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  Queen Dolly

  Copyright © 2010 Emmy Ellis

  Cover art and design by Emmy Ellis

  All rights reserved. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.

  QUEEN DOLLY

  BY

  EMMY ELLIS

  CHAPTER ONE

  Shut. The. Fuck. Up.

  Did you hear what I said? I’m not playing games today. No messing. Sick of you piss-arsing about with my mind, making me do things I don’t want to do. Yes, you heard me. I don’t want to do them. Only reason I do is to get rid of you. Makes me feel better when I do what you say. And then everything goes calm, like it should be. Like I’m normal and the same as everyone else. That’s all I’ve ever wanted, anyway.

  I got rid of them and I’ll get rid of you. It’s all about choosing the right moment. I’ll make it on my own without you, you’ll see.

  Are you laughing? You are, aren’t you?

  Right, that’s it. You’ve pissed me off. I’m an adult now, and no one can make me do anything I don’t want to. Go on, get lost. Get out.

  Fuck. Off.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Mother sat on the sofa opposite me, her skirt bunched to the waist, legs splayed open. A needle dangled from the vein on her inner thigh. She’d nodded out again, the liquid drug careening through her body, reaching every avenue of every vein.

  She’d be nice when she woke up, tell me to go to the shops and get some sweets. I couldn’t wait. Hunger twisted my guts—I last ate in school at lunchtime.

  I never bought sweets, though. I’d buy a sausage roll or a sandwich—eat half, save the rest for the morning. No breakfast cereal in our house, see. Not much of anything.

  Mother stirred. A smile broke out on her face and, with eyes still closed, she reached for and removed the needle. The syringe wasn’t empty; she’d blacked out before her thumb had finished the squeeze.

  “All right, sugar?” she said.

  Mother smiled again, displaying chipped, stained teeth. Moving her greasy hair from her eyes, she stood, straightened her skirt, and almost floated towards her purse on the sideboard.

  “Want some sweets?”

  I removed my thumb from my mouth—the pad shrivelled from my sucking—uncurled myself from under my blanket, and stood before her.

  She handed me five pounds. “Don’t come back for an hour, okay? Bob’s due.”

  I took the money and left the house. My arms, bare in a sleeveless, thin dress, sprang goose bumps. I shivered. A car drew up to the kerb, headlights blinding. I rubbed my eyes then dazedly watched Bob getting out of his car.

  “Hey, Carmel. Isn’t it our special night tonight?” He winked.

  I shook my head and, with knees together, hugged myself to banish the cold.

  “It’s not Thursday yet, is it?” My small voice carried nowhere.

  “You’re a smart cookie for a kid, Carmel. You’re right, it isn’t Thursday. I was just kidding.”

  I sighed. Bob rapped on the front door, its surface scarred from years of neglect. He pushed down the handle and let himself in, smiling back at his favourite little girl. He shut the door.

  Head bowed, I made my way to the shop. Hunger should have spurred me onwards, but I dawdled to waste minutes.

  The shop’s overhead heaters blasted my skin as I went inside, and I stood in the warmth until I’d defrosted, only to be chilled again by the open refrigerator while deciding what to buy. Bacon sandwich with lettuce, or a ham and tomato? They’d been reduced in price—I could buy two.

  My stomach growled. I grabbed two packets of sandwiches and walked down each aisle, not wanting to leave the warmth of the shop. I paused to watch a shelf stacker place packets of dainty teacakes on a rack. I looked at the sandwiches and thought about putting one back and buying some of those cakes. My sluggish mind tried to total the cost, but I sighed and gave up.

  The shelf stacker finished her task. I followed her to the next aisle. She filled a shelf with reduced-price bread, down from eighty-five pence to twenty. I had enough to buy a whole loaf. I could only have two pounds out of the five Mother had given me. If I took less than three pounds home it meant my nose would bleed, my face blacken. She was good at that kind of thing, punishment.

