God save the Queen

I

Taking dope and pills has made Scarlett’s skin rubbery. Like plasticine. Rid of any minerals, not to mention the lack of any signs of life as such. Deflated, grey, dirty, sticky, even corrugated, torn off her alive, and messily put back on the rotten flesh and bones. She was afraid to touch herself. And even if she accidentally did touch, she was afraid to look. On her skin, lacking flexibility, there had been dents left that didn’t want to go away. She was just a shape. An empty shell. A shed reptilian skin. A metaphorical as well as a literal abdomen.

“Scar, we have to secure some dough, you know Greg doesn’t give for pretty eyes any more, right? A simple blowjob won’t do”, Michelle snatched her out of the lethargic state with a screeching, croaky voice. “Hear me, Scar?!”

“Calm down, I hear you. Someone will bail us out. My best smile will do”, Scarlett replied still looking at her reflection in the window. But there, she didn’t see herself.

They were on the bus 111 to Heathrow, one of those double-decker, red coffins, carrying live corps to and from work. The bus was nearly empty, as usual at midday. An ideal time for rats like her. Without the heavy feeling flowing straight from the eye sockets of the plasticine faces. In addition, she was beginning to feel the hunger. But not the food hunger. To be honest, she didn’t care about eating, she could eat anything. She felt the hunger of her sister, her lover who filled her from inside and allowed for those blissful moments when she could just drop off.

She didn’t like to disappoint her, especially when the feeding time came. Then, her sister became temperamental and inflicted pain on her. She could feel it with all of her body, a progressing tingling of impatience from head to toe.

The knowing, that if she didn’t get a fix, or dose the brown liquid soon, she would fall into pieces, disintegrate. If she didn’t do it, she would get sucked in from inside, because, in all this, that was the worst thing. The internal sucking, as if the sister was sitting in her stomach and sucked.

She was capable of doing anything. And the worst thing was that, she knew, Michelle would feel the hunger soon, too. And when Michelle was cold turkey she was completely useless.

“Fuck! What if we don’t find anything?! We will have to beg him, he may have to bonk us both”, Michelle continued.

Oh yeah. Michelle was definitely getting the hunger. She was beginning to bite her yellowish nails, stomp her feet, keeping some unidentified rhythm. Her restless eyes meant that her thoughts were travelling hundreds of miles of different arrangements, alternatives, trying to answer the questions: Where to get dope from? What to do if they can’t get it?

Simple. They will sell their asses. This always works. Junkie girls have the advantage over junkie boys that they can fuck the dealer. As long as he is debased enough and lacking self-dignity to do it. Luckily, Greg was one of those for whom the margin was like a sacred, unobtainable land. To classify Greg, one would have to go beyond the notebook, fuck, even beyond the desk and the classroom, crawl on the floor and look under the dustbin. But a bit more about Greg later. For now, let’s go back to Michelle.

Michelle was one of those girls from a ‘good home’ who, at some point, went down the wrong path, whatever it means. Can you hear how it sounds? ‘Good home’, ‘Wrong path’ as if the world was made up of just two colours – black and white. Michelle was the kind of person who discovered different shades and cues of grey one day and the next coloured the celluloid black and white film tape. And then she burnt everything along with the final credits ‘THE FUCKING END’. She didn’t confide in anyone about her past, Scarlett even suspected that Michelle was not her real name. What was her real name? She didn’t give a shit. They met at one of those sleazy pubs not far from the High Street and that was all she needed for now.

It was a year ago. Maybe two? Scarlett couldn’t remember, time merged into an endless black gunge. She just remembered that it happened. And when they met, then all of a sudden, Scarlett found herself at the point she was now.

