I Wouldn’t Say I Was A Thief

She wasn’t so much a criminal as she was simply a thief, but that was her charm. A character straight out of a Dickens novel, in her tattered clothing she ran through the streets of poverty and the working class with a few shillings in her pocket and an angry civilian hot on her trail. Dirt and soot caked and stained the worn materials of her clothes making her look nothing less than a child of the workhouses in England. Like all people whose lives we follow, an introduction is required: her name was Rosie. While she couldn’t spell her surname–‘Rosenthal’–the name ‘Rosie’ always had to do for the few who bothered to ask. If she didn’t have a name, they believed it was easier to treat her as a stray and not as the child she actually was.

Clarification is always best when certain factors about a person are hidden in the shadows, shielded away from the light either by silence or by agenda. In Rosie’s case, it was purely by mystery. She didn’t know anybody in Liverpool simply because she wasn’t from there. If we go a little further up the map of England, Blackpool will be situated not very far from the edge of Liverpool at all. This town named Blackpool was where Rosie was born and raised. Unlike so many children she saw playing on the filthy streets of Liverpool, Rosie never had the fortune to be raised by her parents. At the age of five-and-a-half, Rosie was told by Sister Angelica her parents had died in a car accident. She was found sleeping on the floor in the backseat, still breathing and blissfully unaware. Sister Angelica clarified to Rosie she was only a year and a half at the time–barely a toddler and barely able to remember anything at all. That was fair, Rosie thought. She was so young at the time how would she be able to remember anything about her parents?

Why and how she suddenly found herself stealing for board money and eating every two days, well, clarification is required for that also. Though Rosie couldn’t remember anything about her parents, she could remember the orphanage she grew up in all too vividly. Rosie loathed its medieval architecture and values, but most of all she hated the nuns who practised these values. Gliding through the lengthy wallpapered hallways in black and white–very much the thought structure for each of the wives of the Lord–were the Sisters of Saint Valentine’s Orphanage for Girls of Misfortune. Rosie’s memories of the nuns were painted in black and white as there had been no life or colour in the orphanage.

Every one of the girls was woken on the dot at four in the morning, bathed, fed, then would spend four hours in the classroom and then another four hours completing chores. The supreme ruler of this organisation was Sister Mary Joan: an elderly woman with a straight back, and a permanent frown formed by the wrinkles in her forehead; and the thin lips rarely ever pulled into a smile. If it was, it was more often than not a sardonic smile. Something sinister seemed to brew inside of Sister Mary Joan–something each of the girls felt like tiny, slippery wet eels swimming through the veins.

Inside Rosie’s mind, covered by a thick head of black hair but reflected through her coal black eyes, it had been the nuns who drove her to the dirty streets of Liverpool with the money from the offering box stuffed into her coat pockets. What nobody except the nuns and the other orphaned girls knew was the final straw for Rosie was when she had thrown a small bread roll in Helen King’s face. Her discipline wasn’t the usual twelve minutes before God confessing her sins of unkindness to the wooden carving of a crucified Jesus hung high on the altar’s wall. It was to stand on a chair in the foyer and suffer true isolation by being ignored. “Not a word to her, girls,” Sister Mary Joan would command. “She has brought this on herself; now she must answer to God.”

But in Liverpool… the city was as far as she managed by train, arriving to be greeted by the true image of the war’s aftermath. Not only was the city in black and white but in shades of greys, as well; Liverpool had been sucked of any colour in its architecture and streets. How fortunate the colourful people who lived in its streets had retained their sense of humour–the only thing giving life to the city as they tediously worked themselves to rebuild what Hitler destroyed. She had never seen such a starker contrast to Blackpool; memories she had of the rides, the games, and the weekends she spent running across the wooden docks made the difference all the more obvious.

Blackpool had bright blue skies in the summer; stalls filled with curiosities and trinkets to fascinate the locals and the travellers-by-train; the small carnival perched near the shops with its magnificent lights shining against the night’s background; and its rides to thrill anybody who took a gander at them. Blackpool was a place often dominated by freezing cold weather, but it was alive with the salivating scent of fish and chips in the air. It offered some kind of paradise away from the true melancholy portrait of England. Blackpool too had been struck by the war, but still, it carried on smiling like the people who occupied its homes–Rosie and the other girls at the orphanage included. Liverpool, however, was a sharp slap across the cheek–a backhand for Rosie who still lived in pretty, exciting Blackpool in her mind. Buildings that once stood tall and unmoving were either crumbling all already in pieces, taped off by the police treading carefully through the rubble of each one destroyed, keeping the children away. Homes once lit with warm, golden glows and sounds of merry drunken singing were now empty and lifeless. Rosie saw it all with a lump in her throat, stepping through the damaged streets with her heart beating quickly while her eyes glanced over each ghost left behind. Blackpool had its own tragedy, but Liverpool was painted in it.

You may be wondering why her life story is told in the beginning, but all this information is necessary to know. Now we slip into January of 1960–two months before Rosie’s fourteenth birthday. We find Rosie doing exactly what she does every day on the streets of Liverpool: pickpocketing from simple Liverpudlians who just so happened to be walking by. She could have sworn she had escaped Sister Mary Joan’s wickedness, but Rosie only found herself in the vicious clutches of Nora, the owner of the hostel Rosie camped herself in among sixty other girls. At £3 8s–Rosie almost strolled off with a scoff and two fingers in the air to the Victorian building–it offered warm beds, extra blankets, three bathrooms available to the girls and a little cupboard by each bed. Being in an all-girls hostel with Sister Mary Joan’s long-lost sister, Nora, made it feel all the more like home for her. Shame she was paying the fee through dishonest means. Rosie found the best–yet the roughest–place for her to steal from was the Dingle. Mostly because she blended in among its poor residents.

Admittedly the Dingle was not exactly an ideal part of Liverpool to rob from; unlike Woolton or other middle-class suburbs, the Dingle was occupied by unemployment, poverty, poor living conditions, and seemingly endless breeding from the mothers. The women who stayed home while their husbands worked left their doors open all day, clearing out the stench of body odour and stale cigarette smoke from inside. Whatever the men made to support their families–or what they received from the dole–was spent as soon as he earned it. Their pockets full of shillings and pence jiggled and chimed as he walked from the bus stop and down the dirt-covered street to his home.  The girls of the Dingle were sharp with their tongues and fast on their legs, sprinting away from the cruel and bullying Dingle boys. Though she wasn’t born in the Dingle  nor did she known anybody who had been, she felt far more at home in its rough streets than being shooed away by the ladies who lived in Woolton. So it was here, in the Dingle, where Rosie tapped, tapped, tapped through the streets in her wearing leather shoes and her tattered pea coat with the big pockets ready for the picking.

