Soul Destruction Diary

The Meet with Mickey – 25 December 2000 – 2.15AM

Soul Destruction - Story of a London Call Girl - Mickey

About an hour or so ago, me and Lorna arrived at her friend’s house in Dee Why. We got here late, but other people are still turning up. The house is packed. I’m sitting on a sofa in the lounge. I’ve wandered around from the kitchen to the hall and back to the lounge. I’ve drunk too much vodka to walk anymore. I’m sat next to people who are gouching out. I’m not gouching though. Lorna won’t give me the heroin. She’s punishing me because she thinks I tried to overdose again. I didn’t though. It was an accident earlier. I told her, but she doesn’t believe me.

The music is loud. A Massive Attack song is playing – Inertia Creeps. I can’t make out what anyone is saying. Not that anyone is talking to me. They’re sitting in groups around the room. I can just hear that chatter sound. It’s drowning out the thoughts in my head. So is the music and so is the vodka. Heroin would be better though.

I’ve been watching Mickey since I got here. He looks less surfer-dude tonight. He’s wearing jeans and a white, short sleeved shirt. Lorna’s been speaking with him for ages. She’s left me alone here on the sofa. Another way to punish me. I don’t understand why it’s okay for her to talk to him but I’m not allowed to. If he’s as bad as she makes out, why is she spending time with him?

Lorna leaves the room. Mickey walks over to me. He sits next to me on the sofa. He smiles. I melt inside.

“Whatever Lorna’s said about me, it’s bullshit.”

“She hasn’t said anything,” I lie. I don’t want to cause any problems with my only connection in Sydney. I shouldn’t even be talking to him. If Lorna comes back and sees me, she might not score smack for me again. I had an inclination Mickey was one of us, but tonight he looks smart and his eyes are alert. I’m not sure if I should ask him.

“She said you’re a call girl. She can be a bitch.” Mickey squeezes my shoulder. “What did she say about me? I know she would’ve said something.”

Fuck it. If she told him that, I’ll tell him the truth. “You’re meant to be dangerous.” I try not to slur my words. “Are you?”

“I’m about as dangerous as you are a call girl.”

“Would that be right?” I lower my head then look up into his light blue eyes. “So, tell me, Mickey, can you get any smack?”

He stands up. I think I’ve offended him. It was too early to ask that. He wraps his fingers around my hand. He’s pulling me up from the sofa. This is promising. I feel wobbly on my feet. I hope I don’t trip in my six-inch Louboutins. He’s guiding me out of the lounge and into the hall.

“Do you want a drink?” he asks.

I remove my hand from behind my back and shake the bottle of Smirnoff I’ve been carrying.

“Let’s go then,” he says.

Still holding my hand, he walks up the stairs in front of me. I hobble behind. I hope he’s got some gear and not taking me upstairs because he thinks I’m going to fuck him. Not that I don’t want to fuck him. I do. But I don’t fuck for free. How is this going to work? I haven’t fucked anyone for free in ages. After having sex with a normal guy, it feels like I’ve done a job and not been paid. I don’t need to worry about this now. We’re probably going upstairs to have a hit, not to have sex. I don’t think he fancies me anyway. But then most men don’t care where they stick their dicks. Not the men I know.

On the upstairs landing, he opens a door. The bedroom is lit by a red light bulb. There’s a couple making out on the double bed.

“Time to leave,” he tells them.

They rush out the room. Who is he? I didn’t think this was his house. He sits on the bed. He pats the area next to him. He wants me on the bed.

Still standing, I say, “Have you got the gear?”

“No,” he replies.

I was right. He did bring me upstairs to fuck me. I can’t do this. I can’t get on a bed with a man and not get paid. This feels wrong. It feels alien. I feel like an alien. Although I find him attractive, I’m squirming inside. I head for the door. He gets there before me. He stands in front of the door, blocking my exit.

“I want to go downstairs.” I stamp my foot on the carpet.

“Me and you need a little talk first.”

“Just let me go. I can’t do this. I’m sorry.” I feel tears brimming in my eyes.

“Calm down. It’s all right. We’re only going to talk.”

He takes my hand. He leads me to the bed. I perch on the edge. He kneels on the floor, still holding my hand.

