Cheap White Meat Page 3

  ‘Don’t call me that.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It’s not my name.’

  ‘So why does it bother you?’

  You know why it bothers me Jack. And you know what my name is. It’s not Rosie. It’s not Rosie. It’s never been Rosie. That wasn’t me. That was someone else. Someone who doesn’t exist any more. Someone who died when the shutters got pulled down and I had nowhere to go. Someone who doesn’t want to be brought back to life.

  This guy is going to get killed if he goes round talking to messed up kids like this.

  ‘My name’s not Rosie.’

  I don’t know if he heard me because I’m crying.

  And I never cry. Not in front of anyone. What use is crying anyway? It only makes my eyes look all red and puffy as well as my cheeks.

  Rosie Red Cheeks, that’s me. Or at least who I used to be until I had to stop one day without notice and go back to sitting in my room, alone.

  Never underestimate the value of a good first impression. This guy has made me cry but I’m still sat here. Outside, in the silence. Even though we’ve got a full house inside it’s suspiciously quiet. The Others know something went on. Something serious. But they’re not sure what. Of course they’ve all made comments about what they think has happened, but none of them have been 100% right.

  The Alcoholic got dangerously close one time, but she stopped when she started to sound like she might have been a victim too. The Others don’t have the same resolve as me to put up with the interrogations that they put you through when they want you to speak. If The Alcoholic had to go through what I’ve been through the past couple of days then she’d be spending the next few weeks on remand, waiting trial, because she has a habit of telling people what they want to hear, trying to make people happy.

  Maybe I was the ringleader after all. Maybe that’s why I don’t feel like a victim. Maybe they think I was setting traps to lure The Others into. Perhaps one of The Others is the one who first went to the police. But if that was the case then they wouldn’t leave me here with her. If the same thing had have happened to one of The Others then they’d certainly have mentioned it.

  But I’ve got Jack to deal with first. Quiet Jack. Quiet unassuming Jack. With nothing to lose and everything to gain.

  ‘Can I keep these?’

  ‘Why?’ he asks, when I twirl his sunglasses in my hand. ‘I thought you didn’t like them.’

  ‘I don’t. So?’

  He just shrugs his shoulders. Either he doesn’t care or he knows I want to keep them because they’re the reason he broke me. Well, that and his ability to not give in. I don’t know how he sees in these though. Everything’s gone dark.

  ‘Your eyes have to acclimatise to the change in light. I thought you’d know that if you knew that you’ve got to hear an advert seven times before it sticks in your head.’ That’s two merks I owe you now Jack. And I will get you back.

  I’ve never been a fan of sunglasses. As a fashion accessory. I’ve always thought that they were worn by people with something to hide. People like Jack. He had to hide the fact that he was just the work experience kid. Otherwise I’d have walked away in seconds. I actually thought he was some guy who had a masters in child psychology and was trying to guess what every little movement I made represented. I thought he was a challenge. Someone who was going to try every trick he knew in order to get me to speak. But he was just winging it.

  He got lucky though. So damn lucky.

  But maybe I needed to speak to someone. I need some kind of an outlet. I don’t exactly like being like this. It’s just how I’ve learnt to survive. I started to change when me and Mum got moved away for our “safety”. Questions started to be asked. Questions I didn’t like; so I didn’t answer them.

  It’s easy to feel like nobody cares about you when you’re being introduced to a new set of strangers each month. A new set of rules to follow. A new school uniform to get used to wearing. I think that’s why they still talk to me like I’m 8 years-old. Every time I started at a new school they’d do reading and writing tests and I would show up as being at the same level as a child in year 3. And that’s pretty damn embarrassing when you’re 13 and got bigger boobs than the woman doing the testing.

  I can read properly now though. Only because I sort of taught myself. I could read to an extent anyway but any word I didn’t know I’d look up how to pronounce it. I had to do something whilst I was sat around slowly going nuts.

