heroin

Don’t Look – 22 December 2000 – 2.20PM

Soul Destruction - Diary of a London Call Girl

I’m lying on my Betty Boop towel at Manly Beach. It’s blazing hot. Sweat is trickling down my neck, between my breasts and onto my stomach. I can’t stand the heat anymore. The sand burns the soles of my feet as I rush to the sea. In the warm seawater, I lie on my back, make small waves with my arms, and float.

I feel terrible for misjudging Lorna last night. Because of the things I’ve done and the things I’ve seen working as a hooker, I suspect the worst of people. Lorna was such a comfort to me. She made me up another hit, and after holding me tight and rocking me, I felt at peace. I never feel at peace like that. It was like she brought me out of this world and carried me up to heaven. Like when I first started taking heroin.

As I stand in the sea, I catch sight of Mickey with his surfer friends a little further down the beach. After the embarrassment of yesterday, I can’t have Mickey see me. I’m in a different bikini today. Perhaps he won’t notice me. This one is bright orange. Perhaps he won’t be able not to notice me. Tiptoeing back to my towel, I hide behind children building sandcastles and families with windbreakers.

Please don’t let him see me. Please don’t let him see me, I pray silently in my head. But I want him. There was something about him. Something that drew me in. That sucked me in. More than his looks and his fit, tanned body. It was something behind his nearly transparent, blue eyes. But he doesn’t want me. So I don’t want him to see me. If he doesn’t see me, then he’s not rejecting me again. I hate rejection. I don’t know what it is about rejection that I can’t take. I only know I can’t take it.

Moving my towel further along the sand, I hide behind an obese family of five. The family are as loud as they are fat. I was hoping they’d conceal me from Mickey but with all their noise, they’re drawing attention. I can’t move again now. Too many people are looking over this way.

I dry off naturally in the sun, then layer oil over my body as I have done countless times since I arrived on the beach at midday. I’m cooking like the lady in the red bikini. That contented lady I walked past the other day who was saying, “This is the life.” I’m much younger than her. I don’t have her wrinkles yet. And I’m pretty sure if I stop cooking myself at thirty, not that I expect to make thirty, but if I do, then I shouldn’t have done as much damage as she has to her leathery skin.

While I’m worrying about Mickey seeing me now, I’m worrying about Greg seeing me later. I think I might have set myself up for disaster by arranging to see Greg tonight. He’s going to notice the abscess scars on my arms that are still healing. All three were lanced at Barnet General Hospital. They make such a messy job of it there. I swear they do it on purpose. As if leaving you with large scars will stop you injecting heroin. If only it were that easy. I’d have stopped already if it was. Even coming out here hasn’t got me off heroin. Beijing did, but that was for two days. Perhaps I should have stayed at the stopover instead of coming here to Sydney.

If Greg sends me away, I’ll be devastated. I remind myself he’s a wanker. But that’s not the point. He has to want me. I have to pull his strings. I have to be in control. If I don’t want to see him that’s fine, but he has to want to see me. If he sees the scars, he might realise what I am. I haven’t been working for the last few months. I couldn’t handle being sent away from a job. I’ve never been sent away from a job in my life. I know other call girls that have. Shelley was sent away from jobs regularly. That’s why some of the madams stopped using her.

I look at my arms. Maybe I should cancel, or perhaps some concealer will work to hide the redness. At least they’re not the deep, gaping holes they were to begin with. I could see right down to my ligaments. I could see them move. It looked mechanical. The skin has grown over now. It’s red and thin. Concealer should do the trick. I’ll wear that black, Moschino dress with the deep V-neck. That’ll give him something to focus on. That’s all I have – my breasts and what lies between my legs. I should be more than these body parts. I don’t want to be just body parts. No wonder I want to die. There’s nothing to me.

Repetitions of a Shattered Mind – 22 December 2000 – 1.25AM

Soul Destruction - Diary of a London Call Girl

I’m shivering. I shuffle under the covers. I put my head on the pillow. I force my eyes closed but they reopen of their own accord. I shut them again. Again, they reopen. I don’t have control over them.

“What’s the matter?” Lorna asks.

“This doesn’t feel like heroin,” I say. Then I remember I don’t trust her anymore. That’s why my eyes won’t stay shut.

“This is what the poison’s like here. It’s different from the shit you get in the UK.”

I don’t believe her. That’s not right. It wasn’t like this last night when we were shooting up together. She’s not all over me anymore. She never really fancied me. She just wanted to reel me in. I mustn’t close my eyes. I have to stay awake. Otherwise, she’ll have me, and everything I own that’s in my hotel suite.

“Try to sleep.” Lorna fiddles with my hair. I don’t like her touching me. Maybe I feel like this because I know she’s shaven. Maybe it’s not the heroin. Perhaps it’s all anxiety. If I talk about it, it might pass. That’s what happens sometimes when I talk to Shelley or Dr Fielding.

“I feel panicky.” I sit up and lean against the headboard. “Do you ever get that?”

Lorna looks at me. “Yes, not often but sometimes.”

“Why do you want to hang out with me?” I ask.

“Because I like you. You’re funny. We’re into the same things. Why do you think?”

To answer her question I need to leave honesty at this point. If she is here to rob me, there’s no good going to come from making her aware that I suspect it. And if she isn’t here to do that, then telling her will only offend and probably upset her. “Sometimes I just get low self-esteem,” I say. It’s the kind of thing Dr Fielding would say. In fact, Dr Fielding does say it and I say to her: that’s not true – I have no self-esteem.