  The clock behind the counter indicated another forty minutes needed to pass before I could return home. I paid for the sandwiches, the uncut loaf of bread, and loitered beneath the heater over the door for one last blast of comfort.

  Outside, a drizzle of rain fell, a fine mist that wetted quicker than a downpour. Huddling against the shop wall, close to the door so that heat warmed me when it opened, I sat on my haunches under the protection of the canopy. I ripped at the loaf; its dryness stuck in my throat, and my gums clogged with the crust. I waited.

  People passed by in their thick, warm coats, droplets of rain on their shoulders, drips from umbrellas. They ignored me, the shivering child with breadcrumbs around her mouth, filthy fingernails bitten to the quick.

  Time plodded on. The clock on the village hall showed fifteen minutes before home time, so I gathered my food in the carrier bag and stepped out from the canopy, nose numb, toes unfeeling. Rain drenched me. My mind wandered.

  “I need a new coat, Mam.”

  “Yeah, well, I need me smack, so you’ll have to wait. No smack, no customers. No customers, no smack and no coat, see? Go fuck yourself for a new coat. Pinch one from school or something.”

  I didn’t want to have to do that, but the harsh weather would force me to. Maybe the lost property box would have a pretty pink coat with cream fur around the hood, or perhaps a sparkly purple one with matching gloves attached through the arms with elastic. On the other hand, maybe it wouldn’t have any coats at all.

  I rounded the corner. Bob’s taillights greeted me, and I wished Thursday was here already. Running full pelt, I dashed indoors, the meagre heat in the house not much different from outside.

  Still clutching the carrier bag, I scooped my dirty blanket from the floor, wrapped it around myself, and trudged upstairs to my room. On my bed, I counted.

  Forty-seven hours until Thursday. The one day a week I felt special, where I was allowed a bath, had my hair done nice, and wore the pretty dress with the ribbons. Where I was sometimes told to sniff the powder through a rolled up ten pound note, got hugs from Bob, and had my picture taken. To me it was Heaven.

  Because on Thursdays I felt loved.

  * * * *

  Looking back, it wasn’t all bad. I must have been happy at some point. I think. Like at school with the other kids. Normal. I felt normal with them most of the time. The same as, you know? We all had to wait in line, all had to sit on the square of carpet at registration time. Everyone was treated like everyone else. Or so I thought.

  I went to stay for tea at another child’s house for the first time once and noticed the difference between my life and hers. Belinda Abbott sat on the table next to mine in class, the only table in the room shaped like a fifty pence piece. I didn’t know it then, but that table was for the problem children. You know, those with hassles at home, or the kids with learning difficulties. So, there was a difference even then, wasn’t there? Singled
out. Again. But—I felt special being at that table, so it doesn’t count in the long list of things I now consider to be the points in my life that marked me out as strange.

  The first difference? Belinda’s mam collected us from school. My mam didn’t bother. She’d considered me well able to walk the two miles to and from school since the age of four.

  “Hello, darlings,” Belinda’s mam said. She hugged Belinda first and then me. I remember feeling awkward in her embrace, as if I didn’t belong, and heat flared on my cheeks. “Are we ready then?”

  Belinda took my right hand, and her mam took my left. My palm was sweaty with self-consciousness, and I wondered if Belinda’s mam would snatch her hand from mine. She didn’t. She held it all the way to her house. I watched carefully to see if she wiped her palm on her coat or washed her hands at the sink in the kitchen once she let my hand go like Mrs. Draper, our teacher, did once. She didn’t.

  I knew I smelt, could smell myself, so it made sense other people would smell me too. What a kid—grubby-faced every day except Thursday. Belinda’s mam didn’t seem to notice, or if she did, she hid her feelings well.

  “What would you like for your tea?” she asked and crouched on in front of the open freezer door.

  I sidled up behind her and jumped back in shock. Food filled every one of the shelves. Boxes containing amazing stuff like chicken curry and pizzas blared at me in glorious colour. I blinked. Belinda’s mam shifted the contents to the side to see better into the depths, and I caught a glimpse of Bird’s Eye fish fingers. We only had the cheap kind at home.