  My eyes are getting more used to the light and I can tell that The Psychotic is looking at us from the landing. Sargent Do-As-I-Say is trying to get her to move on. It’s actually got “Female” written down under gender on Sargent Do-As-I-Say’s passport but she’s got more facial hair than Jack. Or maybe Jack’s shaved today to create a good impression and it’s not all showing through yet.

  ‘Do they feed you here in lieu of wages?’

  ‘What you gonna cook for me?’

  No one’s ever asked for me to cook for them. I don’t know why. Maybe they don’t trust me. But in a place like this where would I hide the poison?

  ‘Pasta?’

  Safe option. Go to option. Was the only thing I’d eat for a while but it did more harm than good. It was the start of only eating one type of food. I’m getting hungry anyway. It’s been a long day. A strange day too. Started off all too normal, but I definitely didn’t see this afternoon coming.

  Chapter Six

  I feel sorry for Jack having to eat some lukewarm pasta from a paper bowl with a plastic spoon. But, because we apparently can’t be trusted, this is how we have to live our lives. I told Jack that he could have some decent food, with proper plates and cutlery, and get to know some of the staff better, but he said that if he wanted to listen to a middle-aged woman talk bullshit then he’d phone his mum up.

  Jack then makes a very valid point about the washing up. No one ever has to do it. It might not seem significant but it is sort of one of the skills we’d need to know when we finally leave this place and go and live in the big wild world. After all, we’re here to get better and become functioning human beings again.

  Aren’t we?

  Well, that’s what I used to think. But I now think that they don’t want us to get better. There are too many people’s mortgage re-payments and holidays abroad depending on having some nutcases’ lives to make hell. I’ll eventually have to leave here, sometime shortly after I’ve turned 16, but the way I’m going they’ll probably have me sectioned and incarcerated in some high security hospital so that they can justify paying hundreds of people to count plastic spoons.

  Even though Jack claims that he’s okay, I can tell that he feels uncomfortable, like someone stuck at a party that’s never got going and is looking for an excuse to backdoor it. Not that I’ve ever been to a party, but I’ve got a television and vivid imagination so I know what I’m talking about than most people. Wanting to offer Jack an escape route, I ask him:

  ‘Can we go to the park?’

  ‘Is there one round here?’

  ‘Not really, but there’s some fields we could walk through. Are you allowed to take me outside?’

  ‘Dunno. You’ll have to ask Gillian.’

  I give him a look. A look that says I’m not that stupid. If that’s meant to be his version of a joke then I’m not going to be laughing anytime soon. I’ve never been comfortable at laughing at myself.

  ‘It’s getting late though.’

  ‘So? I’m sure you don’t go to bed at 10 o’clock.’

  Ten minutes later and the conversation isn’t exactly flowing so I give in and ask him:

  ‘Why me?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Why me, and not one of The Others?’

  ‘I didn’t really have much choice. They had a right crisis on this morning trying to get enough staff together to get The Others out for the day. I had to stay because my C
RB checks not come through yet so they wouldn’t be insured, or something, if I caused an accident.’

  I stop.

  I’m in the middle of the woods with a complete stranger. He could be anyone. What kind of a name is “Jack” anyway?

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘I shouldn’t be alone with you.’

  ‘Why not? You’re not under house arrest.’

  ‘I feel like it. What does it say in my file about me?’

  ‘Which bit?’

  ‘The “crisis” causing bit.’

  He pauses. That’s bad. When someone pauses it means that they’re thinking carefully about what they’re going to say because they don’t want to hurt you. But I’ve already been hurt. I’ve not been protected when I should have been. But maybe I should have looked after myself more. After all, I thought it was my choice. My choice to go out. My choice to keep going out. My choice to say “Yes”. And my choice to keep on saying “Yes”.

  ‘I consented.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. You’re underage.’

  ‘Loads of people my age have sex. If you’ve come to our place to fuck a virgin then you’re too late.’