“Don’t be upset.” His voice is gentle. “I haven’t got any junk but I’m not judging you. I’m only three days off it myself.”

“Why did you bring me upstairs? You think I’m easy, some slut who’s just gonna fuck you?” Tears are streaming down my face. I’m more upset than I realised. Now I’ve really blown it with him.

He fiddles in the back pocket of his jeans and pulls out a handkerchief. He wipes my eyes and my cheeks. I imagine the black lines that are streaking my face. That’s what happens when I cry with lashings of mascara and eyeliner.

“I just wanted to have a word with you about Lorna,” he says. “She’s up to something with you. I don’t know what, but I know that girl and I know when she’s scheming.”

I stop snivelling. “I don’t think so.”

“Why did she tell me you were a hooker then? Why did she tell you I was dangerous? I know her of old. We were at school together. There’s nothing about her that gets past me. I’m telling you, be careful with her. Watch your back.”

“Thanks for the heads-up.” I don’t want to tell him I am a call girl. Actually, Lorna wasn’t lying when she told you that. I am pissed off with her for saying it though. That’s my private business, not that I’m ashamed, but it’s my prerogative who I choose to tell. Sometimes I wish I was a normal woman, a normal person, with normal life and a normal job.

I’ve had moments wondering about Lorna, but that’s only when I’ve had anxiety. Looking at the facts, she’s really taken care of me. She’s helped me out. She’s been kind. I think Mickey’s wrong about her.

After I’ve cleaned my face in the bathroom, me and Mickey go back downstairs. I look for Lorna in the lounge. She’s not there. I walk through to the kitchen. She’s not in there either. I’m dying for a hit. She better turn up soon.

While I’ve been wandering around downstairs, I’ve lost Mickey. I’m alone again at a stranger’s party. I don’t even know whose house this is. Back in the lounge, my seat on the sofa’s been taken. I find a corner and sit on the floor. It was a relief Mickey didn’t want to fuck me. I couldn’t have done it. But it’s an insult too. I want him to want me, even though I can’t let him have me.

Breaking In – 24 December 2000 – 11.05PM

Soul Destruction - Diary of a London Call Girl

“You said you wouldn’t try this again.” Lorna’s voice is harsh.

“I didn’t. I’m just sleeping.” I twist my body, turning to face her. My hotel suite still appears to be sinking. I struggle to keep my eyes open.

“You look fucked.” She sits down on the edge of my bed. “Where did you get the poison from?”

“How did you get in?”

“I had to get reception to open the door. If you keep OD’ing, I don’t wanna waste my time with you. This isn’t fun, Nicole. You better still be coming to the party.”

“I am. I didn’t OD. I just held a bit back last night. I was just topping up.”

“I’ve been hanging out all day, and you had some left!” Lorna throws a bag of heroin on the bedside table. “Gimme the spoon. You’re not having any more.”

“But I gave you half the money.” I open the drawer in the bedside table and take out the spoon.

“You can have yours later.” She snatches the spoon from my hand. “Go get dolled up. I need to borrow a dress. Can I have that Moschino one?”

Reluctantly, I slither out from under the covers. I walk over to the wardrobe and find the black dress Lorna wants. “Be careful with it. It’s one of my favourites.” I pass her the dress on the hanger.

My legs are unsteady as I head for the bathroom. I run the shower. I need to wake up and that should help. I brush my teeth then wash my face. My head is pounding. Smack does that sometimes, and especially after nearly overdosing I’ve found out in the last twenty-four hours. While I’m in the shower, I hear Lorna come through. She pulls the shower door open. Cold air rushes in.

“Mickey might be there tonight. I’d suggest you steer clear,” she says, holding the shower door open.

“What’s wrong with him? I thought he seemed nice.”

“He’s dangerous. That’s all I’m saying. What are you going to wear?”

I’m all goosebumpy with the cold air coming through. I hurry washing my body. “I don’t know yet.”

“Wear the purple dress. That would’ve been my second choice.”

The purple dress falls halfway down my calves. It’s high-necked too. It’s one I use for clients, so I look the part – and not like a hooker – usually at formal events. I don’t want to offend Lorna with my opinion of her taste. But I don’t want to wear that dress tonight either.

“What type of party is it?” I ask, rubbing conditioner through to the ends of my hair.

