‘Most nights.’

‘No!’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m so dumb. Fliss says I’m dumb. Fliss says I need to wake up and wear more makeup, which could be a song. Fliss says all I need to do is pick someone, then just do it with them, just like that, ’cause I’m a girl. So . . . what about you, Hamish? . . . or Pete . . .
and
Pete . . . and Francesco. Oh, I can’t choose! I know, I’ll find a place to put each one of you!’

‘Shut up,’ Pete said.

‘I just want to have a fuck.’

‘If you don’t shut up I’ll ask the driver to stop.’

‘What’s wrong with you boys? I’m offering a hymen-breaking eardrum-rupturing group fuck!’

Pete asked the driver to stop, opened the door, shoved me out of the car, and then shut it again. The other two boys seemed to be giggling as I stood open-mouthed on the side of the road. I was in the same position when the car stopped fifty metres ahead to let Pete out. He walked towards me and the taxi took off again.

‘What is wrong with you?’ I screamed as he approached me. ‘You’re completely mashed, Bronwyn. You don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Fuck you.’

‘You just offered yourself to three men, at the same time.’ ‘So?’

‘So stop saying the word fuck.’

I began walking along the dark, littered street as fast as I could, muttering the ‘f’ word over and over till it made no sense. The wave had gone, for now, and I didn’t love everything so much. Bastard, humiliating me like that, ruining my night. He walked two steps behind me and no matter how fast I walked, I couldn’t lose him. After three blocks, I stopped and turned suddenly.

‘Why won’t anyone take my virginity? Am I ugly?’

Pete stopped. ‘No.’

‘I’m stupid then.’

‘Francesco likes it kinky – in public. He told me that last night he did it in the Ladies’ at Whiteley’s Shopping Centre with some girl from the kebab shop. After that public kiss in the squat, he probably realised you wouldn’t go for that.’

‘I
am
stupid.’

‘Sometimes, but mostly sad. I think you’re trying to be happy, but I’m not sure it’s working. What’s going on inside that head?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Have you done something you’re ashamed of?’

‘Why? No.’

‘Is there something that terrifies you?’

‘No!’

‘You’ve been stoned since you got here. You’ve seen nothing. You’ve done nothing.’

‘I went to Oxford.’

‘You went to a pub.’

‘Bugger off.’

‘Why are you holding back? What are you scared of? Who are you?’

‘Who are
you,
Mr Pete?’ I asked. The wave had returned, that swimming, lovey feeling the second pill gave.

‘I’m Peter McGuire, I’m 24 and I’m from a town outside of Adelaide. My mother’s a drunk. My father’s English. I’m in love with you.’

‘I’m in love with you too,’ I said, stroking his rough face. ‘No, not drug-induced. I feel like you’re my home.’

‘Oh! I think you’re a home too.’

‘Jesus Christ!’ Pete was annoyed at me for some reason, maybe because as I said the thing about a home I fell over. He walked off in a huff, the weirdo, and after picking myself up I ended up following his rigid square shoulders as they punched at the night.

At 2 a.m., all three boys were still awake. Bobby hadn’t come home, and the household was no longer flippant about late arrivals.

It was five weeks since
that
Tuesday, when Johnny and Sam had woken to the sound of their Dad’s alarm. Radio 2 it was, cheerful and unimposing. They’d looked across at each other from their parents’ super king-size bed, which is where the boys always ended up.

‘Where is she?’ Johnny had asked. He’d woken and stretched out to find her, but she wasn’t there. Wasn’t in the middle of them, warm and smiling, for the morning cuddle after working all night to get them toys and holidays.

‘Where is she?’ Johnny had yelled to his Dad, who was brewing the coffee.

‘What?’

‘Mummy? She’s not here.’

‘I can’t hear you.’

‘Mummy’s not here.’

‘Don’t yell,’ Greg had said, two coffees in his hand. ‘I think she’s in the loo.’

Greg put the coffees on the table beside the bed.

‘Ceils!’ he’d said lovingly, knocking on the door of the toilet.

‘Ceils!’ he’d said lovingly, peering into the study.

‘Ceils!’ he’d said lovingly, checking out the boys’ room and the living room.

‘Ceils!’ he’d said, doing all of the above, again.

‘Celia!’ he’d said to her voicemail.

‘CELIA!’ into the street after he’d phoned work.

Into Kensington Gardens after he’d phoned the police. The tube.

Whiteley’s Shopping Centre.

Her Mum’s.

Her good friends.

Her not-so-good friends.

Kensington Gardens again.

‘CELIA, CELIA, CELIA!’

Hell was not knowing. Greg had experienced the feeling in miniature – waiting for Celia to say yes, she would marry him; for the doctor to say no, the foetus did not have Down’s Syndrome. But not knowing where she was, what she was doing, if she was alive – this level of not knowing was hot, burning, crazy hell.

He could split it into sections, how it had eaten him alive. First was that strange calm. It felt like when Sam was three and had disappeared in the supermarket. Greg’s heart didn’t race for a while, as if it had made a pact with its owner – beat fast and you admit the worst is possible. Sam had emerged after sixty seconds with a half-eaten doughnut from the bakery section. Greg had smiled.