Accustomed to the brutal cold England was famous for having on the odd (or regular) day, the men who slipped out of their homes with a kiss on the cheek–or, as Rosie had witnessed while passing by, a good amount of arguing from the inside–began to stride down the street; some quiet and others chatting away about the missus and the kids.

One-by-one, two-by-two, three-by-three, four-by-four did each of these working men leave for the jobs they despised and wished they didn’t have to need. Some grumbled their way out the door with sleep crusting around their eyes, buttie in hand and a flat cap on their head. Rosie passed by two of them weighed down by fatigue already in the early hours of the morning–perfect victims for her to steal from. Rosie’s methods, as insane as she probably was for thieving in the first place, were simple but daring: she’d walk past them with her hands in her pockets, identify which pocket their earnings were nestled in, move to that side, slip a hand in and then walk away with her hands in her pockets once more and the money clutched in her palm. Simple but never easy for any ordinary person unless they were skilled, like she, in the art of thievery. If there was even an art in something illegal.

“Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do…” She began to sing softly to herself, a small smirk tugging at her grey lips, “I’m half crazy all for the love of you…” The money in her pocket chimed a little rhythm to the time of her song. “It won’t be a stylish marriage… I can’t afford a carriage…”

If Rosie had not been so experienced in keeping herself in an inconspicuous position, she would have been skipping her merry little way down the end of that street. Unfortunately, not being caught implied for her to resign herself to simply walking the rest of the way down the dirty, grey street. Overhead the sky was darkening, clouds forming over each of the roofs of the houses in Liverpool. Her two happy feet turned when she met the corner, leading her down another street with more terraced houses made of red and orange brick coming into view. A little further down here, then a turn to the right, then another turn to the left at the end of that street and facing onto the entryway with its foggy windows and large, oak front door was Nora’s hostel. Expensive living at £3 8s, yes, but it was better than Rosie’s first hostel infested with scurrying rats of disease and endlessly breeding cockroaches crawling along your skin. The second hostel proved to be far worse; she lost hours of sleep due to one woman after the other giving birth to one child after the other. Nora’s hostel was clean–in spite of the fact that Nora, herself, was a foul, cruel woman.

In the distance were two young men dressed in suit jackets with drainpipe trousers; both had their hair swept, tugged and combed into quiffs, lighting the cigarettes placed between their lips in unison.

With an inquisitive study of these two modern characters, Rosie looked over the both of them and their individual yet similar appearances: the young man on the left was coloured in darker shades which contrasted with his milky white skin; pointed of nose, elvish in the face and quite slender in frame and figure. There was something mischievous about him in the same bewildering factor of Rosie possessing a sly charisma; but in this case, the mischief might be too dangerous for her to even try. We can only assume the uneasiness boiling deep down in the pit of her stomach was brought on by the small sprinkle of rain taking fall–or the fear of finally being beaten at her own game. Or maybe there was a possible chance she had mischaracterized him in the same way one would mischaracterize the young man on the right.

Though his facial features were rather peculiar–like something out of a comical illustration–from the overgrown shape of his nose to the fullness in his lips; and the slanted shape of his blue eyes where held an expression hard yet cool like marble. He was slightly shorter than his companion on the left but his advantage was the sheer terrifyingly intimidating quality of his appearance–an appearance which made her palms sweat profusely in the security of her pockets. He looked to be a true Dingle lad; born and raised in a harsh environment which in turn transformed him into a living reflection of his habitat. Nature versus Nurture.

Was she out of her mind? No matter how much trouble these two looked to be, Rosie’s nerves screamed for her to take something from them–as if her entire body was challenging itself on a high. Moisture collected on the palms of her hands with Rosie’s mind suddenly blurred in the onset of her panic: should she do it? What if they did catch her–then she’d be in more trouble than intended. They could beat her up and leave her for dead; a wheezing body left by the side of the street by two teddy boys. Or, if she played it right, she could win and run away with more bob in her pocket and a chance to actually have some food stay in her belly for longer than a day. This all depended on two things: the success of her thievery and what exactly they had on them.

“A bit greedy…” she murmured softly to herself, nibbling on a dirty thumbnail.

No, she couldn’t go for the two of them–one was going to be hard enough. Her mind continued to tick at an alarming pace while her feet kept stepping one before the other, leading her further and further toward her unsuspecting victims.

She studied her options again: the one on the left was taller and quite thin; he looked able to catch up with her if she were to suddenly bolt down the street with his money in hand. The one on the right–though he was much crueller-looking–looked less likely to keep up with her. Something lingered in his demeanour, becoming more noticeable the closer she came to him–something telling her there was a bit of weakness underneath his rugged, teddy boy facade. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-six but even so, age never bothered her. It was the opportunity that did.

Maybe it was the panic buried deep within her that rose to the surface and forced her tiny, booted feet into a sprint. She raced the extra metres down the sidewalk, predictably colliding with the oncoming fellers. In the middle of their conversation, they obviously did not see her running straight toward them or maybe they would have moved out of the way.

And the one on the right would never have found himself in his current position.

His back slammed with an audible thud against the flat, cement pavement beneath him with Rosie landing on top; his companion had managed to grip his fingers around the small ledge of a window, steadying his balance to avoid adding weight onto his mate. In actual fact, there wasn’t much weight in the first place. Derived of food every two days had made its significant effect on Rosie in the past year–she was as thin as a rake and as light as an empty cardboard box. It was far too easy for one to lift her small body–so easy, in fact, the girls at the hostel who were smaller than her could do it.

However, though she possessed very little muscle (even littler when she was dazy without food), this was a great advantage for Rosie. She could pick herself up quicker and run faster than any of them, shooting off down the street without another glance behind her to see if she was being followed. Using this knowledge, the orphan from Blackpool took what she could–the rings on his fingers, to be exact–stumbling the first few steps before sprinting her way down the sidewalk, both feet smacking loudly on the ground beneath them with each panicked step she made. Her breaths came in and out with a head-dizzying quickness, her running fading into a slow stride, her only belief being that she had managed to give herself a fair distance between herself and the two young lads. They were probably still fumbling about on the sidewalk–barely able to comprehend what had just happened.