The Bell, despite the early hour, was packed. A typical, English pub. The classical style – an oak counter, the woodwork, a snooker table, arcade machines, Premier League matches on the screens that nobody was watching. Although indoor smoking was not allowed, the atmosphere itself made the air dense. The British came here at lunchtime and stayed until closing. Scarlett came for a pint with her, then, boyfriend, Steve. When Steve went to the boys’ room, she went to the counter to get another round. There, sat a girl, in her twenties, blonde, half a head taller than Scarlett, who later turned out to be Michelle. She was flirting with a bold guy with a tat of a spiderweb at the back of his head.

Michelle noticed her when Scarlett ordered two pints.

“Want a drink, honey?”, Michelle asked, smiling.

“No, thanks, I’ve got my beer”, Scarlett replied.

“It’s alright, you seem cool. My shout”, said Michelle and took a drink left on the counter and gave it to Scarlett.

„You offering me someone else’s drink?”

“Suit yourself, just don’t want it to go to waste, alright? Someone has to drink it”, Michelle laughed and drank it in one gulp.

“Aren’t you afraid it might me spiked?”

“I hope so!” Michelle exclaimed. “I hope no one spat in there. I couldn’t stand it. I’m Michelle, by the way. A Bar Dame. The Duchess of the Streets. A bloody queen straight from the canal under the Buckingham Palace.

„Scarlett, just Scarlett.”

The bartender passed them two beers, filled up right to the top. The foam flowed down the side of the glass and spilled all over the counter. Scarlett paid, smiled at Michelle and went back to the table with the beers.

“Fuck, who finished my drink?!”

Scarlett turned around. A tall man was approaching Michelle. He was clearly pissed off. And drunk.

“It was you, right?!” he barked. “Only you pull stunts like this”.

“Benny, are you out of your fucking mind? Even if you had a fucking Don Perignon in this glass, I wouldn’t have touched it”, said Michelle, disgusted. “But I know who did”.

The guy stood rooted to his spot, awaiting the answer. Michelle looked at Scarlett, Scarlett at Michelle. Michelle winked.

“The guy with the spiderweb at the back of his head”, said Michelle pointing at the guy she was flirting with a minute ago. The guy, all worked up, took the bait.

“Hey, mate, what’s up?!” he came up to the bold guy and caught his arm.

A minute later, the bold guy’s friend came up. But Benny had his own companion, too. They stood there, sizing each other up like in a fucking western movie and shouted at each other. Suddenly the bold guy struck the pissed one, the pissed one’s friend attacked the friend of the bold one. They started fighting, rolling around on the floor, destroying the tables. It looked like in the movies when they show it in slow motion to the sound of an opera aria.

You could see those mad facial features sculptured with a fist, you can take a look at each tooth being knocked out, artistically sprayed blood in the air flowing from the nostrils, flying debris from broken chairs or glass shards twinkling in the bar lights.

And in the middle of this mini-hell, you could see the look of a self-confident, devilish woman pulling the strings in the name of chaos.

Michelle was looking at Scarlett. She was penetrating her with her eyes. She reached a sensitive spot and finally cast the bait. And that’s how a year or two later, heroin hungry, they were sitting together on bus 111 on their way from Kingston, where they had been partying in one of its sleazy bars. They had nothing. They were nobody. Plankton in the oceanic depth waiting to be devoured by a whale and dissolved in its stomach acids.

If you looked at them through the pedestrians’ eyes, you would see them dressed for a quick pop out to get some sugar. Spotted leggings, winter boots, some dirty vests and coats. But in London, especially in Hounslow, nobody cared.

„This is our stop, Scar. Get up!” Michelle exclaimed, pressing the red stop button at least ten times in a row.

The bus stopped. The doors hissed furiously, opened, and a minute later Scarlett and Michelle were walking down the pavement. A plasticine figure formed right in front of them and was heading towards them. Scarlett could hear the jingle of the coins in his pocket. She moved to cut his route off.

