Rachels Fire 01

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Parts of this were posted in an earlier form as "Roger Simian". BTW, the punctuation and style are SUPPOSED to be a bit weird. Just me being all wacky and experimental - haha.

(COMPLEXION)

The author of *Miss Babylon 1999* sits naked lonely and drunk up there in her bedroom/ slurping straight vodka from a coffee mug and gazing distractedly into the Looking Glass. Its not little blonde Alice she sees staring back at her though. More like a scrawny Snow White. Ink-black hair dripping over skinny shoulders. Chilly green eyes like flawed emeralds. Milky skin the complexion of the vampyre. Breathing deep in through her nose she tugs on the silvery ring that peirxces her

FUCKIT! FUCKIT! FUCKIT!

that PIERCES her left nipple. She can already feel the familiar burning between her

~~~~~

START AGAIN!

So the author of *Miss Babylon 1999* sits naked lonely and drunk before her bedroom mirror. She is 30 years old.

The smell is Avocado and Apple (the scent of cheap shampoo that still clings to my hair). The colour is pale blue (a soft reflection of the pockmarked wallpaper Mum and Dad pasted up a quarter of a century ago).

To the left of this crow-haired Godiva a bashed white convection heater is turned all the way up to five/ helping combat the worst excesses of the Scottish winter.

Tugging at the ring that pierces her left nipple the writer frowns at her milky reflection and flares her nostrils/ breathing in deep through her nose. Shes been thinking about this one afternoon twelve years ago.

~~~

1987. 18 years old. Shed taken to calling herself Rachel Babylon by this point. Wanted to be a Punkrock singer like Siouxie Sioux or Iggy Stooge. Changing her drab name (Rachel Kearney) seemed to be the first step towards this.

But the IMPORTANT thing going on in Rachels life just now was that shed finally left her Mother and moved in with longstanding boyfriend Byron. Byron had this damp wee flat in Wester Hailes that was a bit of a shit-hole to be honest. That didnt matter though really. All Rachel and Byron wanted was time alone together for smoking dope and making love. Thats what you do when youre 18.

On this particular afternoon the Sun shone gloriously through the dusty windows making everything seem all hazy and golden/ kind of like some soft-focus French film. Rachel finished undressing - allowing her stuff to drop onto the carpet - and cheerfully clambered up onto the bed.

*Whats that youre hiding* she purred/ a comic kittenish voice shed been cultivating over the past few days.

Byron scratched his stubbly chin and grinned as she threw back the quilt. Miss Babylon was smiling too. She could see that her boyfriend was getting hard. Just from watching her little striptease.

She climbed up on top of him then - her knees sinking into the matress on either side of his body - and took his thing in her small fist. Warm. Swelling up under the touch of

~~~~~

*Kuh!* The author of *Miss Babylon 1999* grins and shakes her head (a subtle movement). Padding over to her desk she slumps down onto the chair and yelps as the cold wood kisses her buttocks. For a moment she studies the tiny goosepimples that have risen up over her arms/ legs and breasts.

Getting briefly to her feet she grabs the long pink jumper from the bed and pulls it on. It clings to her body like a misshapen woollen dress.

Slumping back down - jumper tugged almost to her knees - she switches on the VDU and hits the Macs start-up/ sparking up another Regal King as she stares at the flickering screen.

~~~~~

Well now. Shit. Here I finally am my dear Severine. Pissed up and agitated in this cluttered wee flat overlooking Clerk Street (possibly one of the noisiest streets in the whole of Edinburgh).

Gavins fucked off home and Im alone. But thats ok. Im just as lonely when hes around.

Its 3.56/ sorry 3.57 on a predictably downcast Winter morning here in the Scottish capital. Ive got half a bottle of Ukrainian vodka gushing through my veins (this is strong stuff. 140 proof it says on the bottle) and a new century/ a new MILLENNIUM hurtling towards me by the second. (November 1999. Cant you just feel that pessimistic old fart Nostradamus breathing down your neck?)

Ok so that wasnt too difficult really. Three pleasant little paragraphs to set up the scene (time place and person). A bit clumsy and laboured no doubt but I can always tidy them up in the morning along with all the other debris of my drunkenness: 2 empty fag packets/ 4 coffee mugs/ 1 creamy-white bra/ a pair of burgundy knickers (Im not always the most co-ordinated girl)/ several green scrumpled pound notes (which incidentally theyll no longer accept in England)/ my new black hip-huggers (only SLIGHTLY flared)/ a couple of Michael Moorcocks Jerry Cornelius novels and half a slice of buttered toast and strawberry jam that I forgot all about till just this minute.

So what have I been doing for the past three and a half hours?