See, this had been Rosie’s mistake and it wasn’t necessarily her fault either. Her entire body and mind were running on dry adrenaline and water–and even those were gradually emptying the more she had to steal and run from the people of Liverpool. All of her savings for food had been nicked by one of her many roommates; the lack of eating was finally beginning to take its toll. She was drifting in and out as if she were bobbing on the surface of the ocean, slowly making her way further out to sea where she would not die of drowning but of starvation. With each step out the door of the hostel, the pavement felt as if it were turning onto a slant, trying to tip her over. Rosie’s vision began to animate the solid patterns and colours of buildings and landscapes; each one moving and shifting like tiny insects crawling in a certain direction.

Even Rosie had to confess it was the stomach pains that made starving the worst: the less one would eat, the more excruciating they became. If the body thinks pain is going to help, Rosie thought during a particularly nasty evening, it’s proper fucking daft. But she could no longer think anymore. For if she could think she would have been able to process the actual length she had run in her attempt to escape from trouble, realizing she made only a turn around the corner and that was it. The two young men weren’t far behind.

“Oi! You!”

Her heart pumped into an unsteady beat but her feet failed her as she tried to lift them, only managing to fall flat onto the ground with the rings jumping from her pocket and skittering across the pavement. She laid on her stomach, the pains still twisting and stabbing at her insides viciously, her eyesight increasing in the hallucinations distorting the reality before her.

“Well,” she muttered to herself, “worse ways to die.”

“Oh no, luv, yer not gettin’ off easy by playin’ dead…” one of them called out, his Liverpudlian accent thick and reflective of his working class roots.

“Eh, Rich, yer rings…” the other spoke, his voice slightly more refined but not too much.

“Listen ‘ere, you,” ‘Rich’ spoke, stepping over her collapsed form with a single hand swiping to collect the rings off of the sidewalk and the dirt-covered road, “I dunno if ye were doing tha’ fer a laugh or somethin’, but ye deserve a good fucking bollocking–”

“She didn’t even get very far, did she? Just round the corner–bit pathetic…”

“Cum on, get up. Stop messin’ about.”

Rosie’s eyes drifted shut; her entire body was quieting into a rest, easing her into a gradual sleep on the side of the street. She and her body were finally giving up. The kick to the bottom of her foot had barely registered as did the hand brushing across her forehead, smoothing away her knotted curls of black hair out of her face. Somebody inhaled sharply.

“Bloody hell…” Rich murmured softly under his breath. “Are ye still alive?”

Yes, she wanted to say. She could barely open her lips to breathe–her nose was blocked from the cold she managed to contract from Susan (the girl who slept in the bed next to her own).

“Fuck, she looks like me grandfather when he was decomposing.”

“And ‘ere is Johnny Guitar: King of the compliments.”

“And ‘ere is Ringo Starr: still stroking the tramp’s head like she’s ‘is puppy.”

“Mate, she looks sick–”

“Hungry,” Rosie managed to breathe, “but close enough.”

“Ah, she speaks too,” Johnny managed, bending the top half his body to meet her gaze halfway. “Eh, ye in trouble, fuckin’ thief, don’t think yer gettin’ off ‘cause ye look like the Grim Reaper’s daughter.”

“I wouldn’t say I was a thief,” Rosie grumbled honestly, struggling to lift herself from the comfort of the ground. Nap over, time to have a conversation before she’s beaten by two angry teddy boys. “‘Desperate’ I’d say. I’d say I was desperate. A little fun fact would be that I only eat every… two days. Forty-nine hours specifically but nobody else is counting a tramp’s eating routine except the tramp.”

Rosie’s minimal strength managed to roll her onto her back but that was as far as she was able. Every muscle in her body felt like it was slowly shutting down; refusing to work unless it received some nutrients soon. She might actually die quicker if they kick the holy crap out of her.

“I gotta say ye don’t look like a girl from afar,” Ringo commented lightheartedly, “I could’ve sworn I was chasing Oliver Twist.”

“I hear that quite a lot. All I really need is a flat cap and my palms out asking for seconds–that is if I even get firsts.”

Ringo’s brow furrowed, his fingers, now dressed in the rings she had stolen, hung beside his leg. Rosie kept her eyes on his, holding his stare so firmly he seemed uncertain if he could ever let go. “Why are ye so casual about not eatin’ for two days? I wouldn’t be like tha’.”

She managed a sardonic smile–her eyes drooping a little from fatigue. She glanced down at her dress, studying the little patches of wet made by spitting rain. “Of course, you wouldn’t be like that. You wouldn’t be like that because it’s not common for you. You may live in the Dingle, but you eat every day, right? I don’t. You wouldn’t understand.”

“How do you know I live in the Dingle? I could be livin’ in Bootle or something.”

Rosie’s dark pillow eyes rolled over, meeting Ringo’s blue eyes once more with an incredulous stare. “Dingle boys.”

It was all she said to the two of them and yet it was enough. She may be from Blackpool–both Ringo and Johnny seemed to have noticed–but she knew the difference between the Dingle and the rest of Liverpool.

“Fair enough.”

Johnny Guitar–really Johnny Byrne but that was the given pleasure of having a stage name–tried to retain some form of resentment for both him and Ringo, but he seemed to be the only one holding the bridge. He was gradually losing his mate to concern over a small, fragile stranger–Rosie being completely unaware she was working her charms on the large-nosed teddy boy. Of course, it must be said she was evidently far more aware of others than she was of herself and what charisma she may elicit through means of conversation or pulling her weather-beaten lips into a wide smile.

Like all girls entering past the gates of puberty, and into the ugliness which came after, Rosie suffered from insecurities also. She never considered herself pretty whenever she would stand before the hostel’s bathroom mirrors: mostly because she was a little street urchin with knots in her hair and dirt caked under her long nails. But does anybody, besides the narcissists and egomaniacs, ever really think they’re attractive? You could be the most beautiful woman in the world, but you wouldn’t have a clue. Nobody ever does.

Rosie didn’t think herself lovely at all; but her large, black eyes framed by long eyelashes and the softness to her facial features were swiftly making Ringo think otherwise. Or maybe she was just seeing a strange form of pity in those sky-blue eyes of his.

Ringo offered his hand, holding it in front of Rosie. At first, she simply stared at it for a moment, curious about what exactly the gesture necessarily was. Maybe he thought she had taken something else from him–which she hadn’t!

Her heart beat faster in an unsteady rhythm, her nerves tingling uneasily. “I haven’t taken anything else! All I had were your rings–I swear!”

