Baby's First Stabbing

A massive redraft of Autobiography Part 2.

Baby’s First Stabbing

It was a Saturday morning, just like any other, and we met at 10am at the postbox on Nangreave Road. 4 15-year olds coming from the four corners of our estate, excitement bubbling out of us (not that it would ever show in our Kohl rimmed, hollow eyes). I was early, I always was. As Panic! At the Disco blared from my too-loud headphones, I leant my back against the cool brick wall and was glad of the iciness eating through my emo uniform of black skirt, black shirt, black eyes, black hair. A door slammed and a lone figure entered my vision. In a frizz of dyed black hair and a puff of polka dot skirt, Charley joined me at my waiting place, the others following within seconds of each other. Together we walked to the A6, to catch the bus to town. Heading straight for ‘our’ seats at the back of the top deck, we put up umbrellas to cover the cameras and allowed the smoke to unfurl from the orange embers of our Richmond Superkings whilst we discussed our latest poetic outpourings laden with words like ‘scar’ and ‘razor’ because our notebooks were the only ones that understood the pain we were experiencing. As we travelled through Heaton Chapel and Levenshulme, we yelled out the landmarks we saw every week. “LEX! THAT’S CALLED LEX! THAT’S YOUR NAME!” Charley screeched at me as we passed the car repairs place opposite the huge McVities factory. “HARDICKER STREET, I SAW IT FIRST!” Charlotte had won this week’s competition.

We began our assault on Manchester in Afflecks Palace, a wonderful splash of alternative and retro colour in the greyscape of Piccadilly, a place where nothing was ever bought but many things were somehow obtained. We smoked endless cigarettes in the cafe, ordering a token can of coke between the four of us so that we could stay for hours. Iona poured out salt onto the tiled mosaic tables and set about creating artworks of flowers and suns. Charlotte spotted our maths teacher working on one of the stalls, so obviously we thought we must say hello. It would be rude not to, Iona reasoned as she blew her pieces of art off the table and onto the laminate floor. We ambled over to him, giggling at the sight of something so out of place as a maths teacher in a suit amongst all the boutiques and fancy dress stalls. Urbis is where we ended up, where we would always end up, as it shimmered like an 'alternative' beacon. The gardens outside were teeming with life, black crowds lurching drunkenly from one social group to another as friends were recognised and enemies chastised. We sat in the afternoon sun, swaying from side to side as the dulcet tones of Gerard Way and My Chemical Romance filled the air, echoing from tinny Nokia speakers. As day turned slowly to night, we linked our arms together and, high on life, poppers and Morinov vodka mixed with whatever we could find that day, we wandered aimlessly to find the night’s entertainment.

There was a Battle of the Bands taking place in Urbis that night, which was obviously too good an opportunity to miss. It was hot, sticky, smoky inside as the bands competed furiously. With the shredding of guitars in the distance, it seemed like an excellent idea to go paddling in the fountains outside, and in hindsight I think that's because (despite the gallons of tramps piss in there) it was a good idea. I couldn’t tell you who won, it didn’t matter. I don’t recall even staying for the results. With our skirts sticking to our damp limbs and our feet rubbing in our Converse, we boarded the 192. 

Now, whenever I mention the 192 these days, I always say "You take your life into your own hands with the 192." and it's mainly because of this night. We headed for our usual seats once again at the back of the bus on the top deck, taking no notice of the other passenger nearby. His tedious life did not concern us excitable, chattering girls. Our exciting lives, however, seemed to concern him. His eyelids were heavy with alcohol and he seemed furious that we would be daring to enjoy life in such a manner. He questioned us, why were we out so late, where had we been. We answered truthfully. We had no reason to lie; we had no reason to care what he thought. "BATTLE OF THE BANDS?! BATTLE OF THE BANDS?!" The man bawled, disbelievingly. We wondered what was so unheard of about a battle of the bands, but he seemed harmless enough. I saw Charley giggle nervously as he shifted to sit in the empty seat next to her, her eyes darting around the group. Obviously, we had made ourselves a new friend. The stench of alcohol and regret drifted from him. We tried to ignore him; we lit up our cigarettes and simply tried to carry on with our lives. A young couple had joined us on the bus, and one of them made the hideous mistake of asking the man to be quiet. Suddenly, all hell broke loose. There was a flurry of action and a flash of metal, a knife was drawn by the drunken sod. When I got home, I chattered tipsily to my parents about the Battle of the Bands. The young man who now had a hole in his arm was not mentioned.