  He shakes his head at me. I don’t know what he means by that. But why is he here? Why me? There must be something more to it. I don’t think it’s me; the person. I think it’s more my situation. And he knows more than he’s letting on. Choosing his words carefully. I didn’t even know they knew about “Rosie”. None of them has ever said that name to me before.

  ‘I don’t want to go to court. I don’t like the way they make you feel guilty.’

  ‘But then they’ll get away with it.’

  ‘Why does that bother you?’

  ‘You know.’

  Do I? Am I really that clever that I can work out how this guy is feeling only hours after first meeting him? I mean I could make a snap judgement about him but the chances are that I’d get it wrong. One of the things I have learnt in care is that it takes a while sometimes for people to reveal their true self.

  I notice a group of lads my age walking towards us. Normally I’d turn back around, or at least take a diversion to avoid them, but tonight I’ve got Jack. On my arm.

  ‘What? Do you not want to be seen with a fat bird?’

  ‘You’re not fat.’

  Why do I believe him? This guy could tell me anything and I’d believe him. But I won’t be allowed to keep him. He’s not got the right piece of paper that states he’s qualified to deal with my situation.

  ‘Let me link my arm in yours if you’re not embarrassed.’

  He relents. His arm is surprisingly muscular for a skinny bloke. He must work out. I used to do that. I thought that if I did sit-ups it would make my belly disappear. But it didn’t work. Everything stayed massive; just that bit firmer.

  ‘Do you know where we’re going?’ Jack asks, when we’ve passed the group of lads.

  ‘Yeah. But we won’t be back until after dark so you’ll get shouted at by Gillian.’

  ‘She won’t shout at me.’

  ‘What do you think of her?’

  ‘She’s not my type.’

  ‘Racist.’

  ‘How is that “racist”?’

  ‘She’s a quadroon.’

  ‘What’s that mean?’

  ‘That one of her grandparents is black.’

  ‘But why does that make me racist?’

  ‘Because.’

  I don’t know really myself. I’m just trying to get a reaction out of him. Normally if anyone is accused of being even a tiny bit prejudiced then they get into a big flap about it. But he’s just looked at me as if to say “prove it”. Maybe I will. Maybe I’ll ruin his “career” in the process. As long as I keep pushing everyone away I won’t have to confess. Like I’ve said, it’s happened. Why should have to keep on being reminded about it?

  ‘Do you ever use the “P” word?’ I ask.

  ‘Pack it in.’

  He almost had me for a second then because he said it dead fast. So fast that there wasn’t a gap between “pack” and “it” so it sounded like you know what. He must have heard someone say that before because his answer was far too quick.

  If he knows about “Rosie” then he’ll know about why I’ve just asked him if he uses the “P” word. I used to wonder why it was offensive, but it’s not the word itself, more the context. It means backward, smelly, and ignorant. Plus a load of other things. But it’s just a word. It’s only offensive if you let yourself get offended by it.

  I really should be heading off back. I’d say “back home” but it’ll never feel like that. If I keep on going the way I am then I’ll probably never know what it feels like to have a proper home again. And I do worry about the future. Because I’ve got absolutely no idea what I’m going to do when I’m older. So I need some help. More help than its fair for one single person to be burdened with. But Jack will do for a start.

  Chapter Seven

  I wish Gillian would stop wittering on. She’s not stopped since she turned up for her shift today. Okay, I’m wearing make-up. It’s not the first time. It’s just been a while and I fancied a change. There’s no reasoning behind it. Well, not much. And the cleavage? Well, I thought it was time I got a bit of colour back in my skin.

  I’ve never seen Gillian look so relaxed. That’s why she can’t shut up. It’s all Jack’s fault. Him and his damn breakthrough. And where he is? What else has he got to do with his Sunday afternoon other than spend time with me? That’s the problem with people who deal with the likes of me. Too much paperwork. Everything significant thing has to be noted down. Changes in behaviour. Details of conversations. Next steps to be taken. In my opinion it’s the paperwork that makes people quit this job rather than the shit they get from the kids. But what do I know?

