Soul Destruction Diary

Friendly Warning – 24 December 2000 – 2PM

Soul Destruction - Diary of a London Call Girl

Me and Lorna have been at the beach, drinking vodka, since this morning. We’ve positioned ourselves a few feet away from the sea. I like it here. I like being with my new friend, even if she didn’t care to call an ambulance for me. I understand why. She’s being lovely looking after me today. As well as treating me to breakfast, she bought me a sandwich for lunch. I rarely eat once a day, let alone twice. I’m surprised she eats so much, being as thin as she is. But I do have a suspicion she doesn’t keep it all down.

I’m trying to listen more carefully to what she says. I find it hard to listen to anyone fully. I always have other thoughts swimming in my head. They don’t stop when people are talking to me. If anything, they get louder, fighting for my attention. I’ve already upset Lorna by getting some of what she’s told me wrong. I don’t want to do it again. She worked in the brothel for two months, I remind myself. She had a termination at sixteen, I repeat in my head. I don’t know where I got two years in the brothel and the termination at seventeen from. I’d find it offensive too if someone wasn’t listening to me properly.

I’ve been looking out for Mickey, but he’s not here. I wonder if I will get to see him again. Although I’m happy here, I can’t wait to leave. I can’t stop thinking about getting back to my hotel suite. When I get back, I can take the hit I stashed in my toiletry bag this morning. Because Lorna doesn’t know I have it, I’ll need to get rid of her for a while so I can take it. Not knowing whether the syringe is dirty isn’t going to stop me. I can’t hold out until Lorna scores tonight. I need my fix too badly to wait. I’ll be getting myself checked out at a clinic either way. So it doesn’t really make a difference whatever I do.

I’m not going to overdose again. I’ve made a decision. My thoughts aren’t facts. That’s what Dr Fielding says. Just because I think I want to die, it doesn’t mean I do. I think that’s what she means. I’m going to take the hit in two goes to be safe. After nearly overdosing on the shot last night, and being that they are the same strength – which they would be having been drawn up from the same mixture – I need to be careful.

Lorna throws back her head, taking a swig from the bottle of coke that we premixed with vodka. “I think I’ll need a sleep before the party tonight.”

“Me too. I might go back to the hotel in a bit.” I hope she doesn’t want to come with me.

“Wait here.” Lorna staggers towards the sea. She looks as drunk as I feel.

I stay lying on my Betty Boop towel. I watch her sway along the shoreline. The sun’s bright in my eyes. I put on my Ray-Bans. She’s talking to someone. They walk into the sea together. It’s a man. She’s holding his arm, probably for balance. I think he looks like Mickey. I’m not sure. They’re not that near. I can’t see clearly enough.

I’m feeling dizzy but I stand up. I want to know if it’s him. I still can’t tell. Should I go over and see? No, I’ll embarrass myself. Mickey didn’t turn up to see me here last time. He’s not interested in me. I can’t have him reject me a third time. And I’m drunk. It’s best I stay here. I sit back down on my towel.

Lorna and the man walk to the shore. It is Mickey. He’s looking over at me. I wave. He waves back at me. I don’t have much make up on today. In fact, after going into the sea a few times, and covering myself in oil, I probably don’t have any make up on. I change position, lying on my stomach with my head in the direction of the promenade. I’m not looking at him now. I don’t want him to see me. Not today. Not the day after I tried to kill myself. Not drunk. And not with no make up on.

After a while, with my face buried in the towel, I hear Lorna say, “How do you know Mickey?”

I sit up. She’s standing in front of me, shielding my body from the sun. “I met him the other day…here.”

“He’s no good.” She rests her hands on her hips. “Stay away from him.”

Avoidance – 24 December 2000 – 10.40AM

Soul Destruction - Diary of a London Call Girl

On a side street not far from the beach, me and Lorna are having breakfast. I’m not in a talkative mood. I’m feeling guilty. It was a selfish act I committed. Even though I failed, someone like me shouldn’t think about that, let alone do it.