I didn’t used to feel this badly about myself. Long ago, I did. But a few years ago, I was getting my life together. It wasn’t all okay, but I was better than this, not as low as this. I was overcoming the posttraumatic stress – the flashbacks, the nightmares, all of it was getting better. I stopped working as a call girl in 1997. Then not long after, it all got fucked up. It’s my own fault. I couldn’t handle not working. I had to go back. If only I’d known what would happen. I would never have done it. What example was I setting my younger sisters? How selfish I’ve been. It’s my fault what happened to Milly.

I push a cigarette between my lips and light it. “How long did you work in a brothel for?” I ask Lorna.

“A couple of years.”

“Were you able to shut down when you saw punters?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did you switch off when you were with them? Disappear somewhere else in your head? It’s like punters I’ve fucked could walk past me in the street and unless they’re regulars I wouldn’t even recognise them. Do you know what I mean?”

“Yes, yes of course I did that.” Lorna’s doing that twisting thing with her hair. The same thing I do, except she weaves a blonde strand between her ring and middle fingers.

“I think it’s ‘cos most of us were abused as kids.” If she shuts down, I’m nearly sure she was too. “That’s what my therapist says. That’s what makes us able to do that shutting down thing. I thought it was good but it’s not. I’ve got fragmented memories. They’re coming up – the feelings from them. That’s what happened last night when I was with you.” Part of me wants to stop now but I feel the need to carry on. “Because you’re shaven down there, it makes me think of a child. I see myself being abused again. I can feel it.”

I wish I hadn’t said that now. The feelings are becoming stronger, not weaker. The anxiety I feel is combined with a physical flashback. Electricity is powering through my legs. I shake my legs as if that’s going to shake it off. I know it doesn’t work. I can feel myself rocking. I can’t stop it. The tears are coming. I can’t move.

Lorna slides along the bed. She sits right up close to me. “You’ll be okay. I’m here.” She slips her arm over my shoulder. She pulls my head into her breasts. I don’t want to be touched.

Not the Girl I Thought You Were – 22 December 2000 – 12.15AM

Soul Destruction - Diary of a London Call Girl

It’s just gone midnight. I don’t want Lorna in my hotel suite anymore. I want it back to myself. I want her to go. The heroin, though, she can leave here with me. We’ve had one hit. For some reason, I feel anxious. I want the next fix now. I don’t want to make out with Lorna. I don’t want a flashback. My sex drive has vanished. I felt drawn to Lorna earlier. Now I don’t, not in the slightest. I feel really uncomfortable. Although we only shot up heroin, I feel like I’ve been on the crack pipe. This isn’t how I usually feel on smack.

This is really strange. Maybe it was bad gear. Maybe that’s what it was. I want to ask Lorna if she feels strange too but I feel too strange in myself to talk. We’re lying on the bed in silence. At least we’ve got our clothes on. Her arm’s around my waist as she’s cuddling into me. I don’t like it. It doesn’t feel good. It doesn’t feel right. I don’t feel like I’m me anymore. This isn’t any kind of flashback. This is just like crack.

“I need another hit,” I say to Lorna eventually, once I’ve found the courage to use my voice.

She turns her back to me, preparing the hit on the bedside table. I light a cigarette in the hope it’ll make me feel relaxed. If the cigarette doesn’t make a difference, the hit should. It must be anxiety that I’m feeling. Heroin will sort that out for sure.

I push myself to sit upright on the bed. Leaning my back against the padded headboard, I open my eyes wider. I’m seeing in double vision. This is something that has only ever happened when I’ve speedballed, and I haven’t done that often.

Lorna passes me the filled syringe.

“Thanks,” I say, rolling back the sleeve of my pink cardigan. I look for a vein. It’s hard to see with double vision. “Can you find a vein for me, please?” I ask her.

Lorna takes my hand in her lap. She runs her fingers softly over my arm. It feels like spiders are crawling on my skin where she’s touching me. “Here’s a good one.” She wraps my tan belt around my arm, just above the elbow.

“Is this the same kind of heroin as last time?” I ask. I know the heroin in Australia is different from England because it’s white, not brown, and it’s stronger. But this wasn’t the feeling I had on it last night.

“There’s only one kind of heroin, Nicole, and this is it. This guy’s stuff is always powerful. It’s more pure.” She strokes my hair away from my face. “How are you feeling?”

“I feel fine,” I lie. I’m too scared to tell her the truth.

“Gimme your arm back. How can I give you a shot like that?”

I didn’t realise before, but now I notice my arms are wrapped around my waist. The tan belt acting as a tourniquet is hanging loose. I’m holding myself. It’s that self-protection, or self-consoling or something. I put my hand back in her lap. I want the fix. I need the fix. She inserts the needle into the vein on the inside of my elbow. She pulls back the plunger then pushes in.

I don’t feel better. If anything, I feel worse. I should be lying back, gouching out, but I’m not. I’m still sat upright. My unseeing eyes feel wide open. I’m thinking Lorna’s going to tie me up to the bed. She’s going to steal all my money and credit cards. She wants to take my designer clothes, shoes and handbags. She doesn’t really like me. I thought she did. But now I don’t think so. I’m convinced she’s here to rob me. That’s the reason she wants to hang out with me. She wants everything I have.