CHAPTER 1 FRESHER'S WEEK
I was really nervous and self conscious. The man at the desk tried to be helpful. "You want to speak to Georgia. She's helping out at the Gay and Lesbian desk. They're a bit under siege, from the religious nutters. I'd keep your hoody up."
Great. I only wanted to join the water polo club. It was my first day at university, and the fresher's fare was a complete crush. I had surprised everybody, including myself, and got a place at Imperial, to study civil engineering.
I soon saw what he meant. The Gay and Lesbian Society had been stuck in a corner, sandwiched between the Christian Fellowship and the Muslim Society. An angry woman accosted me.
"Have you found Jesus?"
"No," I mumbled.
"So, why are you here?"
"Well I don't know. I was hoping to speak to the people at the next desk."
"The Muslims aren't going to talk to you, dressed like that. Or are you one of THEM?"
I was wearing my shortest denim skirt. My legs are my best feature, and I was desperate to distract attention, from my face. Later that day I could not help putting the woman's theory to the test. The Muslim students were absolutely lovely, but pointed out that Islam did not appear to be for me. Nor, I acknowledged, was it honest, to pretend to be one, just to wear a veil.
A pretty Asian woman, with a Brummie accent, put it to me, "Veil and mini skirt, love? I think incongruous is the politest word I can think of."
I could feel the "Christian" woman's eyes boring into my back, as I sat down in front of the spawn of Sodom. Two Goths, who could have been brother and sister, glowered at me. A beautiful woman smiled gently at me.
"I'm looking for Georgia," I mumbled.
"You've found me," the woman purred, her eyes gluing me to my chair.
She had thick, chestnut coloured hair, tucked up and loosely bundled, on top of her head. Her eyes were mid brown, almost golden. She had a strong straight nose, high cheekbones and sensuous lips. Like me, she was wearing little make up. Georgia was wearing a fairly tight pink vest, which emphasized her broad, tanned shoulders. Underneath she seemed to be wearing a sports bra, which flattened her, no doubt magnificent, breasts. Georgia had a small nose piercing and a labret in the centre, just below her lower lip.
"So, you want to joins us. Hence the hoody, no doubt," barked the woman next to Georgia.
The Goth woman was heavily built and scary. She had a lot of piercings.
"Wouldn't want anyone to know your filthy secrets eh, Charley? You forgot to cover your name badge. Not very careful are you?"
How did she know about the abortion? I could feel the tears welling up. I dropped my hood, and showed her my face. Her aggression disappeared.
"Oh shit, I'm sorry. I didn't know."
Georgia touched my hand lightly, and fixed me with her eyes again. Magically, I stopped crying.
"You want to join the women's water polo team, don't you?"
"But. How?"
"Swimmer's shoulders love. Great legs too."
Lady Goth huffed.
"Shit Georgia. Put her down. It's great you helping out, and keeping the homophobic loonies at bay, but..."
"So you're not a lesbian?" I blurted out, subtly.
"Oh yes, she is. You're the fourth svelte nubile, that she's seduced this morning. She's got a girlfriend, for fuck's sake."
Georgia gently stroked the little blonde hairs, on my forearm. She had tiny hands.
"So Charley. Gay, straight, bi, or bi-curious?"
"I...I... don't know."
At least I was being honest.
"That's OK; you take your time. I'll see you tomorrow, at 3."
"What? You mean a date?"
"No, silly. At the pool. I'll warn you, I'm not gentle."
Both Goths chuckled, and I blushed furiously, and made my exit, pushing past the Christians. I kept my hood down though, and tried to hold my head up.
CHAPTER 2 DUCK, CHARLEY
Some might be surprised that it was not Lydia Cartwright, who tried to kill me, but a 40 year old man, from Blackburn, called Terry Owen. We have never met. A date has yet to be set, for his trial.
I got a summer job at a holiday camp in Bridlington; lifeguard in the day and barmaid at night. The pay was bad, but I managed to do twelve hour days. The outdoor pool was cold and under used. I spent a lot of time staring into space, when I wasn't shouting at badly behaved teenagers, only a few years younger than me. I was mostly ignored. I acquired a great tan.
The Geoffrey Boycott was big and served cheap beer. It had a reputation. They had difficulty recruiting staff. Donna, the manager was a big Geordie, who hated Southerners, like me, but could not afford to be fussy. On day one, she showed me a picture of a stunning blonde.
"This is Tatyana Luschenko; Ukrainian student. She died in my arms, last summer. Stabbed in the chest. Bled to death. Try not to join her."
I was nicknamed Suicide Girl. My job was to roam the tables, picking up empty bottles and glasses, before someone could use them as weapons. Donna had me wear jeans, with a thick belt, lace up boots, sweat shirt and sports bra. I have kept my chaotic, curly hair short for some years.
"You're going to get touched up, kicked, and spat at. No skirts, or crop tops. No necklaces. Get your hair cut a bit shorter, and put gel in it. Gives the slappers less to hang on to. Can you scream? Good. I should be able to get to you in thirty seconds."
14th of August was a Saturday, and the fight broke out at 10:30 pm. The joint was heaving, and I was stranded near the doors. I had just had a difficult negotiation, with a hen-night group, who did not want to hand over their collection of empty Bacardi Breezer bottles. They made some quite hurtful comments about my physical appearance, intelligence, sexual orientation, parentage, and child bearing potential.
As I stood up, with my heavily laden tray, something hit me hard, on my right cheek. I dropped the tray with a crash, put my hand to my face and turned. I assumed that one of the hen-night slappers had, well, slapped me. They were all on their feet, screaming at me. Something hard and sharp stuck in my right hand. I looked and saw a piece of jagged glass sticking out. My boobs felt wet and, looking down, blood was running down my jeans on to the floor. It took me a while to register, that it was my blood. I slipped, in it, and landed flat on my back, winded, on twenty empty alcopop bottles; none of which broke.
I was feeling really cold, and the pain had hit hard. A policeman, in full riot gear, glared down at me. Apparently, the pint glass, which hit me, just in front of my right ear, had been aimed at the police, who were making one of their regular visits. The incredible din, in the pub, seemed to fade, as my field of vision narrowed. Donna appeared, with the first aid kit, and pressed something big and white onto my neck. She had rightly guessed that my severed jugular vein was going to kill me quicker that my slashed face.
Donna seemed really cross, but I think it was fear.
"Charley, you stupid bitch. I told you to look out for flying glasses. Or did I? It's just like the Russian girl. She was dead before the ambulance got here. I'm sure you'll last longer than she did, pet. I've had it. I can't put up with another dead barmaid. They can find another manager."
Events got a bit hazy then. I remember thinking, "I deserve this," but I actually said, "I want my Mum."
I seemed to be picked up, and put in an ambulance, in no time. I was disappointed that the blood loss had not abolished the pain, which was intense. Oh, how I tried to be brave. And failed. Faces kept appearing and disappearing from view. I couldn't remember my date of birth, or where I lived.
Then I was sitting up, apparently half way through a conversation, with a nurse.