“What–” There was a serious moment of bewilderment on his expression, catching on quickly with a soft chuckle to ease the sharp tension between the two of them. “No! No, that’s not what I meant–take me ‘and, I’ll help you up.”

Rosie’s gaze hardened, dark curls sweeping across her forehead, “I’m not–I don’t do that. I don’t do that. I’m desperate–I’m not stupid. I know what men are like–I know what they want, I’ve seen it before…”

“Well, she’s ready for all outcomes, isn’t she?” Johnny joked, looking slightly perturbed by Rosie’s predictions. How long had she been exposed to the rough side of the Pool? Long enough, clearly, for her to think every man who held his hand out to her wanted something. Suppose they all had.

“That’s not what I meant, luv, I’m tryin’ ta help ya,” his nasal voice lowered in sadness. “There’s a fish n’ chip shop ‘round the corner, how about we get some chips?”

Her stare turned defiant, “I don’t need your charity. I don’t need you to throw a shilling in my face because you feel sorry.” She winced, her stomach feeling as if somebody had stabbed it with a kitchen knife. Her hand snapped to her stomach, holding it like she would be able to stop the agony by rubbing her tummy.

“Yeah, Richie, leave ‘er; she doesn’t need yer charity,” Johnny swung a hand against his mate’s shoulder, trying to persuade him–rather half-arsed–to move away from her before she stole something else from him. He wasn’t fooled by her tear-jerker story or her pathetic mistrustfulness. Or even the way she seemed able to hold Ringo’s stare and interest. “We’ve got a gig in three hours, Rich, we need to find Rory.”

“He’s probably at Stormsville; go check his mum’s place.”

Johnny stepped back, his eyebrows shooting far along his brow, “What? So ye goin’ to leave me for her? Just because she bats her lashes–”

“Can’t resist when a bird bats her lashes, I’ll admit,” he scratched at the curiously lined beard along his jaw, switching his gaze from Rosie to Johnny’s disgruntled expression, “I also can’t resist her when she needs me help, mate, and nobody else is offerin’. Look at her, Byrne. She’s not gonna ask for it.”

Johnny–’Byrne’–fell sheepishly silent underneath his mate’s words as much as his disapproving glare; Rosie, too, finally understood why Ringo was so adamant in helping her–he didn’t feel sorry, necessarily, he was concerned. Genuinely concerned. But for her, while she continued to sit on the pavement with his hand extending out to her once more, she wondered for how long he would be concerned: until he fed her? Until she was undercover somewhere? Or until she was robbing from somebody else to make payment at the hostel–late again because some feller decided she needed to be smacked for her deeds. If there was one thing Rosie learnt early on in her life it was if somebody offers, don’t refuse. “It’s impolite,” the nuns would say as they caned the palm of one girl and made another pray for her sins.

Rosie could barely lift her arm to touch Ringo’s soft palm but luckily for her she didn’t have to. His fingers curled around her small, almost translucently pale hand with a startling amount of strength–or simply because she had never really had much weight on her skinny, little body–and yanked her onto her feet with a single tug. Rosie’s spinning head cleared only to find Johnny Guitar, Ringo’s mate, shrugging his shoulders while storming down the street. She pointed weakly to him.

Ringo shook his head, “Never mind him–he acts like a snob but really he has no boot to stand in where that counts.”

“I’ve seen it all before, it’s alright,” she mumbled, waiting a moment for her head to clear. The pains were fading, but she knew it wouldn’t be for long. She really needed food. “Where…”

“Uh…” Ringo spun on his heel, looking down every street in sight. He snapped his fingers. “There’s a chip shop just around that corner, we’ll go get some chips.”

“Chips?” Her lips pulled into a lovely smile, revealing two rows of straight white teeth flattered by round, dimpled cheeks. Ringo’s breath caught in his throat. “I haven’t had chips since I was six.”

“Aw, well let’s hope it becomes a regular feature in yer program, eh?” He laughed, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly. Rosie noticed his pale cheeks flush with colour–whatever for, she was oblivious to.

“Thank you,” she hurriedly blurted, glancing down to find RIngo’s hand in her own still. Every inch of her body touched by the chilly air of England was freezing to the bone, but Ringo felt warm by her side. Images of curling next to him while she slept passed through her mind’s eye like a reel of film, provoking a small smile on her chapped lips.

“Hang on, woah–where do ye live?” Ringo, in the act of trying to balance on a make-believe trapeze line, almost tipped his newspaper packet of freshly cooked golden chips onto the dirty floor of one of the Dingle’s many streets. Beside him, with much more health and fervour in her step, was Rosie with her own packet of chips paid for by her male companion.

“The hostel at the end of the cobblestone street–the old school run by Nora the witch,” she placed a chip between her teeth and bit down, revelling in the warmth on her tongue. “She’s a mad cow and it’s expensive, but I’d rather pay three pounds and eight shillings for a clean place with a bath than a place with rats and sickness. I stayed in a place like that before and all these women in the family way had their kids with them–so many babies born in that sodding place! I had to get out, it was making me get all depressed about motherhood.”

“Well, if ye don’t like Liverpool so much, why’d ye come here? I would love to live in Blackpool any day, why run away from it?”

“You’ve been paying attention, Richie,” she nicked the chip from between his fingers, grinning sweetly with the nicked treat between her teeth. “Can I call you that? Or is that only friendly terms?”

“It won’t be too friendly if ye keep stealing things from me–I bought you your own packet! Eat yer own chips!”

“Aw, don’t get mad at me,” she pleaded, giggling, “you look so sweet when you’re annoyed.”

He rolled his eyes but hidden beneath his teddy boy facade, Ringo’s heart beat a little faster. What was it about this girl who made the most mundane thing seem like an adventure? They were eating chips and yet Ringo was excited–what for, he didn’t know! That was it. He didn’t know but he was revelling in it all: in the way she spoke, the way she walked, the way she seemed utterly, irrevocably fascinated by even the most pathetic looking thing in the Dingle. To her, the world was intriguing but to Ringo she was the most interesting. A flying pig could fly overhead at any minute and he wouldn’t notice; his eyes were focused entirely on her.

He awkwardly cleared his throat, “Go on then, tell me why yer here.”

“You really wanna know or you just want a story to hear?”