Lets see. Apart from coffee/ ciggies and toast Ive:

~torn chunks of lumpy blue wallpaper from the wall

~polished off that bottle of crazy vodka over there on the floor

~painted my toe-nails (Cool Frosted Green)

~strummed my jumbo acoustic guitar (not really mine: borrowed off Aunt Jane two years ago)

~daydreamed the usual cavalcade of encounters with a series of faceless men and women (yes I AM a bad girl haha)

~and bathed several times in the glitter-whore glamour of Mr Bowies 1971 album *Hunky Dory*.

ANYTHING to avoid the snide mockery of this empty flickering screen.

***

(I DREAM OF MARIA)

Close your eyes Rachel and imagine this. A beach. Some filthy yellow beach in Spain/ Puerto Rico or

or

BRAZIL. Yes.

Can you see it? Do you smell the Sea? Feel the salt-breeze tickling at your hair?

Good. Now picture the woman. She is dark skinned and sullen. Wild and beautiful. She sits on a crumbling wall/ her pretty hazel eyes screwed up in the Suns glare. A smouldering cigarette hangs flaccidly from the corner of her mouth and theres a bottle of something nasty at her side. She could smile so sweetly but the world doesnt deserve a smile. So she scowls.

Shes just sitting there/ large breasts thrust out beneath her white blouse/ legs crossed high so no one can fail to notice the expanse of smooth dark shaved flesh stretching from her ankle to her thigh.

The Brazilian points at the bottle beside her/ motions for you to join her. *You are English?* she asks stubbing out the butt of her cigarette on the wall.

You shake your head. *Scottish.*

She seems confused but nods and passes you the bottle. You allow a few drops of the vile liquor to trickle over your tongue and the woman laughs as your face contorts.

*It is very cheap* she advises. Taking the bottle from your hand she puts her lips round the neck and gulps. A few drops of liquid dribble from the corner of her mouth and you blush. The Brazilian wipes her lips and chin with the back of her hand. *Would you like to walk with me?* she asks as the empty bottle thuds onto muddy grass and rolls.

You stare into those dark eyes and shrug. Might be fun to have a friend here who can show you around.

She seems to study you a moment Rachel. What does she see? Thick shoulder-length black hair. Melancholy green eyes. You are usually quite a pale girl but the cruel Sun has burned your face and arms/ turning you an unhealthy red. Like a crustacean scuttling from the boiling pot. Under your arms and between your breasts your t-shirt is stained dark with sweat. You must look strange to her Rachel. Almost alien.

The woman gets to her feet/ kicks off her sluttish red shoes - discarding them where they land - and walks bare-foot in front of you. Her peroxide hair reaches to the small of her back/ bouncing as she walks. *What is your name?* she asks/ the words floating across her shoulder.

*Rachel.*

*Rachel? I like that. Its from the Bible no? Im Maria* she says. *Maria Helena Marquez.*

You catch her up/ trying not to make it too obvious that youre watching her breasts move beneath the material of her blouse. Top buttons undone. Droplets of sweat trickling into her cleavage.

Large-breasted women have always fascinated you for some reason. You glance self-consciously down at your own smallish bosom. (I refuse to be intimidated. Theyre only tits. Weve all got them.)

Maria shoots you a strange look.

(So why of all people did Gavin have to go and shag Leanne Nesbit? It wasnt the size of her cerebral cortex that got him so hot under the waistband was it? Shit. Dont think about that. Youll only make yourself bitter girl.)

*Rachel?*

*Huh?* You havent heard a word shes said.

*I said I see you here on the beach every morning. You are always alone.*

*Aye well. Im on holiday.* you mumble.

*No husband?*

Shaking your head: *Ive got a boyfriend but were not getting on too great.*

Maria stops and looks at you/ lips curling into a snear. *Men are no good. You dont need a man Rachel. They are shits. BIG SHITS.* She spits this out with the bitterness of too much experience.

*Do you have a husband?* you ask.

***

(CLERK STREET)

So maybe I should tell you about the street where I live.

If you head off the East End of Princes Street up the Bridges and just keep going till your feet get sore (thats if youre a lazy cow like me) youll arrive at Clerk Street. Its not a bad place to live really. Bit noisy with all the cars/ buses/ motorbikes/ taxis/ etcetera grinding to and from Princes Street but you dont have far to go to get whatever you need:

~ciggies

~books

~CDs

~clothes

~cosmetics

~toiletries

~the bank

~munchies (theres a great curry place just a few blocks away)

~vids

~guitar strings

~booze

~and of course a wide variety of sanitary products to suit all your feminine hygiene needs

(Which is my pal Jans cue to start lecturing us about toxic shock syndrome.)