However useless I feel, Milly needs me after what she’s been through. I was a mother to her for most of her life. I should be there for her now. I might only be her older sister but she needs more than that from me. So do Enda and Susie. They’re all used to getting more than that from me. I was a better mother to them when I was seven years old than I have been recently. How did I do it back then? Where did I find the strength? I need to get that part of me back.

I pick at my toast. I feel full up. I’ve managed to eat two fried eggs and that’s good for me. That’s a day’s worth of food. More than a day’s worth really. Most days I don’t eat this much. Not that I want to be as thin as I am, I’m just not hungry.

Lorna’s a strange type of heroin addict – not that I know many. Like me, Shelley didn’t eat much either. But Lorna’s been shovelling her fry up into her mouth as if the waitress is about to return and whisk her plate back to the kitchen. Two fried eggs, two rashers of bacon, two sausages, fried tomatoes, mushrooms, baked beans, chips and toast. I feel sick watching her.

“How are you feeling? Lorna speaks with her mouth full.

“Okay.” I nibble a slice of toast. I don’t want to talk about me. “What was it like working in a brothel?” I ask. That’s one kind of working I’ve never done. I went from streetwalker at fifteen to call girl within a two-year period and without stopping off at any other level in between.

“I don’t know really. I only did it for a couple of months.” Lorna talks to the table. It looks like she’s directing her words to a dirty napkin.

I thought she said she worked there for a couple of years the other night. I take a sip of tea. “Is it safer? Were you ever raped?”

“I’ll be back in minute.” Lorna slides across the bench. She walks to the other side of the cafe, towards the toilets.

She’s as thin as I am. I don’t know if other people can tell that we’re junkies. Perhaps only other junkies can tell that. Lorna doesn’t look clean. She looks dirty. I wonder if I look as much of a dirty junky as she does. I shower every day and put make up on. I try to hide it. But my skin gives it away, to other junkies I’m sure – the spots all over my face and the red marks on my arms where the abscesses were lanced.

I consider what to do with the other hit when I get back to the Radisson. Part of me knows I’m going to end up taking the shot. The needle might be used, but then again, it might not. I could have used Lorna’s syringe last night. Who am I fooling? I know I’m going to take the hit. The more I think about it, the more I know it. There’s no way I can dispose of heroin anywhere else other than my veins. Whatever I do, I’ll need to get tested at a clinic anyway.

I think of the times I’ve waited three months for an HIV test after being raped. All those times. When I was a streetwalker, being raped was a regular occurrence. It’s only happened a handful of times since I’ve been a call girl. There’s never any point in reporting it to the police. On the streets, you don’t know who’s raped you. And as a call girl, the police would never take a hooker’s word over the word of a barrister, a premier league footballer, a film director or any other client. It’s a harsh fact but it’s the truth.

It’s a miracle I don’t already have HIV, even before I started working. But then I guess paedophiles are less likely to have it. The sick fucks. At least they’re in jail. At least I got justice. It wasn’t as much as I wanted, but it was more than Shelley got. Her stepdad wasn’t convicted. If I catch something now, it’ll be my own fault. Using Lorna’s needle was my choice, my action. Maybe I could throw out the other syringe when I get back to the hotel. Maybe not.

“Sorry I was so long. I’m constipated from the gear. Do you get that?” Lorna sits back down on the bench opposite me. Her breath smells of vomit.

I pick up my mug of tea. “Yes, I do,” I reply. Then I pick up our previous conversation. “So is it safer working in a brothel?”

“I told you, I don’t know. I only worked there for two months.”

“The other night, you said you worked there for two years.”

“No, I didn’t. You don’t listen properly.” Lorna shuffles across the bench. She stands up. “Are you done? I need a drink. Let’s get some vodka on the way to the beach.”