He pointed at the chips wrapped in newspaper clutched in her tiny hands. “I bought you chips,” he deadpanned, studying her sweet, pudgy features as she shrugged, sticking out her bottom lip in a pout. Touché. “So start spillin’ now, missy, or I’ll make ye pay three pounds for being in me presence!”

“That’s expensive for something so unimportant!” She screamed when he started pegging chips at her, the two of them racing down the street with wasted chips landing on the dirty ground for the birds to peck at.

Tradesmen and dock workers swarmed out of nowhere, all dirty from the day’s work and loving the cooling fill of the spitting rain. Though it didn’t seem to be getting any heavier, Ringo managed to wrap his fingers around Rosie’s elbow, pulling her into the shade of an abandoned building. The two continued to walk down the sidewalk while all of the men strolled down the wide road, ignoring the two youngsters with their chips and constant giggling.

“Go on then,” Ringo pushed once more, “tell me why.”

We know of Rosie’s residence in an orphanage and hostels, but the truth was she had never really made any friends; nothing true to last, at least. Nothing to last a month or a year or a lifetime like the friendships she had seen in Blackpool among the women, the men, and the children approaching those years of adulthood. Nearly fourteen years of her life and Rosie had not had a single friend–but she didn’t mind. It wasn’t the saddest fact about her.

Which was probably why she felt so comfortable to tell him the truth. In the span of an hour or two, she had made her only friend.

“My parents died in a car crash when I was two…” she began, telling him at length about why she now found herself in Liverpool–Irish-immigrant-broke, living in an expensive hostel, starving, no family to run to, and when she had finally had it with Sister Mary Joan and the sisters of St. Valentine’s in general. But it wasn’t all sad (she wanted to make it a little of both): she talked about how she often was the one to give the girls haircuts, the kind of games she used to play, sneaking out at night to see the Blackpool lights shine against the pitch black sky, or even the strange Jewish family living next door to the orphanage–the Adams, they were called. But unbeknownst to Rosie, Ringo was thinking. He thought of ways to help her: give her money? Buy her more food? Offer her a place to stay?

Elsie would hang me for bringing a random girl home to live with us, he thought to himself, genuinely running the idea through his mind. Well, yes, Elsie would initially tell her to go home–she doesn’t have a home; she never did–but if he talked long enough, persuaded her, coaxed her into thinking otherwise. There’s the belief that every person should do at least one good deed before they died–no matter how big or small it was. One good deed to help somebody less fortunate (he never thought there was somebody less fortunate than him until he met her). There was also the belief a great reward would go to the person for doing such a good deed–would this even be true?

Ringo glanced down at her–she was smaller than him, even better–his entire body tightening in on itself. She smelt of chips, was caked in dirt and soot and her clothes were actually too large for her. They were for a thin girl in general but on her small frame, they looked to be for a man instead. She wouldn’t last another year around here. She’d be a corpse in the ocean anytime soon–pushed in there because she got caught by some teddy boy gang strutting around the Dingle. She’ll get hurt, he thought. Ringo had been in a gang–he knew.  He inhaled sharply, sweat coating his palms, his finger shaking as he lifted another chip to his full lips.

“Ye could, um…” he mumbled around the chips, his blue eyes darting all over his surroundings, attempting to breathe steadily, “ye could stay with me. I live with me mam and Harry but if you’d help around the place she might let ye in permanently; and for free.”

Rosie stopped walking and a few steps of distance came between the two of them. Ringo looked behind him to watch her–study her reaction and see what she was going to do. What was she going to do? Her facial features–dark in colour but pretty in shape–were frozen of any sort of emotion he could recognise.

She took a few steps forward and held her chips out to him, almost shoving them into his chest. Ringo’s brow furrowed in bewilderment, clutching her wrist to keep her from pulling away. “What’s the matter?”

“I told you before; I don’t do that sort of thing. I’ve seen girls end up like this before: they’re given gifts and food and nice things to pull them in and make them sell themselves for the man who treated them nicely that one time. I will not be brought into the… prostitution business by some chips and the promise of a place to stay. That’s how it always happens and I want no part of it. I’m desperate to steal but I’m not pathetic to sell myself because some guy kissed me on the cheek and bought me food.”

Ringo’s stare saddened, his fingers loosening around her wrist but not quite letting go. He couldn’t understand why he wasn’t, he just wasn’t.

“I’m not tryin’ to sell you, Rosie. I don’t want you to end up like those girls either–that’s why I’m offering this to you. I’d have to talk with me mum first and she’ll probably kill me, but better me dead for a day than you forever.”

“Nobody cares about tramps, Richie,” tears welled in her eyes, rolling down her cheeks without hesitation. “Nobody cares about me–or what happens to me. You met me–what–two hours ago?”

“Has it been that short? I could’ve sworn it’s been twenty years,” he joked, holding the chips out to her. “Ye need to eat.”

“Ye need to get your brain checked.”

“It’s an option, not a demand. I’m not forcing you to do anything you don’t want to.”

“That’s a first,” she laughed, taking a handful of salty chips and filling her mouth with as many as she could. “What would I have to do?”

“Just help… She’ll probably want to bathe you–me mam’s like that.”

“Her name’s Elsie.”

“Well done.”

“Is Elsie nice? Does Elsie like random surprises?”

“She likes me,” he chuckled, wiping warm tears from her cheek with his thumb, “I’m in good with the boss.” Rosie nodded.

“Is that a yes?” He was startled when she stepped into him, bringing him into a surprise hug. She nodded against his chest, snaking her arms tightly around his suited torso, feeling the material beneath her fingers. She warmed almost immediately in his embrace.

“I’m glad I met you, Richie. I’ll pay you back some day.”

Unknowingly to him, she was good on her word.

Don’t Pass Me By, Sailor

“What are we doing in Liscard? It’s in ta fuckin’ Mersey, luv, I don’t want to be t’is far away from Lon––”

“It’s my sister! I haven’t seen her since I ran away from home and I think maybe it’s time––”

“Liscard, Elaine! We’re not in London!”

“I know!”

“T’en why are we here?!”

“My sister invited us! And you promised, Elizabeth Bow, so don’t you dare back out on me on this. I need you here… I can’t handle strange places without you…”

Liz visibly softened beside the young girl, nudging her roughly in the shoulder.

“And I think you’re the only woman I know who can make teddy boys with knives and chains shit themselves.”

“Fuckin’ lovely, Adams!”

