soul destruction

In Two Minds – 21 December 2000 – 3.00PM

Soul Destruction - Diary of a London Call Girl

I remember Angel telling Shelley that some people can only stop using gear when the pain of their using gets worse than the pain they’re running from. I can’t see how that’s going to happen for me. I can’t imagine worse happening than what I want to forget. And if it did, I’d rather be dead.

At Manly Beach, I’m sitting on the sand, close to the sea. There’s a greyhound racing across the shoreline. He’s barking loudly. His noise is increasing the level of pain in my head. I’ve got two more hours before I meet Lorna at five o’clock back at the Radisson. Part of me is thrilled at the thought of shooting up again tonight. Another part is dreading it – I’m worried I’ll have a flashback like I did last night when we had sex. A third part is hoping she won’t turn up at all. Then I won’t end up with a habit.

A young man, who looks like a typical Australian surfer type, walks towards me. “We’ve been sitting on that bench there, perving over you.” He points to a bench on the promenade. Some young men, with goatees and dressed in similar Billabong-type attire, wave at me.

“What do you want me to do about it?” I smile. He’s quite cute. Maybe he could even have me for free.

“I might need to think about that over a beer or two.”

“Well, you go and do that, and be sure to come back and let me know what’s required.”

“I’m Mickey. What’s your name?”

“Nicole,” I say, with a wink. “I’ll see you later, Mickey.”

“Catch you around,” he says, taking a couple of steps backwards.

I watch as he heads back to his friends on the bench. He half turns, looking back at me. I notice he’s giving them a thumbs up. He’s a bit overconfident. But he had a beautiful face. Actually, that’s not totally true. He had beautiful eyes. His face was unusual: sharp jaw line, thin lips, strong cheekbones, thick eyebrows. His face told me a story. There was something to him, more than his flirting. It’s strange how I can read people. I think he’s one of us.

I apply more oil to my body then light a cigarette. I’m careful not to get the oil on the cigarette as it spoils the smoke. Suddenly, I feel Lorna’s mouth on my vagina. Not her actual mouth but the sensation of it. I stub my cigarette into the sand and run to the sea.

I lie on my back with my arms outstretched and float. With the smallest of movements, I don’t need a lilo like the other people floating around me. A lilo would tie me down. It would mean I’d need to carry it. I like to be able to be spontaneous. Do what I want, whenever and wherever I decide to do it. I like to be free. That’s why heroin doesn’t suit my personality. I saw what it did to Shelley. I never wanted that for myself.

When I get back to my towel on the sand, I check my watch. I’ve another half hour to sunbathe before I need to start making my way back to the Radisson. Thinking of the heroin I’m assuming Lorna is bringing, my heart races. I do want her to come. I do want to see her. She’s a nice girl. I can tell her I just want to be friends. I can say I think I’m straight. I can tell a lie. It would be better than the truth in this instance – I’m sure.

I stand to leave. I look around for Mickey. Resident Over-Confidence might have lost his confidence. On second thoughts, perhaps he changed his mind. Seeing me close up – the blemishes on my face and the scars from the recent abscesses I’ve had on my arms – may have turned him off. He was probably embarrassed walking back to his friends. He was probably doing the thumbs up for my benefit, to make me feel better. What a fool.

The Good Night (Part 3 of 3) – 21 December 2000 – 11.20AM

Soul Destruction - Diary of a London Call Girl

Lying in the queen-sized bed with Lorna, I feel like a child. Although at twenty-five, I’m an adult, right now, I’m not. I am a child and she’s touching me. It hurts. Is it my heart or my soul where I feel it? I can’t tell. I’m repulsed. Repulsed by what she’s doing. And repulsed that I’m not stopping her. I want to. But I can’t speak. I’m scared. I’m scarred too. She can’t see the marks though. They’re on the inside. This is what my past has created for my present.

Earlier, when I returned from the bathroom, I told her I wasn’t in the mood for sex. After falling asleep following another shot of heroin, she’s woken me – for sex. When will she stop? How can I stop her?

I open my mouth. I thought I did but it’s not open. I make a sound in my throat. I can hear it. Lorna moans. She must think I’m moaning too, in pleasure. My jaw is rigid. I try to raise my arm. It won’t move. I’m stuck here. I feel a tear roll across the side of my face and into my hair.

“Mummy, help me,” I hear the child inside my head speak. I know I didn’t say those words. My mouth can’t make a sound. He said to be quiet. I have to keep quiet. If I don’t, he’ll do the same to my younger sisters and brother. I have to protect them. It’s my responsibility. I’m the eldest. Mummy won’t believe me. He told me that. He knows. He’s a grown-up. This is what all babysitters do. It’s true. Most of them do this to me. It’s my fault I don’t like it. I’m not normal. They’re helping make me normal.

“Enough!” I hear myself shout. Finally, I’ve found my voice.

“What’s wrong?” Lorna stops. Her face between my legs, she looks up at me.