Clerk Streets not too bad a place to live really. Some of the pubs are a bit rough mind you. You get all the hard-nuts from the schemes coming up this way to cause trouble. Its quite entertaining. I can sit at that window for hours just gazing down at all the fights and general drunken goings-on. Better than tv.

Ive lived 30 years in Scotland (almost 31) and - although I dont have a nationalistic bone in my body - I guess I kind of like the place. Especially Edinburgh.

Embra.

I know that Edinburgh folk have this reputation for being all cold and antisocial/ maybes even a wee bit snobby (*Aw furcoats and nae knickers* as my Uncle John in Glasgow puts it) but theres still something about this city.

I guess I mustve just grown used to the place over the years. Like some shabby old dog that wont stop following you around. (A reference of course to that faithful wee Skye terrier Bobby who kept vigil by Jock Grays grave here in Greyfriars Churchyard for 14 years in the 1800s.)

***

(DO YOU HAVE A HUSBAND?)

Maria Marquez stops and looks at you/ lips curling into a snear. *Men are no good. You dont need a man Rachel. They are shits. BIG SHITS.* She spits this out with the bitterness of too much experience.

*Do you have a husband?* you ask. The question seems somehow comical once the words have left your mouth. You cough/ feeling strangely uncomfortable. Something about the way Maria is staring at you.

Shaking her head: *I have many boyfriends but they dont know how to make love to a woman. They only know how to FUCK FUCK FUCK and fall asleep.*

Youve arrived at a quiet stretch of the beach. Behind you the town is hidden by the trees.

As the Brazilian touches your arm you feel a strange almost electrical tingle pass through your body. She looks into your face. Her pupils swelling. Lips moist.

***

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***

(COCKTAIL)

She looks into your face. Her pupils swelling. Lips moist. *Its easy to fake it. The men here are so stupid* she informs you. *Only a woman really knows how to make me come.*

Lost for words. Try not to let the shock show on your face.

*Have you ever been with a woman?* she asks.

*What do you mean?* You know exactly what she means.

*Together with another woman? Fucking her?*

*No.* You say this quietly/ your cheeks burning up. Feel your stomach tightening. You look at this woman/ a cocktail of terror and longing coursing through your blood.

Taking hold of your face with both hands Maria Marquez thrusts her mouth against yours. Her lips soft against your own. Her cheap perfume intoxicates you. She edges her wet tongue into your mouth and you feel the surge of electricity.

But you are confused. You shake your head/ pull away.

See the wicked smile curling Marias lips. She nudges you. You fall back onto the sand. *Take off your clothes* she says.

*What?*

*Take them off!* She is serious. *Please Rachel.*

You could easily get to your feet/ shove her indignantly out the way and storm off back to your hotel but you dont do this. Instead you pull off your shoes and socks. The sand is hot against your heels.

***

(CUT-UP no 6: SOFT TAXIS)

We pulled red cars in snowdrop crashing. The eyes were skinny pale. It gave me unawares and I drank soft taxis. Crushed tomorrows forever empty.

***

(TIME CAPSULE)

Bowies *Quick Sand* comes on and I get goosebumps all down my legs. I know its a weird one to associate with teenage lust but you cant really choose the songs that map out your life.

Listening to it now Im transported back twelve years to Sharons party in Leith. 18 years old. I can feel him pressed against me/ smell his hair/ taste the kiss/ feel his fingers fumbling awkwardly between my legs.

All the excitement and confusion has been sealed away in that one song. Like a Time Capsule.

Ive been thinking about Byron a lot recently.

The first man I ever fucked.

Probably the only man I ever really loved.

Dont know if Ill ever get over him to be honest. Occasionally if I smell or see or hear something that reminds me of him the pain explodes through me/ burning into every cell in my

AH SHIT. Im even crying now. Big splashes of salty water dripping onto my hand as I type.

Hang on a second.

~~~~~

Last Saturday I took a stroll down to Cockburn Street. I didnt have any money or anything but I needed to get out the flat. It was doing my head in. So I was just wandering about - having a wee window-shop to myself (fantasising about what Id buy if I had the cash) - and I was heading down past this place where they sell loads of leather gear and jewellery and stuff when I just froze still. It was him. I was sure of it. The hair was cut short and hed lost weight but I was certain it was Byron. He was chatting away to some Goth girl behind the counter so I was able to stare at him through the window without him noticing.

I was so mixed up. This was a real shock. I thought Id managed to put him right out of my mind but seeing him in the flesh brought it all back. I wanted so badly to go inside and - I dont know - pretend to check out the skirts or something. Just anything to get myself inside the shop. Hopefully hed notice me and come over to speak (let him make the first move). But as soon as I saw he was getting ready to leave I chickened out and fled up the street. I was acting like some stupid shy wee lassie but - there you go - I guess thats what I am underneath it all.