What Came Before He Shot Her

couldn’t have named it simply as a child might: full of mad, bad, sad, or glad. She couldn’t have named it more complexly: full of the milk of human kindness, full of compassion, full of the love one might have for a helpless baby or an innocent kitten, full of righteous anger at an injustice, full of rage at life’s inequities. All she knew was that she felt so full that she had to do something to relieve the pressure building up within her. This pressure was a constant in her life, but it was one that had been increasing dangerously since the moment she’d sat in the audience of that ballet with the environment assaulting her and no way of explaining why she could not remain and watch those dancers bourree  across the stage.

            She needed to do something. That was all she knew. She needed to run, she needed to push over a rubbish bin, she needed to snatch an infant out of its pram and trip its mother, she needed to push an old lady into the Grand Union Canal and watch her sink, she needed a way to get rid  of the full. She began by leaving the environs of the sandwich kiosk and making her way to the ladies’ toilet.

            Twenty pence was required to get inside. This fact made Ness so unaccountably angry that she kicked the turnstile and then crawled beneath it, not because she didn’t have the money but because the railway station’s demanding it of someone wanting to have a simple wee, for God’s sake, seemed suddenly outrageous to her, a final straw and she the camel. She didn’t even look around to make sure no one was watching her on hands and knees effecting her marginally illegal entry. She wanted to be seen doing it, in fact, so that she could allow her indignation a physical manifestation. But no one was there to see her, so she went inside and used the toilet.

            An inspection of herself in the mirror came next, and this told her adjustments in her appearance were called for. She attended first to the top she was wearing, pulling it down and tucking it more deeply into her jeans so as to reveal the swell of her breasts dangerously close to the nipple. She scrutinised her makeup and decided that her skin was dark enough but more lipstick was called for. From her bag she brought out a tube long ago pinched from Boots, and this action—just the tube of lipstick coming to rest in her hand—reminded her of Six and Natasha. But the thought of her erstwhile friends produced a renewed surge of that damnable fullness. This time, the pressure was such that her hands shook. When she tried to apply the lipstick, she broke it and then felt the horror of certain tears.

            Tears meant a release of pressure and an end to the fullness, but Ness didn’t know that. Instead, she knew tears only as a sign of defeat, as the last resort and potentially the last gasp of the terminally weak and the decidedly conquered. So instead of weeping, she flung the ruined lipstick into the bin, and she left the ladies’ toilet.

Outside the station, she made her way to the bus stop, where the vicissitudes of London Transport forced her into fifteen minutes of waiting for a number 23 bus. When one finally came along, she elbowed past two women with pushchairs who were struggling to get onto the vehicle and she told them to fuck themselves when they asked her to stand aside and let them on first. It was crowded within and overly hot, but she didn’t climb to the upper deck as she would have done with Joel and Toby. Instead, she moved towards the back of the lower deck and placed herself near the exit doors, from which position she would at least get a breath of fresh air when the doors swung open at each stop. She clung on to a pole as the bus lurched back into the traffic and found herself eye to eye with an old-age pensioner, hairs bursting from his nose and his ears like minuscule antennae.

            He had a seat on the aisle. He smiled at her, what appeared to be a grandfatherly smile until he dropped his gaze to her chest. He kept it there long enough to telegraph what he was looking at, and then raised his glance once again to capture hers. His tongue came out and made the circuit of his lips: the first, white with some kind of unappealing coating, and the second, colourless and cracked. He winked.

            “Fuck off. ” Ness made no attempt to keep her voice down. She wanted to turn away from him, but she didn’t dare, as that would have left her unprotected. No, she needed her eyes on him, so she kept them there. If he made a move, she would be ready.

            But nothing more happened. The old man gave her breasts one more look, said, “My goodness,” and shook out a folded tabloid. He adjusted it in such a way that the Page Three girl was well on view. Ness thought, Fucking bugger, and as soon as the bus lumbered to the stop nearest Queensway, she got off.