She had a tried and tested method of poncing money. Sitting passively with a paper cup didn’t work, they were not in central London. In smaller areas of London, an aggressive method of meeting them upfront so they couldn’t avoid her, worked well. To top this up, she made bedroom eyes, used a friendly voice, that expressed her poverty, that she had nowhere to go, had nothing to eat (which was true, to be honest). She hit as low as she could, the instinct everybody had, but most tried to bury these days. The feeling of pity. It worked as a ratio of 1 to 5. All it needed was a loser with a soft heart. Pouncing fags was a different story. Here, a ‘businessman tactic’ worked best. Michelle explained it to her, in detail, one night at The Bell.

“ You are coming up to a guy who is smoking, right?” She spoke quickly, chewing her teeth in the jaw and rubbing her nose after pulling in a line in the toilet. “And, you take some fucking change out of your pocket and you jingle it, so that he can hear that you have dough and good intentions. So you come up to him and say: Sorry, can I buy a cigarette from you? And you show him your palm that you have dough and that you are looking for the amount that will be adequate to the price of one fag. At this point, the loser’s survival instinct kicks in, you know something like No, don’t be silly, you don’t have to give me your last change, have it for free, what is usually expressed with a ‘stop’ gesture and blinking with both eyes.”

At this point, Michelle demonstrated the gesture. She stretched an open hand in front of her, as if she was stopping a car (in a chilled out manner), wrinkled her forehead, blinked both her eyes in a friendly way and shaped her mouth into something that resembled a duck’s beak.

“And after a while, the loser is pulling a fag from a pack and even lights it up for you.”

“ What if I don’t have any change?” Scarlett asked.

“Simple. You dig through your pockets in search for some. It works, too. The guy doesn’t even have to see it, it’s enough for him to know that you are honest and well-brought up and you don’t want to take it for free but are willing to pay. After all, ‘he worked hard for the fucking pack of fags from under the counter for a fiver’”, cackled Michelle. “And if, by any chance, you have keys in your pocket, jingle them. The clinking will reach the loser’s brain as your change.

Pouncing cigarettes was definitely hundred times easier than poncing money. There was no question of business here. Here, someone was to give you something for free, what people found much harder to do. So now, Scarlett faced this most difficult task. In addition, she felt the hunger coming and she was running low on patience. But the hardest, still, was to stop the delinquent. If this is done, you are half-way there. Her colourless, cute, Disney-like eyes will do the rest.

“Excuse me, excuse me”, she said crossing his path, almost stumbling upon him.

“Yes?” the guy stopped.

„Would you spare a pound, please? I’m really hungry” she started in a most pathetic voice she could manage.

“Sorry, I don’t have any change” he replied in a heavy Eastern European accent.

He was about to turn away to continue his journey and leave her with nothing. And he would have done it. If she hadn’t asked the next question.

“Really?”

She hit a soft spot. Honesty. She knew he lied, after all she mastered the art of lying to perfection, just like every junkie or an alcoholic. She knew she didn’t care about the pound. Anyway, he let it out with a light gesture of his hand approaching the pocket. A micro-gesture that only a junkie who is cold turkey could catch. The guy looked at her. He felt ashamed. Sheepish. He knew he lost, he knew he couldn’t deceive those eyes.

“Wait, I’ll check” he answered and started going through his trousers pockets.

“Really, I have nothing to eat” Scarlett put her hand out to pressurize him. She noticed that it was dirty, with shit knows what, as if she was digging in mud with it.

After a while of rummaging in his pockets, he pulled out 5p and laid it in her dirty hand. She looked at the coin. Then at the guy, who smiled at her kindly which was more fake than a simple ‘fuck off’. This was not what she expected.

“Is that all?!” she panicked.

“That’s all I have” the guy replied.

She was shocked. As if someone sloshed her with a spade in her face. He was slipping out.

“Please, give me a pound, I have to eat something…”

“I don’t have more”.

“Please.”

“I’m sorry, if I had more I would give it to you but I don’t. That’s all I’ve got” the guy said shrugging his shoulders and turned around.