Typical of England to be consumed in foul weather and freezing winds; the whole of Liscard’s little quaint village was rocked by the strong, icy winds shaking the trees and sweeping dust along the wide roads. Had these two girls been foreigners, they might’ve whined bitterly about how bloody cold every place in England seemed to be and how their heatwaves were lax in comparison to their own home. Fortunately, the Irish presence by the name of Liz and the teenager by the name of Elaine were well accustomed and able to adapt. Both girls buttoned their coats and took off – each with a bag slung over her shoulder and little idea as to where they were going but knew where they were supposed to be.

They stepped cautiously down the cement paths in the shield of nighttime with only the faint light emitting from the lengthy lamps providing any sort of sight for them. Above the clouds circled around the crescent moon and no stars could be seen; the black gave little charm to the two girls trying to find their way through the quiet village. They had news to share with Elaine’s sister: they had just been offered a recording contract in London. Though it thrilled the eldest, Liz, Elaine was still unnerved by it all. London alone was a terrifying place – and she knew the sins of the city so well, indeed – the thought of delving herself deeper into its myth and attraction was far more shaking than any recording contract offered to them.

“I t’ought you said she lived in Liverpool. It would be great if she did.”

“Except she doesn’t.”

“Yes, but ta drive would’ve been less.”

“Why are you complaining? You never complain about travelling somewhere!” Elaine, walking ahead of Liz, turned around to face to her fiery headed companion with an incredulous stare. “You’re always talking about how Fifi takes you away for trips and stuff.”

“Luv, Fifi takes me to America and Spain… and ot’er places. We also usually know where we’re supposed to go once we arrive t’ere.”

“If you don’t want to meet my sister––”

“Sweetie, t’ink about it: I am yer sister.”

“I’m not saying you’re not––in an unrelated sense,” countered Elaine, swinging her bag tiredly around in a circle, “I’m just saying––”

She screamed suddenly as the silhouette ahead of them was kicked into the street, four slender looking figures approaching the collapsed body and swinging their feet hard into it. Elaine froze as if a Blackadder was facing her instead of the view of some poor sod being beaten bloody; watching it all from a secure distance and with the safety of being covered by the darkness. Liz, however, was unafraid.

“Oi, ye cunts! Fuck off! Get off of ‘im!” She ran straight into the fire flickering with furious teddy boys and the fallen feller unable to get up and defend himself.

Liz caught one of them kick his pointed boot into the groaning bloke’s head and swung her bag at his head. Maybe not the wisest decision to make but certainly the bravest as their attention turned on her and away from the beaten body on the floor. Each of them had duck’s arses for hairstyles and were dressed in fashionable Edwardian styled jackets and shirts, coupled with a pair of slim drainpipe trousers. The leader, a broad-shouldered young lad with barely enough illumination on his platinum blond hair and the face of a slapped arse, sauntered quietly toward Liz with his hands tucked into the pockets of his drainies. He chuckled; a waft of tobacco and beer stained breath slipped invasively up her nostrils and burned her eyes. Elaine remained in the darkness, her fear keeping her feet hammered to the ground beneath her.

“If you weren’t a girl I’d cripple ya, luv. Go on and go play wiv yer hair. Leave business to the men.”

“‘To ta men’?” Her eyebrows furrowed, loose ringlets of vivid red hair coming into the light as she stepped into the distance of a street lamp’s halo. “Did yer mot’er tell you she was going to spend some time wit’ yer uncles? ‘Cause t’at’s probably where t’ey are.”

The teddy boy stood an inch away from her, sucking air through his clenched teeth in fury. He lowered his head, ignoring the flutter of her eyelids and the obvious grimace plaguing her exotic features. He only just noticed her eyes glittered like gold in the lamplight but even that wasn’t enough to sway him.

“Run along,” the leader threatened, turning back onto the thin man laying on the ground.

Liz was about to swing her luggage again at his head when she eyed the teddy boy’s boot swing back to ready for another kick – only to find herself of no use at all as two young men from inside one of the buildings came rushing into the chilly open street. At first, she couldn’t see any features of theirs, confusion and shock plaguing her as another fight began: the two lads – more teddy boy-looking young men – who had just emerged threw punches at the jaws and stomachs of the others. They managed to fight the leader and his three cronies off into a sprint, racing down the street with threats of revenge fading away against another burst of strong wind. Liz bent down, her fingers curling around his elbow and forearm as she gently helped him to sit up.

“Are you alright?” she whispered softly to him, running her fingers along his forehead and feeling something damp collect on her fingertips. In the small light provided, she could barely make out his sharp, softly handsome features. “Come on, I’ll ‘elp you up––”

She heard him breathe a ‘thank you’ before his mate suddenly slapped her hand away, lifting the feller onto his feet with ease. Liz stepped back for a moment as a sudden realisation came to her about the young man who had been kicked on the floor: he was shorter than she was. Good lord, he would’ve never stood a chance! He’s bloody shorter than she was!

“Leave him, he’s fine––” One of them gruffed, his eyes hooded by shadows. In the vague providing of light, she could see he had a strong jawline – the sort she was infatuated with in art college – and an aquiline nose bringing his hard demeanour to a physical representation. Unfortunately, he was taller and broader than his friend.

“John, she was helping me…” The shorter man vouched, passing a pained smile in her direction. His lip was cut with blood slipping onto his chin, small rivers of blood rolled from his hairline and bruises painted his face and probably the rest of his body as well. Nevertheless, his blue eyes met hers. “What’s yer name?”

“I don’t t’ink it matters,” she laughed softly, disturbed by the blood coming from his head and wiped some away with the end of her sleeve, “yer ‘andlin’ t’is well. Get yer ass kicked often?”

“All in a day’s work,” he joked in return.

The one called John made his irritation clear. “Sorry, do ye want me and Paulie to just leave ye two alone to chat a little more? Maybe let you go on a fuckin’ picnic for the night?”

“John, don’t––” another voice spoke, instantly cut off by Liz’s seething hiss in return.

“I would like a picnic wit’ yer boyfriend ‘ere,” in spite of seeing John’s figure visibly tense in fury, Liz kept talking, “maybe ye could make some sandwiches and save yer cocksucking skills fer later.”

No longer watching this happen from a distance, Elaine hurriedly ran toward where the cluttered trio of people stood. John stepped further into the light, bowing his head threateningly low toward Liz’s with his eyes glaring dangerously into hers. Elaine’s footsteps echoed against the cement and announced her approaching figure, but the redhead held up her hand to keep her far away. Liz’s heart began to sputter into a faster rhythm and everything darkened except for the rage building behind his gaze. Though sweat started to form on her palms and the cold wind kept making its recurring appearance, she stayed where she was. Despite being pissing terrified of getting smacked by the young man in front of her, something about him made a delicious warmth dwell excitedly in the pits of her stomach.