“A house party. I told you.”

“Don’t you think that dress is a bit too much? I’d be more comfortable in my black skirt and a top.”

“Wear what you want.” She slams the shower door.

I quickly rinse the shower gel from my body and the conditioner from my hair. I think about Mickey. I don’t want to stay away. He seemed so nice. A gentle soul is the impression I had of him. I guess Lorna might know him better. She must do. I’ve spent no more than a few minutes in his company.

In the suite, I step into my short, black skirt. Lorna looks at me disapprovingly. I look away. I rummage through the tops hanging in the wardrobe. I brought two large suitcases with me when I flew out here to Sydney. I’m not a discriminative packer. I’d have taken every item of clothing I own if I could have. I choose a purple top. That’ll keep Lorna happy, I hope. It’s something purple.

As I apply my make up in the bathroom, Lorna comes in. I see her face in the mirror above the sink. Her expression is hard. “C’mon, let’s go,” she says.

Hastily, I draw the black line above my lashes. “I haven’t done my mascara.”

“You don’t need it.” She grabs my arm, pulling me out of the bathroom.

I do need it. My lashes are blonde. Mascara opens my eyes up. I can’t say the words. She tosses my Louboutins at my feet. I slip them on. I run back through to the bathroom. I grab my mascara and pop it into my handbag. She can’t stop me applying it once we get there.

I know she’s angry with me. I can tell. I hate people being angry with me. I feel guilty. What happens to me is always the same – I lose my adult self and feel like a child.

The Past in the Present – 24 December 2000 – 6.55PM

Soul Destruction - Diary of a London Call Girl

I managed to get rid of Lorna. She went to her place then she’s going to score before the party tonight. I’m back in my hotel suite alone. I’ve got the syringe that I’m not sure is Lorna’s or mine in my hand. My belt is wrapped around my arm just above the elbow. A thick vein is bulging. I push in the needle. I pull back the plunger. The blood swirls up to meet the liquid in the barrel. I push in and deliver half the hit.

I’m being careful. Although I still want to die, I’ve decided I can’t do it. I can’t leave my sisters and my brother without me. I can’t be that selfish. I don’t see the point in living. What can life hold for a hooker who can’t work? It’s not about the money. It’s about doing something I’m good at, the only thing I’m good at, the only thing I know. It makes me feel like shit but it’s also my reason for being. It’s who I am. If I’m not a call girl, what the fuck am I? Who the fuck am I? Some twenty-five year old abused child who can’t deal with life.

I lie on the bed. The room feels like it’s getting lower. My eyelids are closing. I open them again, but they fall once more. I can see the babysitters. They’re standing around me. I’m in the bath. The bath in the house we lived in when my dad was still there. He’s gone though. He left a few months ago. That’s when mum started leaving me with these people. She didn’t know they were paedophiles. I know she didn’t. She wouldn’t have reacted like she did when she eventually found out what they’d done.

“I want to go to my room,” I tell them.

There’s four or five or six of them. All men apart from one woman. She holds out a towel. She picks me up out the bath. I’m standing naked in front of them. She lays the towel on the floor. She lays me on it.

“Stop! Stop!” I’m sobbing. I need the rest of my hit. I feel like I’m seven years old again. I don’t want to see this. I don’t want to watch another rerun of this fucking memory. I can feel their hands on me. The evil cunts! I want them off me. I want to kill them. When they get out of jail, maybe I will kill them. Unless some other inmates kill them while they’re in there. I want their throats slit. And hers. She wasn’t there often. But she was kind to me when she was. As an adult, I can see she was their accomplice. But at the time, I thought she cared for me. The fucking bitch. What an idiot. I thought she liked me. I thought she was a good person.

I pick up the syringe from the bedside table. I know I shouldn’t take the hit yet. I’ve too much heroin in my system already. This could be dangerous. But what else can I do? I can’t watch this anymore. Eyes open, eyes closed, it doesn’t make a difference. It’s all I can see. Me lying on that towel. I’m really small. They look really big. No one was looking after me. Someone should have been looking after me.

Holding the syringe upright, I flick out the air bubbles. I put the belt back into place around my arm. I slip the needle into the vein on the inside of my elbow. I pull back. The blood flows through to the pink mixture in the barrel. I push in hard.