She had a whole arsenal of pouncing methods you could meet in London: for a cup, change, note, crutches, begging, good manners, deaf- mute, illness, pretty eyes, change for a ticket, prison honesty, drunk’s honesty, junkie’s honesty (hardly anyone gives for junkie’s honesty). And she chose pretty eyes. And honestly it hit where it was supposed to hit, but not at full force, more like a ricochet. It was more like a scratch, a scrape, a mild graze rather than a hit. Looking at the 5p coin, at the tiny profile of the Queen Carer, she felt angry. She wanted to kill the motherfucker. The sick, plasticine cunt, who tortured people like her and gave them 5p. Who the fuck gives people 5p?! Before her eyes she had his kind smile which now changed into an evil, sneering, grimace. She wanted to lam out into him and tear out his larynx, and watch him bleeding out and shove the bloody 5p up his ass.

She clenched her dirty fist on this hellish object of mockery, took the aim and threw the coin at the leaving guy. On target. The coin hit his head and then the pavement with a clang.

“What the fuck am I to buy for that?! What?! Are you out of your fucking mind you ponce?! Shove the fucking 5p up your ass! What do I live on, eh? You fucker! What do you want me to buy food with?!!”

Suddenly, the guy turned and looked at her. He was irritated. Scarlett was just waiting for it, to give her an excuse to scratch his eyes out. To teach him a lesson. Let him come closer.

He didn’t. He was just looking at her like at a specimen. An animal at the zoo which goes crazy with rage, hangs on the cage bars and spits. She, furious, spread her arms rowdily, ready to fight. And he just stood there and looked on. Totally calm. Like a rock echoing her words.

“Fuck off! What are you gawping at?!” screamed Scarlett.

The guy stood a while longer, turned around and walked away turning round the corner. Michelle walked up to Scarlett.

“He really pissed me off. What kind of a sick fucker gives people 5p?!” Scarlett was out of breath.

„Stop fucking around and find the 5p. Save your pennies and watch the dollars grow” Michelle said with a fag between her teeth.

“Where did you get the fag from?” asked Scarlett surprised.

“I found it. Don’t just stand there, I’ll break you off half, search”, Michelle said and took a drag on a soaked cigarette.

They searched. But they couldn’t find any. The hunger was making itself felt. It was infiltrating their bones and muscles, like waves of current. It was sucking them in from the inside. Made them powerless. Inflicted pain on them. Forced them to hurry.

II

The sound of Michelle being fucked by Greg echoed around the house. Scarlett was sitting on a dirty, olive-green sofa, smoking a fag and observing the static on TV. She was trying to keep her mind occupied not to think of the hunger which was beginning to bother her. She was waiting for her fix, she did her part, and now was just waiting for Greg to finish with Michelle. But time was getting longer. She got up from the sofa and smoking the fag started walking around the den.

Have you seen “Fight Club?” Who the fuck hasn’t? I must admit, Tyler’s house was a luxury villa compared to the den that Greg occupied. Occupied is the right word, actually. Once, he found a loophole in the law which said that a homeless person cannot be kicked out onto the street. The state must supply the person with accommodation. So Greg started observing different houses and bang, broke into those ones that were left empty. In this magic way he got himself a place to stay for a few weeks. The only condition was not to trash the place. And guess if this skinny fucker respected the rule? He set up a den for junkies there and sold them drugs. After a fortnight of such dwelling, a clean house was turned into a loony bin, shelter for the homeless where the only rule was “you better fucking pay for your fix”. He ruined other squatters’, who didn’t destroy the houses, reputation. The effect was a new law introduced that said that you could go behind bars for 2 years and pay a fine. But Greg, so to say, didn’t give a fuck. He sloped off before the owners came back, leaving junkies behind for the police and went in search of a new den. Eventually, he saved enough cash to buy his own house which he turned into a cannabis plantation and a place of heavy drugs dealing. He didn’t let any junkies in for a shot and a burn any more. He didn’t give a shit, you could even take it under the underground station in the pouring rain. But Scarlett and Michelle found him at a good time.