            She didn’t have far to go, and she attracted a fair amount of attention on her way. Queensway was bustling with shoppers, but even so, Ness was something different. Her revealing clothing—some of it skimpy and some of it tight—demanded notice. Her expression and her gait, the first haughty and the second confident, succeeded in creating the impression of a female set on seduction. In combination, these elements allowed her to project such an air of danger that she was safe from approach, which was what she wanted. If any approaching was to be done, she  would be the person to do it.

When she came to a chemist’s shop, she ducked inside. Like the pavement outside, it was crowded. The cosmetics were as far from the door as possible, but that provided a challenge that Ness had no difficulty in taking up. She went directly to the display of lipstick and made a brief study of the colours. She chose a deep burgundy, and without bothering to glance around to make certain she was not being watched, she slid the lipstick into her bag at the same moment as she reached to inspect another colour. She spent a few more minutes in the shop with her heart pounding loudly in her ears before she made her way to the door. In a moment, she was outside on the pavement and moving down the street in the direction of Whiteley’s, her mission accomplished.

It was a simple thing, really: the pinching of a lipstick on a day when the rest of the world was shopping and creating a diversion by their sheer numbers. By all rights, Ness shouldn’t have felt particularly triumphant. But she did feel that way. She felt like singing. She felt like stamping her feet and crowing. She felt, in short, completely different from the way she’d felt when she’d entered the shop. The rush of delight that washed through her seemed to alter her very substance, as if she’d taken a drug instead of merely breaking the law. Finally, she felt released from the pressure that had been filling her.

She strutted. She giggled. She laughed aloud. She would, she decided, do it again. She’d head towards Whiteley’s, where the pickings were better. She had hours before Joel and Toby would return to Paddington station.

That was when she saw Six and Natasha, just as she crossed over the road. They were tripping along with their heads together and their arms entwined. There was a little stumble to their gait that suggested they’d been drinking or drugging.

            High with the success of her venture, Ness decided the time had come to bury whatever hatchet the past few weeks had produced among them. She called out to them good-naturedly, “Six! Tash!

            Where you been?”

            The two girls stopped. Their faces altered from expectant to wary when they saw who’d hailed them. They gave each other a look, but they maintained their ground as Ness approached.

            “Happenin?” Six said with a nod at Ness. “You ain’t been round f ’r a while, Moonbeam.”

            Ness read this slight rewriting of their mutual history as a peace offering. She made no attempt to correct it. She accepted it instead as given and sought her cigarettes. Custom suggested she offer one to each of the girls, but she hadn’t taken enough of her aunt’s Benson & Hedges to make this possible, so instead of lighting up and offending them when it seemed she had an opening with them, she brought out her newly pinched lipstick instead. She took it from its packaging and twisted the base till the cylinder of colour was fully extended and looking vaguely obscene. She played with it a bit, in and out and in and out, and gave her former friends a grin before she turned to the window of the nearest shop and used it as a mirror. She applied the colour and inspected her lips. She said, “Well, shit. Dat looks like I been eating roadkill, innit,” and she tossed the new lipstick into the street. It was a more-where-that-came-from kind of gesture.

            “Got dat shit off th’ chemist up near Westbourne Grove. I should’ve nicked ’bout five of ’em, it so easy, you know wha’ I mean? So. Wha’ you two doing?”

            “Not pinchin shit from Boots, an’ dat’s for sure,” Six said. It was a warning sign, but it was not sufficient to deflate Ness entirely. She said with a grin, “Why? You changed your lyin and thievin ways, den, Six? Or you got a man providin for you now?”

            “Don’t need a man to get wha’ I want,” Six replied, and to demonstrate her point, she brought out a mobile phone and examined it, as if a pressing text message had just come in.

            Ness knew she was meant to admire the mobile. It was part of the ritual. Cooperatively, she said, “Nice, dat. Where’d you get it, den?”

            Six cocked her head and looked smug. Tash was less cool. She said with evident pride, “Got dat off a white girl over Kensington Square. Six go up to her, says, ‘Hand dat over, cunt,’ an’ I get behind her case she t’ink