DON'T CALL ME BABY

Prologue
The Parochial Hall, Northern Ireland. May 1999.
The day that stopped me being good.

The tortured, bronze eyes of a dying Christ look away from me. Leaning over him, I let my fingers gently stroke his cold, hard stomach, right down to the edge of his nappy like underwear. You’re so toned, Jesus. Like you’ve just done a zillion sit ups, feet tucked under your home-made wooden abs master. I want to giggle, but I gather myself. Please Jesus, don’t let me look stupid. Brian coughs. He’s moving his eyebrows up and down like one of the Marx Brothers. It’s not his best look. My insides twist and turn with nervous excitement. Everything about him is so perfect; well, almost perfect. I think I might be able to love him. I’ve even written it all down in a poem. I’ll give him it tonight. I touch the paper in my gymslip pocket, to remind me of how serious this is. He could be the one. And, despite what mummy thinks, I know he’s genuine and kind and … good. Like me. Now. I know that he’d do anything for me. He’s said this to me. Every word. All my friends tell me how lucky I am. They point out how handsome he is with his dark, spiky hair and the highest cheekbones you’ve ever seen. I flick a look into his eyes. They’re so blue. They look like they can’t possibly be natural. And, that grin; the sexiest, cheekiest grin. It makes me blush. We smile at each other as we blow out the last of the tiny candles circled around the large wooden crucifix on the floor. The perfectly polished body of Christ, with his outstretched arms and bent knees, seems to make our love even more special. More holy. More… right. This Jesus has heard the whispered prayers of our little group. He’s heard our humbled chanting; He’s seen our smiles and glances. Thank you, Sweet Jesus.

Our fingers touch when we both go to pick up the same candle. I feel it. The electricity. The shock. I’m trembling, even from this tiny caress, so light, so static on my skin. I hear the chatter and laughter of our little group as they try to cross the busy road outside to get pizza and tea. I’m glad we’re alone. I gather up the cushions that are strewn around the room, throwing them all into one corner. I begin to look for the keys of the Parochial Hall door. I want to seem clued in, worldlier than I am. I don’t want to look awkward and immature. I push my jumper up to hide the fraying hole on my cuff. Mummy was supposed to fix that. The candles have been tidied away; the cushions all piled. Only the crucifix needs to be put back in place. I look at Brian and smile. I want him to kiss me. I feel the colour rise from my chest to my cheeks. He comes close and circles my waist. We go into a long embrace, him pulling me in tight. I feel like I’m in a film, I’m Catherine Zeta Jones. His tongue goes into my mouth catapulting my stomach into a somersault. He walks me backwards to the wall. I stagger as my heel kicks Jesus in the head. Are you stupid, Brian? Can you not see Christ on the fucking floor? I attempt to see where the Lord is, but Brian’s mouth is clamped on mine. His kiss getting harder, more urgent. He presses me into the wall, as if he’s trying to force me through it. What the hell, Brian, not so fast. I push him back. Trying to recover my own space. I manage to slide away from him. In the distance, I hear myself laugh. It doesn’t sound like me. I have a pretty, feminine laugh, I’ve worked hard on it every night. It tinkles. Like in the movies. This new laugh doesn’t tinkle. It sounds forced and harsh.

‘Hey. Wow. Brian. What’s got into you?’ His hands take mine, pulling me back in to him.

‘We’re on our own. Properly on our own, you know? This doesn’t happen often.’ He squeezes my fingers and pushes his crotch against me, widening his big blue eyes. He’s trying too hard to look enticing. You look stupid, Brian. I curl my back, so my pelvis isn’t touching him. I’m holy, chaste. Good.

‘I know we are, but only for a few minutes. We’ve to go over the road, right?’

‘I love you, Katy. Do you love me?’

‘Em.’ I’m focussed on the ceiling, weighing up what I should say. There are damp brown water stains seeping through the plaster, it’s an old building.

‘Well?’