“I want you to have this.” I wiggle the Russian wedding ring off my middle finger. I take her ring finger and force it on.

“What’s that for?”

“I just want to say thank you for last night. That’s all.”

The light’s coming through the full-length, navy curtains. It’s last night now. I can call it that, can’t I? It can be over.

“Thank you, Nicole.” Lorna shuffles her body down the bed again.

I squeeze my thighs together, closing the gap. “I need to get ready.” I leap from the bed and sprint into the bathroom.

After I’ve showered and washed my hair, I feel like I’ve removed every trace of Lorna from my body. Not just the outside, the inside feels clean again too. Though I can still feel her mouth on my vagina, I know the sensation will disappear in a few days. I won’t think about last night like that again. It was a good night. That’s all I’ll remember. The details will fade into nothing. I won’t remember how she touched me – I won’t be re-feeling that feeling. It’ll be like it never happened. I have a skill. These things I can blank out. If I don’t like someone touching me then I don’t remember. I can do that. That’s another present created by my past.

Lorna’s chatting to me as I apply my make-up in the bathroom mirror. I’m not listening. I’m concentrating on concealing the blemishes that are covering my face. Someone meeting me now would never believe that people used to tell me I could be a model. I wonder if my looks will come back if I can stop using smack. It’s immaterial. Tonight has proven I can’t.

Dressed in my bikini and jean shorts, I pick up my Gucci bag from the chair by the bureau. I throw it over my shoulder then slip on my stilettos. I always wear high heels. Shelley used to slate me for never wearing flats. Even for a walk in the park, I’d be stilettos. She never knew, but the truth is I feel safer when I’m taller.

From my suite on the second floor, me and Lorna walk downstairs to the hotel lobby. We stop on the street. I say goodbye.

“I’ll see you back here at five,” Lorna says, walking away.

I don’t remember agreeing to that.

The Good Night (Part 2 of 3) – 21 December 2000 – 4.35AM

Soul Destruction - Diary of a London Call Girl

Waking up, I snatch my watch from the bedside table. It’s just after half four in the morning. I take a sip from the glass of water Lorna used to make up the hit. I turn to the other side. She’s in the bed next to me. We have our clothes on. At least nothing’s likely to have happened that I should have remembered.

“Are you awake?” I ask.

“Hmmm,” she grumbles.

“Do you mind if I make myself another hit?” I hope she doesn’t because I need one now. When I close my eyes, I can see my youngest sister, Milly, bleeding. When I open them, the sight in front of me is the same. There’s no escape from that image. Only a fix can fix it.

“Go for your life,” she whispers.

I prepare another hit. This is how it’s going to be. I know the cycle. I know it well. Once I’m back on it, it takes me over. I am a robot controlled by a powder. How did this happen to me? I knew the damage heroin wreaks, especially knowing Shelley. But after what happened last year, there was nothing else to take that pain away. The crack and the coke made it worse. With the amount of heroin I’d been using, I was expecting to be dead within weeks. But this doesn’t seem to be a fast death. Maybe I need to do something different. If I honestly want to die, there are other ways. Am I a coward?

Selecting a vein at my wrist, I wrap my tan belt tightly around my lower arm. I insert the needle then pull back on the plunger. Staring at the barrel, I watch the blood meet the liquid. It twists like skinny, red ribbons. I push the plunger hard. I want the hit quickly. I want to feel the rush pulsate through every cell in my body. I want it to take me to oblivion.

I feel a hand rubbing my right breast. I open my eyes. Lorna’s face is next to mine. Slowly, she moves forward. Our lips are touching. I open my mouth slightly. She slips in her tongue. It’s like jelly. I don’t like how she’s kissing. This isn’t good. I take her shoulders and turn her to lie on her back. I pull her white long-sleeve t-shirt over her head. I kiss her neck then her breasts. On her tiny frame, her breasts seem huge. I like them.

Sucking a nipple, I pull down her jeans. I kiss her ribcage and her stomach as I make my way lower. I lift my head up as I tug her knickers. She’s shaven. There’s agony in my stomach. Electric shocks power through my legs. My body’s screaming from the inside silently; I can feel it. Not again. I have to stop.

“Sorry. I’ll be back in a minute,” I say, pushing myself up from the bed.

In the bathroom, I light a cigarette. This never used to be an issue. Psychotherapy is what made it one. Okay, that’s not completely true. It’s what made me realise why a woman who’s bald there sparks a flashback. I’m used to having flashbacks near enough every time I’m with a man. But with a woman, it only tends to happen when they’re shaven. And somehow, a flashback feels worse when I’m with a woman. With men, it’s usually a psychological flashback I have – in my mind. But with women, when I do have one, it’s more often a physical flashback – a body memory. Perhaps that’s because women are the gender I feel safe with. I can’t stand this re-feeling of my past abuse.

I slide my hand between my legs and feel my wetness. The body responds even when the mind doesn’t. That’s been discussed countless times in therapy too. I hate that. I drop the butt of my cigarette in the toilet then return to Lorna in the suite.