The Aftermath – 24 December 2000 – 7.55AM

Soul Destruction - Diary of a London Call Girl

My body is rocking. The floor is hard. My bones feel crushed. I open my eyes. I’m in the bathroom of my hotel suite. Lorna’s kneeling next to me. Her hands grip my shoulders. She’s shaking me.

“Stop! It’s hurting.” I look into Lorna’s eyes. They’re bloodshot. Her face is slightly red. Maybe she’s been crying.

“Thank God for that.” Lorna strokes my hair. “I didn’t think you were going to wake up.”

“Neither did I.” I didn’t want to. I close my eyes. My plan didn’t work. I wish the hand on my head was my mother’s. Keeping my eyes shut, I imagine it is my mum whose fingers are running through my hair.

“Did you do that on purpose?” Lorna asks.

“Yes.” What does it matter now if I tell her the truth?

“Did you do it because of what we were talking about last night? Your babies.”

“It’s not just… There’s more to it, a lot more to it.”

“It still hurts me, you know.” Lorna talks to the sink. Her lack of eye contact irritates me. “I was sixteen when I had my abortion. That’s eight years ago, but it still bothers me.”

I thought Lorna said she was seventeen when she had her termination. Maybe I’m not remembering correctly. I don’t want to talk about dead babies again. I don’t want to think about them. I need to get control over my thoughts. That’s what’s got me into this desperate state. I don’t want to get so desperate again that I try to take my life.

I remember Shelley overdosing at Len’s house. I was so angry with her. Now I’ve done the same. All the years I thought I wasn’t like Shelley, I’d come further in therapy, but what difference has that made? Me and Shelley are the same. I wish she was here. She’s the only one who understands me, who really gets me.

“I nearly called an ambulance,” Lorna says.

“Why didn’t you?”

“I was worried I’d get done for murder if you died.”

Oh, so she’d have let me die to keep her freedom. Of course, she would. She doesn’t owe me anything. She doesn’t know me. It was only a few days ago we met. Well, that’s good to know, in case I do try this again, that she won’t be calling for help.

I push myself to sit up on the bathroom tiles. The hardness hurts my bony arse. “I need some water.”

Lorna leaves the bathroom. She returns a moment later with a bottle of water. She hands it to me. As the water passes my lips, I realise how dry they’ve been.

“You don’t look so green now,” she says.

“I need a ciggie.”

She leaves the room again, quickly coming back through with my packet of cigarettes and my Zippo. I pluck a cigarette from the packet and light it. If I can’t die of an overdose, perhaps I’ll die of cancer. I was hoping for a much faster and less painful death though.

My forefinger and middle finger are scorching. I look at my hand. The cigarette’s burnt down to the butt. I don’t remember smoking it. I stand up and drop it into the toilet. I look in the mirror above the sink. I look a mess. My blonde hair is frizzy and knotted. My skin is as blemished as a boxer is bruised. Inside, I’ve taken a beating.

I turn on the shower, waiting for the water to run hot. I pull my Versace dress over my head. I step out of my knickers. I take off my bra. A syringe falls to the floor. The syringe I filled with one-half of my lethal injection. So I only took half last night. No wonder I didn’t die. I want to take the shot now but I can’t let Lorna know I have it. I stash the syringe in my pink toiletry bag. I’ll have it later.

Suddenly, I remember where I got the syringes I used last night when I made up my hits. One of them I stole from Lorna’s handbag. I don’t know if it was new or used. And I don’t know if that’s one I’ve just found or the one I used last night. I might have caught Hep C or HIV. I get into the shower. If only I could rinse away potential diseases. I can’t exactly ask her if she’s clean. I’ll need to get myself checked.

Lorna opens the shower door and steps inside. “Shall we go to the beach today?”

“Could do,” I reply.

“There’s a party on tonight. Let’s go there. It’ll cheer you up.” She squeezes shower gel on to the sponge.

“I’ll see how I feel later.”

She turns me around. She makes circles on my back. My chest is pressed against the cold wall tiles.

“Today, gorgeous,” she says, sliding the sponge between my legs, “I’ll look after you.”