‘Well, what?’
‘Do you love me or not?’ He seems agitated, annoyed. Where’s all your jokes, Brian? Where’s your cheeky smile?
‘I think I do.’
‘You think you do?’
‘I mean, of course I do.’ I’m lying. I don’t love him. I don’t think I even like him. I was pretending, making them all think that I liked boys. He’s irritating me. He’s making me go back to being bad. Something’s changed.He kisses me again. Harder. Teeth knocking against mine. He bites my lip and I pull back quickly, fingers going to my mouth. I taste blood. My blood. What’s he doing? This is supposed to be romantic.
‘Sorry.’ But he’s not sorry, I can tell. He just wants to cop a feel. He continues to maul me with his slobbering mouth, then puts his hand up my uniform skirt, onto my backside. I pull away from him, my arms straining against his chest. You need to leave, make some excuse.
‘What are you doing, Brian? Jesus.’ He looks at me as if he’s genuinely surprised.
‘What am I doing? Are you serious?’
‘I want to go over the road.’ I breathe the words out hard.
‘Why are you being such a tease?’ His face is cold. He’s glaring at me, like he hates me.
‘You’re being too rough. It’s too fast.’ Breath is sucked out of me, and panic rises in my stomach. I feel silly. I take deeper breaths, like the breaths I take when I’m trying to be good. We can fix this.
‘Two months. Two months isn’t fast Katy. Two months is ages. Two months is forever.’
‘Please, Brian, can we go?’
‘Why? We’re on our own.’
‘The others will have ordered.’ I try to steal away from him. Like the way I do when I’m trying to catch a cat or a pigeon. He grips the top of my arms, pinching my flesh. His face in close to mine. Our noses touching. He’sforcing words out through clenched teeth.
‘Who cares about their orders, Katy. Do you really give a shit about pizza toppings?’
‘It’s not that. I just think we need to go.’
‘I thought you were different.’ I am different. But I’m good now.
He kisses me hard again. I push him away, but he has my backside clamped in his hands, pulling me into him. He yanks my pants down. No. What are you doing Brian? This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. His leg swings around the back of my calves, forcing me down, making me half stumble, half fall to the ground. I hear yelping. I think it’s coming from me, but there’s a fog around me. Things aren’t clear. Get up. Get up, you silly bitch. Why are you lying there?

‘No. Stop! What are you doing Brian? Listen to me…’ I feel myself trying to move, trying to wriggle out from under him. But I can’t. Everything’s happening too quickly. It’s all wrong. A dead weight lies on top of me. He’s trying to open his trousers with one hand, half lifting his pelvis off me. Why can’t I move? Move arms. No, no, no, no, no.

‘No. Wait. Stop. Please, Brian. No really, stop it! You’re scaring me now!’ I push my hands against his chest. Jesus, where are you? Make him stop! I imagine Jesus - bare, muscular arms holding five crusty loaves as he sashays in to save me. Him swishing his long curly hair back over his shoulder, his dark, gentle eyes finding mine, letting me know that my saviour has arrived. He raises his arm to launch one of the rock-hard loaves at Brian’s head, but the cloth that covers Jesus’ toned pelvis begins to turn yellow. Are you fucking pissing yourself Jesus?

Brian’s breathing is heavy, blowing in my face. Why does his breath stink? I hear my own shallow, raspy breath. I try to push him off. Twisting my face away from his mouth, digging my feeble fingers into his chest. I push against his shoulders, his arms. I hear my own crying. No, it’s not crying. It’s snorting, like a pig. Why are you making me ugly, Brian? Why are you trying to make me sin? His legs are between mine, one hand jammed, fumbling. I don’t remember him being this strong, being this disgusting. He’s going to stop, he will stop. Please stop. But he doesn’t stop. I turn my head and the Holy Lord Jesus Christ is looking at me from the cross with his sad, dying eyes. His broken body twisted towards me. His face is level with mine. Fuck you, Jesus. The stain on the ceiling looks like seeping crap. I look down on my body from the brown cauliflower shape. My eyes are glazed. I’ve stopped fighting. Fight. Move. Do you see me Jesus? You’re looking right at me. I kissed your feet, Jesus, I adored you. I was being good.

Afterwards, he’s gentle. I sit on the floor, sobbing. Like a baby. Like a little child who has lost her dummy. My insides seem to seep out and I taste the blood in my mouth. I imagine I see blood on my thighs. Don’t look. It’s not there. He has tissues and is cleaning my face, wiping my tears. He leaves to get more, then tries to put the tissues between my legs.
‘Get away from me!’ I see my spit hurtling as I scream at him. He looks ugly now. Like a troll. Where’s your high cheek bones, Brian?
‘I’m helping you for Christ’s sake. There’s a bit of blood. It’s normal.’ Did he just say ‘normal’?
‘Get away from me.’
‘Stop that noise, Katy. It’s gross. What are you looking at?’ His eyes follow mine, but he doesn’t seem to register our Lord Jesus lounging up against the grey peeling paint of the wall, showing off his chiselled six pack as his pearly whites rip through the crust of the loaf he was supposed to hurl at Brian's head. What a motherfucker.

‘Katy. Katy? We love each other. It was lovely. You need to clean yourself. You’re stinking.’ He winks at me and leaves the room. Did that really happen? My chest closes in. I think I might die. I look around the room for something, anything to disembowel Brian with. There’s nothing. Bubbles escape from my nose with an angry snort. I wipe them on my frayed cuff. He’s right, I’m disgusting. A disgrace. I feel vibrations that I can’t control. That I don’t want to control.
Mummy’s voice is in my head, telling me she doesn’t like him. Telling me he’s shifty and too full of himself. Telling me he’s sneaky and insincere. She can tell. She’s my mother. She knows. He’s too nice, too smarmy. He’s not convincing. Oh my God, she’s going to kill me. She’s going to be so disappointed. I’m so sorry, Mummy. I swear. It wasn’t me.