“Cunt,” he spat softly; eyeing her, teasing her.

She pursed her lips and breathed warm air in his face. “Would you like ta know what one tastes like?”

“I do now,” a ghost of a smirk passed over his thin lips.

“John,” a softer voice, far less harsh than John’s, called out to him. “Mate, Allan’s waitin’ for us. He’s already in the van.”

“Come ‘ead, John,” the battered friend tugged at his mate’s arm, managing to gradually tug him away from where Liz stood.

One by one, the three men faded into the darkness as did the others with not another word uttered to the two girls behind them. The one with the softer voice gave a rather diplomatic apology and the short one who had been beaten on the street pecked Liz on the cheek, crimson red mingling with the red of her hair.

Elaine quietly approached her companion, who stood unmoving in the middle of the halo formed by the streetlamp. Her azure eyes met the sparkling gold of Liz’s, studying her for any terror mixed in with her features.

“Are you okay? Did he… hurt you or something?”

Liz shook her head and peered off into the distance as if she were expecting the John guy to return to finish their spats to one another. But he didn’t.

And they still had to look for Elaine’s fucking sister.

We Don’t Grieve

Knock, knock, knock.

I’m here.

Barely a stark light came through the dirty square planes of the window beside them, spotlighting certain characteristics of the studio adorned with the abstract art of a ghost. Dust collected on one side by the tin cans of paint, stubbed cigarettes were ground into the porcelain ashtray on the small table behind them, memories of a loved one stored away behind the dark walls as if they were about to scream out to the two young men who had just arrived. Neither said a word; the whole room seem to with its swirling effluvium of paint chemicals, stale tobacco and something else lingering in the air. But in spite of the wicked stench clinging to their nostrils, George and John felt the home of a loved one in here. They could see him hard at work with his paintings – an excited character with the future of his art ahead of him but unknowingly his future not expected with it.

“D’you mind if we ‘ave a moment, Astrid?” By ‘we’ he meant ‘I’ but George did not address this and neither did the young pixie-ish woman behind him, wearing black and only black in her grief.

She nodded once and muttered an ‘of course’ to him in perfect English but thick, German accentuation. Astrid stayed behind in the shadows of the doorway, comforted by the familiar presence of the young George beside her. He wrapped a leathered arm around her shoulders, gently bringing her into a warm hug with his cigarette these emitting vines of twisting smoke from the tip. Both of their heartbeats thudded against their sternums with different rhythms: Astrid’s of a widow’s, and George’s of a melancholy man. But in the middle of the room, donned in black also, stood John whose heart beat to a different pattern altogether. The lover, the mate, and the best friend all collected in silence but John stood alone in his grief.

He glanced around – as if Stuart were to emerge from the shadows of his studio, alive and well and this had all been some terrible joke – studying the details of his studio with negligent observation. Only ever negligent when his vision couldn’t seem to outline any detail at all (with or without his glasses, John was blinded by the strength of his emotions curled up within the trappings of his mind), he slowly stepped his way toward one of the paintings and raised his fingertips to brush against the varying textures. Images of a small, slender man came to mind: brown hair slicked back to fit his handsome bone structure; dark, prescription sunglasses shielding the windows to his soul away from the world; black jacket and clothes like any other beatnik who passed through the doors of the Liverpool art college. This is Stu. He’s joining the band.

“John?” called George tentatively, flicking ashes onto the floor with no small amount of uneasiness doing so, “Are ye alright?”

John spun to meet Astrid’s gaze, “Where did ‘e stand? Where… Where did he sit? Where was he?”

Where is he?

Somehow she understood what he meant, meeting his eyes and seeing the pain writhing and whipping inside of him but staying exactly where it was. Nobody must see, nobody must hear, nobody must know that I can’t feel happiness.

“There,” she pointed to a small stool pushed to the side of the attic room, “he used to sit on that stool sometimes. Or even just stand for me… for pictures…”

Without even so much as asking Astrid whether he was allowed to move the stool, John stepped over to where it was hidden in its shadow, moving it to the middle of the studio as if he were possessed by his friend in the moment and knew where its place would be. The early morning light cast down onto him with the shadows of his features dominating his solemn portrait, his loss finally shone upon as his eyes drifted into a distant stare. Astrid and George watched as one memory after the other flickered over John’s vacant expression as if the memories of the past were being played before him like a homemade film. He could see himself reading Ginsberg because Stu suggested the poet to him. He could see Stuart walking from the art college in his living James Dean image – short in stature but big in dreams. He could see his face right before him – as vivid and real as Astrid and George standing by the doorway in the corner of his eye. John could see it all but it wasn’t there and suddenly his the prominence of his isolation became great in contrast to the light losing to the darkness in the studio.

Astrid shifted away from George’s comfort, captivated by the image of the melancholy man sitting on the stool before her. “I’m getting my camera. He’s beautiful like that.”

“A’right,” murmured George in return, taking another drag from his cigarette.

The paper and the tobacco inside was slowly dissipating into a scattering of grey ashes on the wooden floor beneath his boot. He, too, blended in with the shadows of the studio like a ghost that had merged with the walls and watched the sad revel in their heartache. The only light that flickered was the strips of sunlight peeking in and the orange embers flickering at the tip of his cigarette. Nobody could have made the reality of the situation any more prominent than this moment in time between the two of them – John and George without the rest. Paul embraced Astrid and shared his condolences but that was as far as it went; guilt passed through his fawn eyes like something one would just miss in their peripheral vision. He didn’t dare step anywhere near Astrid’s house.

The little pixie-ish lady with her blonde hair and leather trousers returned with her instrument in hand; she held it to her eye and clicked only once to capture the moment in time. John seemed almost like a statue put away in storage with his hands clasped between his spread knees and his expression vacant of emotion with his eyes focused on seemingly nothing else in the room. While studying John with a cautious eye, George stepped forward into the halo of light. He took another drag between his lips and stood behind John quietly, his own eyes following until they met an unfinished painting in the corner of the room. Reds and blues and pinks and oranges all formed the shapes which made up only half of the used canvas; he had been trying a new style, Astrid explained when she lead them to the attic. He never finished it.