When they knocked on his door and said they had not even 5 pence to them he smiled and replied:

„You are in luck today. I’ve sold a few fixes. I can take the rest of the day off.”

An hour later Scarlett could still taste his sperm in her mouth. She was disgusted with herself but at the same time, pleased. Job done. Now all was left to do was to wait for him to finish with Michelle and they would be able to feed themselves.

The plants grew everywhere. You could smell them from the street and you must be wondering how on earth the guy didn’t end up in jail yet. As it happened, three weeks later they got him and put him behind bars. For a long time. End of story. Carrying on, to put yourselves in Scarlett’s shoes you have to imagine a South American cannabis jungle, where the scent itself makes you dizzy. Like on a bloody Mexican ranch, where dark-skinned Cabrones with moustaches grow and export huge amounts of the weed of the gods. Add empty beer and whisky bottles scattered all over the floor, dried up puke and dirty, scraped walls. Shall I carry on? Alright, I will. The fridge long broken, with a paddle of water flowing from underneath. The oven, walls and the ceiling covered in so much grease that you could easily fry food for the whole of starving Africa, not to mention the mould present everywhere. Literally everywhere. In the toilet, the rooms, the kitchen and probably no one will ever be able to get it rid of it because it seeped through the walls. The walls, by the way, must have been made of paper, judging by the number of holes in them. Greg broke the main rule of dealing – he started taking his own stuff. That’s what did him in.

Michelle left the room with Greg behind her, zipping up his torn jeans. He was a tall, skinny Brit, with a few earrings in his left ear, rotten teeth and sparkly eyes.

“OK, you got what you wanted, and now the stuff”, said Michelle. Greg smiled and lit a cigarette.

“You’re funny. You think you can sell your ass for a fix.”

“Fuck, are you kidding me?!” Scarlett joined in. If you ever want to sell anything again you better give us the fucking stuff!”

“What a mouthy bitch. Drop in tomorrow, I’ll think about it.”

Suddenly, Scarlett grabbed a bottle and threw it at Greg. She missed. The bottle smashed on the wall not far from his head. Greg looked at the newly-made hole, then at panting Scarlett. She was capable of anything. Just to get the longed-for pouch.

“Fucking junkies”.

“What the fuck is this?! This isn’t even half a gram!”

„That’s how much your two doped asses are worth. Get the fuck out of here.”

Scarlett and Michelle didn’t move. Greg grabbed them by the arms and led them to the door. Despite his faint frame, just skin on bones, he was strong enough to chuck them out of the door. They were tossing, scratching him, biting but it was all for nothing.

“Next time don’t show your face around here without cash!” he shouted and slammed the door in their faces.

“You wanker! We will be back and fuck you up! Don’t even stick your nose out of that hole you faggot!” Scarlett started kicking his door. She grabbed a stone and wanted to break the window but Michelle stopped her.

“Let’s go. We’ve got enough. You didn’t expect more, did you?”

Scarlett looked at her.

“He was right. We got as much as our asses are worth. Let’s go before someone calls the police.”

Scarlett nodded and dropped the stone. She showed her middle finger and they walked away.

III

She didn’t know if she could tell the difference between heaven and earth. Everything was blurred. Everything changed. Her being and not being. Her being, her damn existence, her devouring willingness to know more of something, something that was beyond the edge.

It lifted her up. It gave her strength. And despite the fact that she loved it, she knew that it was like scrambling through ice floes in a hot pool. Soon, there would be nothing left to scramble through. Everything would melt. Along with her.

Scarlett and Michelle lied on the pavement in front of Hounslow West underground station. The rain pattered on the pavement, on them, but they didn’t care. Fuck, they were not even aware that the freaking drops were falling on them. Every now and then you could hear rhythmic beeping of Oyster cards being touched on the gates inside the station. People were passing by them, busy with their own race after something. For them, they were like ghosts. Nobody knew of their existence. Maybe for the best. If anyone, God forbid, showed interest in them, they would lose their key to freedom. At least in their own minds.