Brian hums enthusiastically in the corridor, he returns with a handful of toilet roll and starts towards me. A hiss so primal and base comes from somewhere within me and he starts back.
‘Calm down will ye. Yer like a mad woman, Katy? Take a deep breath.’

‘Leave me alone.’

‘You can be such a fuckin’ drama queen. Jesus Christ, it’s not the end of the world.’ Not the end of the world. He holds out the tissues and nods to my pinafore. I snap them from him and press them between my legs. I’mglad there’s only the light from the streetlamps outside. How did it get so dark? He walks behind me, hooks his arms under my arm pits and heaves me up to standing. There’s a gush. Like a dam being opened. I let out a sob and pull up my underwear, humiliated and ashamed. I wrote you a poem. A fucking poem! He turns me around and straightens my tie with all the tenderness of a parent getting his child ready for school. I feel like a child, like a baby; a helpless, fragile baby. He tells me to go to the toilet and wash my face. He waits outside the door. I don’t turn on the light. I sit, my insides disappearing down the bowl. Between my legs, a rawness, like I’ve been scrubbed out. Like I’ve been scoured with a pan polisher. All the good has been rubbed away. I wipe myself; the slickness makes me retch. How did this happen? Did I do this Jesus? Is this what I wanted, what I deserve? What did I say to him that made him think I wanted this? I was being good, Jesus. GOOD. I hear the sweet voice of The Virgin in my ear telling me to offer it up. Offer it up for all the poor girls. The sinful girls. It happened me too, you know. And I’m not complaining.

Brian takes my hand as we cross the street, pulling me along. My heavy, quivering legs aren’t working properly. I’m trying to walk with my thighs clamped together, but I’m shaking. Wobbling like mummy’s jelly on Christmas Eve when I poke at it with my finger.

‘Smile, it’s not the end of the world. I love you, Katy. Jasus. We’re not virgins anymore. Can you believe it?’ Not virgins anymore. He puts his arm around my shoulder as he pulls me towards him. He kisses my head. Then pushes the door open and almost lifts me into the restaurant. He’s grinning. Like Jack Nicholson when he played the Joker.

‘Well lads. I’m starving.’ His voice booms. His smirk disgusts me. Gym bod Jesus shakes his head as I imagine gouging Brian’s eyes out with a rusty screwdriver.

‘What’re ye havin, Bazza?’

‘I’ll take a chicken burger as well as the usual pizza, Mickey. I’m a very hungry man.’ He rubs his stomach, letting them know what he’s done. Our friends giggle and whisper.

‘A chicken burger and the usual it is, Baz.’
‘Sit yourself down Katy, me girl. Jasus, you look like a scarecrow. Doesn’t she look like a scarecrow, lads?’ He raises his eyebrows to our friends as he straddles the chair. He’s laughing. How dare you laugh. He lifts a slice of someone else’s pizza, folding it into his mouth. Mickey has a massive zit on his forehead, the cap of his uniform looks like it’s resting on it. He sits the chicken burger down in front of Brian. Brian lifts the burger with both hands and takes a bite, a bite so huge he almost eats half of it in one go. Coleslaw and red sauce drips from the burger on to his chin. Then on to the table. He groans with pleasure as he chews and slaps the food in his mouth, nodding with enjoyment. I can’t take my eyes off him. He’s mesmerising. It’s like I’ve never seen him before. Was he always this ugly? How did I not see it? You’re an ogre, a monster. You’re the devil. Cars pass by. They talk and laugh and joke and eat. How can they eat? The chip fryer bubbles the same tune that it always does. The oily, pungent smell making me want to vomit. My prayer group, my friends. Laughing and eating. Talking about the summer holidays, discussing their favourite shows. Their voices are blurred and fuzzy as if I’m hearing them from underwater. I’m drowning in their incessant, unimportant chatter. I stare out the window at the cars passing by. My body aches. I keep them squeezed together. I want to go home. I want my Mummy. Where were you Jesus? I know you saw me. You were looking straight at me.
Brian laughs as he nudges me, telling stupid jokes and messing around. He fires a crust of pizza at our friend. He kisses the side of my face and crushes my hand under the table. I wrote a poem for you. Mummy will kill me if she finds out. She’ll call me a whore, a harlot, a slut. Mummy’s right, she’s always right. You are a sneaky bastard, Brian. I should have listened.

Mummy says the power of the spoken word is extraordinary. My words will make it happen.

May you die a long and lingering death, and may I please watch it happen. I will see it.

I will watch you die.