You pull into the car park behind the Redbeck Cafй and Motel -
The Viva is gone -
Hazel too.
You park. You wait. You watch -
You watch the row of deserted rooms -
Their boarded glass, their padlocked doors.
You get out. You lock the car door. You walk across the car park -
That depressed, coarse car park -
Puddles of rain water and motor oil underfoot.
You walk across the rough ground to the bogs round the side -
They reek. The tiled floor covered in old, black piss. The mirror broken and the light smashed. The sink stained with brown water from a busted tap. There is one cubicle without a door, the toilet inside without a seat. The whole room engrossed in a thousand different inks and words of -
Hate.
Always hate, always -
Fear -
Fear and hate, hate and fear;
You’ve been here before -
Now you’re back for more -
Always back to here;
This the place -
The place you never left:
Never left the motel room of a forgotten cafй on a tedious road in a barren place; the place you’ve been for the last six years -
Stolen wine/stolen time.
Piss on your bandages and down your trousers, you walk out of the toilets and along the row, past the broken windows and the graffiti, the mountains of rubbish and the birds and the rats that feast here, walking towards the door -
The door to one room in a row of disused motel rooms -
The door banging in the wind, in the rain -
You stop before the door:
Room 27 -
The place you’ve been for the last six years.
You pull open the door -
The room is dark and cold.
You step inside -
The remains of a devoured mattress against the window;
No light here -
No words upon the wall, no photographs -
Nothing but pain.
You walk across the floor -
Shattered furniture and splintered wood underfoot;
Walk across the floor to stand before the wall.
You take the photograph from your pocket -
A photograph made of paper, cut from paper, dirty paper;
You take the photograph and you stick it on the wall.
You sit down upon the base of the bed -
The relentless sound of the rain on the window and the door;
The door banging in the wind and the rain.
You close your eyes -
The Fear here -
The place you never left;
The dogs barking -
The Wolf at the door.
It’s Christmas and I’m coming up hill, swaying, bags in my hand. Plastic bags, carrier bags, Tesco bags. A train passes and I bark, stand in middle of road and bark at train. I am a complete wreck of a human being wearing a light green three-quarter-length coat with an imitation fur collar, a turquoise blue jumper with a bright yellow tank top over it and dark brown trousers and brown suede calf-length boots. I turn left and see a row of six deserted narrow garages up ahead, each splattered with white graffiti and their doors showing remnants of green paint, last door banging in wind, in rain. I hold open door and I step inside. It is small, about twelve feet square, and there is sweet smell of perfumed soap, of cider, of Durex. There are packing cases for tables, piles of wood and other rubbish. In every other space there are bottles; sherry bottles, bottles of spirits, beer bottles, bottles of chemicals, all empty. A man’s pilot coat doubles as a curtain over window, only one, looking out on nothing. A fierce fire has been burning in grate and ashes disclose remains of clothing. On wall opposite door is written Fisherman’s Widow in wet red paint. I hear door open behind me and I turn around and I’m -
In same room, always same room; ginger beer, stale bread, ashes in grate. I’m in white, turning black right down to my nails, hauling a marble-topped washstand to block door, falling about too tired to stand, collapsed in a broken backed chair, spinning I make no sense, words in my mouth, pictures in my head, they make no sense, lost in my own room, like I’ve had a big fall, broken, and no one can put me together again, messages: no-one receiving, decoding, translating.
‘What shall we do for rent?’ I sing.
Just messages from my room, trapped between living and dead, a marble-topped washstand before my door. But not for long, not now. Just a room and a girl in white turning black right down to my nails and holes in my head, just a girl, hearing footsteps on cobbles outside.
Just a girl -
Just a girl on my knees and he’s come out of me. Now he’s angry. I try to turn but he’s got me by my hair, punching me casually once, twice, and I’m telling him there’s no need for that, scrambling to give him his money back, and then he’s got it up my arse, but I’m thinking at least it’ll be over then, and he’s back kissing my shoulders, pulling my black bra off, smiling at this fat cow’s flabby arms, and taking a big, big bite out of underside of my left tit, and I can’t not scream and I know I shouldn’t because now he’s going to have to shut me up and I’m crying because I know it’s over, that they’ve found me, that this is how it ends, that I’ll never see my daughters again, not now, not ever.
* BJ wake up, sweating:
It is Saturday 27 December 1980.
BJ lie in bed and watch rain and lights and cracks in ceiling.
There’s someone at door -
(Always someone at door) -