For Scarlett and Michelle, the plasticine figures were just a source they could get means from, to survive the next few days. Just to satisfy their endless hunger when they were painfully aware of it.

Just like the rest of their mates with whom they met in a park, one of the squats or on the street. They were all one big toxic family to each other. Meaning, they loved each other, when they got the fix, when by chance they managed to gather a bit more cash, but at the same time when they were cold turkey, they were ready to slash each other’s throats for every ounce, every thimble of stuff. Because they couldn’t bear the pain, the hunger, of sobriety.

In good times, they usually went to The Bell where the guard were already sitting. Nicky, a little kid, as they used to call him, because despite his twenty years, he looked like he stopped developing at the age of thirteen. The guy-kid looked like he never shaved and he was still wet behind his ears. He took everything he could get his hands, and his nose on. During the day he was pouncing at bus stops from people waiting for a bus. He usually pretended to be a gentleman what made him look comical with his young appearance.

“Excuse me, dear gentlemen, I am homeless and hungry, would you have, dear gentlemen, some pence?”

He repeated the same thing automatically to everybody, fuck, you could stand next to him and hear his trained speech, and five seconds later, he would say the same exact thing to you. Fishy eyes, slicked, blond hair, a kind tone. A little, fucking gentleman. When they were looking for change, he looked into their wallets. When they wanted to give him 20p he looked at them scornfully and walked away. He was usually so stoned that he didn’t even notice that he came up to the same people within the space of five minutes. For him, they all had plasticine faces, too. And at night, when he landed a ‘good job’, as he used to say, he stole bicycles from outside the train stations and more. In Hounslow, you could often see frames, wheels or just the handlebars left and locked up. This was Nicky’s job. He unscrewed anything that could be unscrewed, and damn me, he was good.

Ramsy was Nicky’s friend. British, of Middle Eastern origin. Chapati. He stole on the High Street, usually from CEX or Sports Direct because… it was so fucking easy. Even if he got caught and the police arrived, they still did nothing to him. They let him go so Ramsy went back to the same shops and stole again. Phones, coats, socks, perfumes, expensive T-shirts. Then he sold it and could get a fix for the dough he got from the sale.

Billy often went ‘hunting’ with Ramsy, although he preferred pouncing for a cup. But for this, he had to go to the Centre, and there, the usual spots were already booked, reserved by the old spongers, usually Poles, Lithuanians, Romanians. That’s why, when he stayed in Hounslow, he ‘hunted’ people who were withdrawing cash from the cashpoint. He didn’t rob them, no. He simply asked them for money. He was brash enough, and smart, to catch them in the course of the act of withdrawing the cash. This is how he did it: he had some change ready. He approached a delinquent who was entering the PIN.

„ Sorry mate, can you spare a pound? I haven’t got enough for a freaking ticket”.

He was tall, wore a leather jacket and looked like a punk. Of course nobody gave him a newly withdrawn cash, for fuck’s sake. People are not such idiots, after all. And Billy knew it perfectly well.

„Sorry, I don’t have any change”, came a usual reply.

“It’s alright, mate. I can give you change.”

Bang. He hit the weak spot. If someone had no balls, was sensitive, and not assertive enough, and on top was in a hurry for a freaking train, they took the bait. At this moment Billy took the change out of his pocket. A damn whole lot of change. A few pounds, fifties, twenties. No one would have time to count it. So they gave him a tenner, Billy dropped the change into their hands and disappeared around the corner. And when the benefactors counted their dough, it turned out that they were so good that they donated not just one, but three or sometimes even four pounds. But by then it was already too late. Hardly anyone fell into this trap, but if he fished someone, at least once in an hour, it was enough.