  I want to know when Jack’s going to get here. But if you don’t ask; you don’t get. Gillian knows I want to know this but she’s being a bitch. She’s talked about everything but Jack. According to her, it’s been nice that I’ve done some cooking. Spent most of the day out of my room. Even gone out into the big wide world. But no mention of Jack.

  Tactics.

  One step at a time she’s thinking. Well, if yesterday was a step forward then I’m more than ready to go two steps back. I’m sure it wouldn’t take much for me to get Gillian to move on to another care home. I’m pretty sure she’s not the one who makes the final choice anyway. Every now and again I get presented before a group of middle-aged idiots. I think they’re the ones who make the choices about my welfare. And I know for a fact that they won’t like Jack. Jack who almost made me think that he said the “P” word last night. Although I’m sure there are a lot of people who’d be using the “P” word if they found out what I’d been getting up to.

  Even though my bedroom door is closed, I can hear the various doors on the corridor being beeped in and out of. This happens 24/7 anyway but it’s happening a lot today. Especially for a Sunday.

  So did yesterday actually happen or have I finally reached the last stage of madness? Jack was definitely here though because The Others spoke to him. There’s no way I spent hours talking to myself and went for a walk with an imaginary person. He must be real because he’s made Gillian happy. There’s no way she’d be happy if I’d started talking to myself, no matter if that would be an improvement on the mutism.

  Gillian’s mobile beeps. Normally she gives you a running commentary on every little thought that’s going on inside her head. Instead, she just walks out of my room without speaking. Rude. I might be ignorant and not speak but at least I give a verbal nod when I’m about to walk out of a room.

  I look like a slapper.

  This make-up isn’t me. And I don’t want to be a slapper. But then I don’t really know what I want in life. Well, anything but this would be nice.

  Every time the door in the corridor beeps I let m
yself think that my bedroom door’s going to beep next. But it doesn’t. Oh, this is torture. I’ve found a use for a mobile now. I could text Jack. Then he could text me back when he’s coming round to see me.

  “We’ll see.” That’s what he said last night. It wasn’t a “no” but then the choice isn’t his. Maybe I shouldn’t have put the make-up on. If they see me making an effort then they might start to think that Jack is leading me astray. But I’m already practically ferial so what difference would it make?

  But then he could already be here. It’s Sunday. I’m not down for any “sessions” today. He can’t justify “just popping in to see me”, that’s Gillian’s job. Actually, me not seeing him so far is a good thing. We don’t want it to look like we’re having too much of a good time. We’ve got to take things slowly, let them develop naturally. I can’t suddenly go from not speaking to anyone for ages to being practically “normal” overnight.

  But I’ll never be normal.

  Well, not without Jack’s help. Jack, with the silly sunglasses and the expensive socks. I need to take him shopping. Give him a make-under. He’s trying too hard.

  A bit like me today.

  Blusher on or off?

  But I want him to notice the change in me. I want him to feel like he’s doing well. This time yesterday I’d never met Jack. This time next week I could be out of here. Well, probably not. I know I won’t be leaving here for a long time. Not without talking. So I’ll talk through Jack. He can be my interpreter. But he doesn’t look like the sort of person who’s confident about speaking in big crowds. A bit like me. Maybe that’s why we get along. We’re soul mates.

  Okay, I know we’re not but a girl can dream.

  Where is he though? He’ll have to get me a mobile; how else am I going to be able to ask for him. I can’t ever talk to Gillian. Purely on principle. I made my mind up months ago that I didn’t like her. She thinks that she’s making progress, but all she does is attempt to interpret my body language and guess what I want.

  But Jack can get me to talk. Jack can get me to hold his hand. Jack can get me to kiss him.

  I wish.

  I don’t really fancy him but there’s something about him. Something I like. Something I want to experience more. But it has to be just the two of us. As soon as a fake walks into the room then I’ll shut up. Maybe I’ll need to be quiet now, my bedroom door’s just beeped.