  “Spaghetti Bolognese,” said Belinda.

  Her mam turned to me. “Is that what you’d like, Carmel, or d’you fancy something different?”

  Not only did I get to choose what I wanted, but I could have something different to Belinda. Her mam was willing to cook twice? Too much to take in. Warm liquid trickled down my legs. I looked at the pristine floor tiles. They shone; they weren’t covered in dirt or stains. Well, I’d be lying if I said that. I’d stained them. A pool of piss the colour of apple juice grew bigger the more my bladder released. Tears stung the backs of my eyes, and I fisted them away and stared at the mess I’d made. I sensed Belinda’s mam watching me.

  “Whoopsie doo, love. Looks like you had a little accident. Belinda, would you go upstairs and fetch me some of your knickers, socks, and a skirt?”

  Relief flooded through me as Belinda first skipped out of the kitchen then bounded up the stairs. Still staring at the floor tiles, I winced—the cold from the open freezer nipped at my damp legs. Piss discoloured my socks.

  “Well, now, Carmel. Belinda will get you some clean clothes, and you can have a wash in the bathroom before you put them on. Actually, Belinda has some clothes you can take home with you, if you like. That’s if your mother won’t mind you having them. Do you think she’d mind?”

  I nodded. Mam would go mad. She’d go on about not being a charity case, that she’d rather I wore my scraggy clothes than take any given by do-gooders. It was okay to steal a coat from school, but to accept clothes as a gift…

  “Oh, well, never mind.”

  Belinda’s mam shut the freezer door and crouched in front of me, apparently oblivious to the piddle that crept ominously close to her hosiery-clad knees.

  “Carmel. Is everything okay at home?”

  Although a slim woman, fat laced her jowls. She looked like the school hamster when it packed its cheeks with food. Belinda told me her mam worked in the new women’s clothes shop in town while Belinda attended school. A fashionable mam. My mam didn’t dress like her. I couldn’t see Belinda’s mam wearing short skirts that showed off her knickers and tops that barely covered her bra.

  Belinda scooted into the kitchen, saved me from answering. “I got me pink jeans, me red knickers, and me purple sparkly socks, Mam. Carmel, d’you like me sparkly socks? I do, they’re my favourite, but you can borrow them, all right?”

  I turned from Belinda’s mam to my friend. My throat clogged like it had with that loaf of bread. “All right,” I said.

  “Right.” Belinda’s mam stood, two round patches of piss on the knees of her tights. “Belinda, you take Carmel upstairs and show her where the bathroom is, and I’ll get along and make the dinner. Carmel, you didn’t say what you’d like for your tea.”

  “I’ll have the same as Belinda. Thank you, Belinda’s mam.”

  She laughed. “Oh, Carmel. You can’t call me that. My name’s Margaret, but you can call me Margo.”

  She ruffled my hair, and her fingers snagged on my unruly mop. I took the clothes Belinda held out, and she said, “Here y’are. Come on, let’s go and play upstairs. We can dress up if you like. You wanna do that?”

  I smiled for a second. That smile faded; I took a step, and urine squelched in my shoes. Heat filled my cheeks again, and I followed my friend out of the kitchen. I’m not sure, but Belinda’s mam made a funny noise. I think she might have been crying.

  * * * *

  I put the toilet seat down in the bathroom and sat on it, the coldness of my damp clothes uncomfortable, and glanced round, eyes wide. So many toiletries; surely they couldn’t use that many? Dozens of bottles of bubble bath and shower gel stood along the bath edge against the tiled wall. Three corner shelves held shampoo, conditioner, and body creams. The windowsill, well, I could hardly see it for the amount of different perfumes. Large thin bottles, small fat ones. Round, oval, even star-shaped—all posh, all calling out for me to smell them.

  I kicked off my shoes and peeled off my socks. The shoes thunked, and the socks splatted on the floor. My knickers almost fell down (the waistband had lost its elasticity), and I placed them beside my socks along with my skirt. I needed to find something to wash with.