Billy’s girlfriend was Vanessa. She was obviously aware that Billy fucked Scarlett and Michelle on the side. Often, when they were in a pub, he would go to the toilet with Michelle for a line and a blow job. Vanessa, in turn, didn’t own him anything. She was being regularly banged by Ramsy. Friends? They didn’t exist. Everything was based on basic, wild instincts, on basic goods exchange. Vanessa was the only one out of them with a car. Not to drive, the banger was parked in one spot, often served as a den to smoke pot. But it was parked in a specific spot, right in the street opposite the underground station, not far from the pedestrian crossing. It was parked legally. What was the trick all about? Vanessa was quite fat, battered, often beaten by Billy. For any reason, but this wasn’t important. What was important, was the fact that she knew how to take advantage of this for her own benefit perfectly.

Imagine a situation. You are getting off the train or a bus, tired after a hard day at work. All you dream about is to go home, take a shower, eat, watch Netflix or some other shit, have a beer, or a drink, whatever. You are crossing the road and you hear:

“Excuse me! Excuse me!”

A woman’s voice. You turn around. There is a car parked on the other side of the road, with a woman sitting inside, waving at you frantically. You are thinking: She must be lost, so a good person as you are, sympathetic to human injustice, you come up to the window. You take the bait like a naïve, little fish.

„What happened?”, you ask.

„ I am sorry I am interrupting…”, the woman starts and you think that in a minute she’s gonna say How do I get to… Nothing like that. „I’m from Ireland. I am a victim of domestic violence and I’m pregnant. I have nowhere to live and nothing to eat. Would you help me out with some money?”

She is crying. What do you do? You give her some change. Fuck, you are not heartless. Yes, Vanessa was a true mistress in making people feel sorry for her and she mastered the art of narcotic survival to perfection.

They were all worthy of each other. They were family. They were nothing, the outcasts, nobody, but each one wanted to be somebody. Whatever it would fucking mean. They didn’t give a shit about anyone. About the Queen, their parents who worked their asses off in factories and warehouses, or the immigrants of whom they were poncing change. They didn’t consider themselves to be the chosen ones, they took life as it was. They didn’t expect any different. Those short moments of happiness were all that counted. Because life in sobriety was too overwhelming. And when they had no choice, when the addiction, the hunger forced them to act, to satisfy the need for happiness, they knew there was no other way. Only to take what they give, reach the mirage, protect their own safety. And then sing punk-rock songs like „God save the Queen”, interpreting everything on the basis of God save the Queen because there is no hope for us. Or God save the Queen from our proletarian anger.

When Scarlett woke up, Michelle was gone. She was alone, lying on the newspaper, soaked from the rain. The watch showed three in the morning. She waited an hour and took the first train that arrived. There was no destination to her journey. She just wanted to go anywhere. The train wasn’t busy. Some people were going to work, to Heathrow. On the floor, next to the door, there was an exquisite stain of vomit. A woman was pouring vodka into an empty mineral water bottle. Everyone had an empty, sleepy look. Some were staring at their phones. Scarlett was observing them all, she saw them but at the same time she didn’t see anyone. She looked at her reflection.

She saw herself, as if she was some kind of an abstract image from the past. Fishy eyes, with bags under them, greasy, thin blond-coloured hair. All her beauty encompassed in this destructive frame. In an unshaped, plasticine figure.

“MIND THE GAP BETWEEN THE TRAIN AND THE PLATFORM” boomed the voice through the loudspeaker.

A black guy got into the carriage and started to give out some papers to people. Scarlett looked at hers. I am deaf-mute and I need help. He started early, thought Scarlett. But no one paid any attention to him, so the man took his papers back and got off at the next stop avoiding the stain of vomit.

A coin flashed on the floor. Scarlett leaned down and picked it up. Five pence. A profile of the Queen who ruled and was on guard. Scarlett put it in her pocket. Today will be a lucky day. With this in mind, she closed her eyes and waited for the hunger to come.