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.
