Australia

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.”

Plan in Action (Part 2 of 2) – 24 December 2000 -12.35AM

Soul Destruction - Diary of a London Call Girl

I hobble up the stairs in the Radisson Hotel. Lorna walks behind me. I’m in stilettos as usual. She’s in flats. As we arrive on the second floor, I take the door key from my hobo bag. Once inside my suite, I slip off my Louboutins. I need to say something. I need to get the smack. I have to be the one who prepares the hits tonight.

I’m determined not to hand over the spoon. I know she’ll be asking for it any minute. I need to ask her for the gear first. Should I do that, or should I wait until she asks for the spoon then suggest she gives me the bag at that point? I’m not sure. I need to decide. I have to get this right. If I mess it up, I won’t die.

“Have you got a dead baby?” I was thinking about that this afternoon. I was going to ask her about it, but then I decided I didn’t want to discuss it. I’m not in the mood. Sometimes I have no control over the words that flow from my lips.

“That’s not a very nice thing to say.” Lorna takes her position, lying on my queen-sized bed.

“I didn’t mean… I was just thinking earlier, most of the working girls I know have had stillborns or terminations. I was just thinking and it just came out my mouth. I’m sorry.”

Lorna looks at me with narrow eyes. “Have you got one?” she snaps.

“Yes,” I say. “Three… Three dead babies.” I didn’t want to think about this now. Why can’t I control my thoughts and words like normal people? I might not want to be dead if I could control my thoughts. I try to remember what Dr Fielding says about my babies. They went back to the eyes of God. That’s all good if you believe in God, but I struggle with that. I really fucking do. If there is a God, how could he or she have allowed such devastation to happen in my family?

“I had an abortion when I was seventeen.” Lorna’s voice is calmer now.

I put my hand out in her direction, palm open. “Pass the smack.”

“I still get sad about it now.” Lorna places the bag of heroin in my hand. “I think about my baby every day. He’d be six now. Do you think about your babies often?”

“Yes.” That’s the truth. But right now, I don’t want to think about anything other than my plan. That’s why I want to die. I’ve been thinking too much. I don’t want to think about my dead babies. I don’t want to think about my dead mum. I don’t want to think about my absent dad. I don’t want to think about what the babysitters did to me. I don’t want to think about what happened to Milly. Poor Milly. I should have got myself sorted so I could help her. But I couldn’t do it. I can’t do it. I’m giving up. I’ve managed to get the gear. Now I can do something else. I can end it. I’ve been thinking about this since I arrived in Sydney last week. This needs to be done carefully. I have to make sure Lorna doesn’t clock on to what I’m doing.

I’m half-listening as Lorna tells me about the father of her baby. He was her ex-boyfriend. Did she say he hit her before she was pregnant or while she was pregnant? I didn’t catch that properly. Something about being in hospital to check the baby’s heartbeat.

I sprinkle enough heroin in the spoon for about five of my standard hits. I add the water. How am I going to do this? I need to make up two hits. One has to be far stronger than the other. I need to use less water and make them up one at a time. Lorna always makes them both up together so that’s how much water I’ve added – the usual amount. Now I have too much water in the spoon.

I open the drawer in the bedside table. I take out the syringe I used last night. I place it next to the box of tissues. “Will you pass me my inhaler from the bathroom,” I say to Lorna.

“Where is it?” She gets off the bed and stands up.

“I can’t remember…on a shelf I think. Give me your needle so I can do your hit.”

Lorna hands me her works. I put hers on the bed. I take my used needle and draw up half the hit. I put it back beside the box of tissues. While Lorna is in the bathroom, I balance the bent spoon on the bedside table. I run over to the bureau. I rummage through the drawer. I’m sure I stashed another syringe in there the other night.

“I can’t see it,” Lorna shouts from the bathroom.

“Look inside my toiletry bag…the pink one,” I shout back.

I still can’t find another syringe. I open Lorna’s handbag, looking for clean works. I can’t tell if hers are used or new. What does it matter if I’m going to die anyway? I steal one from her bag. I rush to the other side of the bed. Holding the spoon, I draw up the other half of my lethal hit. I put the second needle in the drawer of the bedside table.

Lorna pops her head out the bathroom door. “It’s not in here.”

I fake a cough. “I really need it. Can you check again.”

With Lorna back in the bathroom, I quickly make up another hit – a milder one this time. I draw it up into her syringe that I left on the bed. I need to be careful not to confuse the syringes. I put mine in my mouth, leaving the stain of pink lipstick on the barrel.

I still don’t know how I’m going to get both injections in my arm without her noticing I’m having two hits. Maybe I’ll need to take mine into the bathroom. I remove the syringe from the drawer in the bedside table. I slip it under my bra, between my breasts. I hope it doesn’t fall out.

“Never mind,” I call to Lorna. “I want this hit more than my inhaler. Come back through.”

Lorna returns to the suite. She lies back down on the bed. “I’m sorry I couldn’t find it.”

She wouldn’t have done. It was, like I’ll soon be, non-existent.