Demented Desires

By Tommy Kennedy IV

I dragged myself out of the off-licence, shoulders tight, nerves buzzing. The doorbell clanged as some other wrecked alkie shoved past. My carrier bag clinked with cheap booze. I had one thing in mind: get Mickey round, get him wired, and take what I needed.

I didn’t fall for men’s games. I played them. Love? That was for my kids. Men gave me other things.

Earlier that afternoon, I necked two bottles of cheap wine. I felt older than I looked—older than I ever planned to get—but I still had it. I thought about the blokes I’d had over the years. They always came back. Creeping out from their missus’ flats at stupid hours for another go.

I grinned. Must’ve been a couple hundred men, maybe fifty women—though they weren’t really my thing. Wine blurred the edges. I laughed to myself. "You’ve done some things, girl."

I made it back to my flat in Neasden, stumbling up the path. I loved getting properly hammered on a Saturday, especially when the kids were away with their dads. I had a few lads lined up on Facebook—young, full of coke, full of promises. They were all dealers. I traded sex for drugs. Their energy and their gear made me feel alive. No drugs, no sex. Simple as.

I knew how to lie. I made it an art. Men never saw it coming.

I shoved the front door open, uncorked another bottle, poured a heavy glass, and drained it.

My phone buzzed.

“On my way x. See you in thirty.”

I replied:

“Cool. Don’t take too long. You know I hate waiting.”

I didn’t mention I’d shagged two of his mates last week. I poured another, smirking. No point dressing up. I’d be dragging him upstairs—or him, me—before long.

I wore a tight pink tracksuit that showed off my belly. Hair scraped back in a silver ribbon. Bit overweight, yeah, but I still had a kind of pretty face. Smeared on face cream, lit a fag, blew smoke toward the ceiling. My red nails glinted. I pouted in the mirror, squirted a bit of perfume, necked another drink, and burped, laughing to myself.

I’d raised six kids by six different dads. The child support trickled in. I had my faults, but I loved them all.

I polished off the bottle, cracked open another, and downed a glass. Hiccupped. Checked the time. He was late.

The flat stank of cat piss. Dishes towered in the sink. I opened the back door for air, slammed it shut. Clock said 9pm. Still no sign. I felt myself nodding off. Needed a line to snap me out of it.

I fell onto the battered sofa. Booze hit hard. I kicked off my trainers, turned on the telly, and passed out cold.

My snores filled the room. My mouth hung open, tongue stud catching the light.

Outside, a cab pulled up. Mickey stepped out—skinny, club foot dragging, dressed all in black. Tried to look like a rock star. Twenty-something. Not much in the brains department.

He thought he’d scored two grams of top Charlie. Didn’t know he’d paid £200 for baby powder. His mate had laughed as he shoved him in the cab.

Mickey reached my front door and knocked. Waited. Knocked again, harder. No answer. His fists pounded the wood. Still nothing.

He peered through the curtain. Saw me sprawled on the sofa, telly flickering across my face.

He smacked the window. Pressed his face up close. Still, I didn’t move.

He rang me. Heard the phone ring inside, go to voicemail. Swore, kicked the door, shouted. Nothing. I stayed out cold.

After twenty minutes, he gave up, flagged another cab.

“Where to?” the driver asked.

“Soho,” Mickey said, slamming the door behind him. He had cash to burn. He knew a brass house where someone would answer.

I woke up five minutes after he left. Mouth dry. Eyes gummy. I checked the time, saw the missed calls, rang back.

Straight to voicemail.

I threw the phone down. Logged onto Facebook. Flicked through Tinder. Scanned Instagram.

I needed a new bloke. The kids were back in the morning.

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