  Stacks of freshly laundered face cloths sat folded neatly on a wicker hamper. All shades of pink to match the bathroom colour scheme. I chose a cerise cloth and brought it to my nose, inhaling the wonderful smell of washing powder. Anger flared in my gut. Ripped squares from old towels, complete with hanging threads, served as washcloths at home. Ours smelled of damp not roses. Ours felt slimy not fluffy.

  I turned to the seashell-shaped sink and marvelled at the gold taps. The porcelain shone as if polished. I leant forward and looked at myself in the taps; my nose appeared huge, my face skewed and odd. Putting in the plug, I turned on the hot water and waited until the sink half-filled. I pretended to be a princess living in a posh castle. The pretty pink soap smelt so lovely that I had the urge to put it in my pocket and take it home.

  “Carmel, luv?” Belinda’s mam knocked on the bathroom door.

  “Yes?”

  “I have a carrier bag here for your wet clothes. I’ll leave it just outside the door, all right?”

  “Okay,” I said.

  I waited until Margo’s footsteps receded before plunging the face cloth into the water and rolling the soap in my palms so much my hands whitened with foam. The water turned milky. I wished, after the soap’s perfume rose with the steam, that I was having a bath. As I soaped my legs, the stench of urine and my everyday aroma jumped up and slapped me in the face. It smelt worse here somehow, as though being in such clean and pristine surroundings made the whiff of me more obvious.

  The washcloth soft on my legs, I wiped off the soap. I wanted to experience the feel of that warm cloth on my skin time and time again.

  “Carmel. Hurry up. You’ve been ages,” Belinda called.

  “Okay,” I said.

  After washing, I dressed in Belinda’s clothes and sat on the toilet seat to pull on the sparkly purple socks.

  I felt well posh.

  * * * *

  “You put on the white one, and I’ll put on the pink one. We’ll be queens, and those teddies there are the people. D’you wanna wear some of my mam’s shoes? I wear them all the time, and they clip-clop just like they do on me mam when she walks me to school or we go to the shops.”

  Belinda held two long, frilly petticoats that must ha
ve once been the underskirts of a wedding dress. I took the white one and stepped into it. It reached to my armpits and dragged on the floor.

  “Roll the waist bit over loads of times, and then I’ll tie one of me belts round you so it don’t fall off.”

  I did as she said, creating a big fat sausage around my waist. Belinda cinched a silver belt around me to top off the ensemble, and I walked over to her full-length mirror. I looked ridiculous, but right then I felt just like the queens we pretended to be.

  “What’s your queen name going to be?” Belinda asked.

  I thought for a moment and spied a row of porcelain dolls on a shelf above Belinda’s bed. Those dolls looked so pretty in their frilly gowns, their faces so perfect, rosy cheeked. “Queen Dolly.”

  “Queen Dolly. Right.” Belinda stepped into her long skirt. “Well I’m going to be Queen Scarlet. She’s the best queen of them all.”

  With those words, the game lost its appeal.

  For just once in my life, I wanted to be the best queen of them all.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Get yourself in the bath quick sharp, Carmel. Bob’ll be here soon, and you’re fucking filthy.” Mam, dressed in her evening attire, looked reasonably presentable, if a little brassy.

  Her blonde hair, washed and styled, hung loose. Her short black skirt and white blouse reminded me of a waitress in the posh café in town. She’d shaved her legs—a slight nick on her knee bled—and she slid her feet into pointy black stiletto shoes.

  “Well, what are you standing there for? Bloody gawping at me like you haven’t just been told to do something. I tell you, Carmel, if you play me up tonight and act dumb I’ll bleedin’ brain you. Look at last week. Jesus. Making out you didn’t know what Bob wanted you to do. You’ve been doing it long enough now to know the ropes.” She glanced my way, and her penetrating, brown-eyed stare had anger burning inside me. Why wasn’t she like Belinda’s mam? Why wasn’t Belinda’s mam like mine?