Both George and John felt the same about the painting in spite of their differences in their knowledge of art – this couldn’t be mistaken for some ironic visual metaphor of Stu’s short life. Stains of watercolour ran down the canvas like trails of tears staining the cheeks of the mourning people, the beginning of a face able to be seen in the image.

The shutter of Astrid’s camera fell on the deaf ears of the two leather-clad men in the middle of the room: one standing, the other sitting. They stayed like that for a long time as time became irrelevant, as the world became nothing, and as John felt the betrayal of Stu’s death ease into the numbness he had grown to call ‘friend’.

“Are ye a’right?” George asked John softly after a while, stubbing his cigarette on the floor with his boot. His bottomless eyes glanced down toward the top of John’s head, eyeing him with concern.

“Everybody leaves. Everybody dies.” Muttered John back to George without moving an inch from his pose, “I wonder if I deserve it.”

“No one deserves this kind of loss.”

“Some do.”

John finally stood from the stool, leaving a piece of him behind just as Stuart had with his artwork. He stepped toward Astrid and kissed her softly and shortly on the lips. George trailed slowly behind, looking around the studio as if he hadn’t noticed any of this before.

“I’ll send a bouquet of paintbrushes to the widow,” said John with a small smile tugging at his lips.

“Leave it by the door,” Astrid smiled back.

Marry Me, Baby

He said he was a fan of Rock n’ Roll
At the time I wasn’t feeling so whole
So he took me away; far from here
Only the bedroom––no further than the peer
I felt loved for a little bit of time
But when it came down to it, he said ‘It’s not mine’
Marry me, baby, please won’t you stay?
Marry me, baby, you’re so far away

He walked away with his shoulders slouched and his head down, doing his best to hopelessly shield himself from the chilly rain coming down that evening. The mist created by the rain and the cold formed a blurriness around the golden-hued lamps, forming a contrast between the lamps and the pitch blackness of the Reeperbahn at night.

Hamburg’s reputation was illuminated with glorious stories of its sinning occupants. Men of all sorts paid for prostitutes of all sorts, watching young girls and women strip to practically nothing but a thong and nipple pasties and indulged themselves in transvestites who loomed from windows and in crap German food from the small diners and cafes a part of the red light district. Though it was riddled with drunken fleas and foul-smelling rats (all sleazy men coming to slap their hands on an ass and squeeze), it had an ambience about it irresistible to the existentialist artsy Germans who came around to linger like leather-clad mold to a wall. It was how she found herself buried in the Kaiserkeller that evening; her eyes glued to the stage as she watched not a striptease, but five young men clad in black shirts with lilac jackets and strange trousers she never knew existed. She stood among a clutter of young German women – as one herself – and simply watched them with intense visual study. In the end, she took the brashest one of all: he called himself John and, in her broken English, she called him John as well.

It was down a damp back alley with the lights in the street pouring onto them through the gap between the two brick buildings. He shoved her against the wall after roughly pulling her fishnet stockings and underwear down, not needing to remove anything else except those strange black trousers of his. It hadn’t rained in a day or two; the stone beneath their feet was free of water and the possibility of injury was slim to none. Neither, of course, considered this in their heady passion as lips slammed desperately to each other, bodies pressed together so tightly they could have blended into a singular being, hands going through his hair and his hand cupping her heat. When he finally pulled his eager member from his trousers and pushed it past the lips of her sex, she could feel it all. Every inch slipping inside her, filling her when she didn’t realise she needed to be.

His hands grabbed roughly at her bared thighs and lifted her; using the wall behind as leverage to fuck her carnally against it. She came before him – he made certain of that – climaxing in convulsions and screams that attracted no attention at all from the people who wandered by. It was all an ordinary sense to hear and see people having sex in the street or in the nooks and crannies of the buildings in the Reeperbahn – and it was certainly not uncommon in the youth who littered these streets more than anybody else. He helped her carefully; hands clutching her waist securely while she unwrapped her legs from his hips and gently letting her feet meet the alley’s floor beneath them. His hand reached into the pocket of his jacket, pulling out a nearly squashed packet of cigarettes, offering one to her. She took one and he slid one out as well, lighting his first with a small, metal lighter before holding the flickering flame to the tip of hers. They stood there from a moment, sharing a moment together with lips occupied with cigarettes and the assuring noises of his band members with other girls in the not-to-far distance.

He kissed her on the cheek and then kissed her on the lips, bidding her a ‘Thanks, luv,’ and then disappearing into the Reeperbahn’s lights and shadows to emerge onto the street filled with sin. She stayed behind in the darkness with her cigarette, waiting for it to come to its end before flicking it onto the floor, stubbing it out with the toe of her boot. Discarded panties and fishnet stockings were left behind in the darkness when she came into the vision of the street; unaware of the consequences of her actions as the youth of the day were.

Then she made another mistake by telling him. In her broken English, she looked him in the eye with an anxious gaze and said ‘I am vith child.”

The blurry image of the lamps didn’t remove the sheer image of him slipping into a stubborn reluctance of the truth. She had never seen a man turn into something so cruel before; his broad shoulders and expansive chest hardened in stature, his eyes darkening, his lips curling like the snarl of a raging lion, the absolute reserve and firmness in his voice as he spoke. He knew what she was implying – that it was his. He didn’t know her sex life but she already knew his. She’d met several of the others he had stuck his cock into.

“That’s yer fuckin’ mistake, lady. I had nothin’ to do with that.”

Her eyes widened, horrified. “But it’s––”

“It’s not mine.”

He walked away with his shoulders slouched and his head down, hopelessly doing his best to shield himself from the chilly rain coming down that evening. She didn’t bother. She watched him blend into the shadows of the night and leave her behind, the vicious, agonising feeling in her chest replaying his words over and over until she couldn’t think anymore. Her feet started to move – one after the other – leading her home, but she stayed behind in the rain with his ghost spitting venom in her face.

It’s not mine.

Earth – Pattie Boyd

In her garden at home on Rutland Street, the crisp air filled her nostrils and cleared the fog in her head as she attempted meditation; an idea for inner peace suggested by a friend. “Transcendental Meditation” she had called it, her voice lifting ambitiously.

Her surroundings were peaceful enough to offer sanctuary: she sat cross-legged on the bright green grass squared off by iron fencing knotted with rose bushes and the clean, white brick of the back of her home. Above, the sky threatened its usual British onslaught of rain with dark clouds of grey merging overhead, shielding away the azure hue that often cast down over the distance. Unlike the many other days she had cursed the English weather to Hell, she was at peace in the sanctuary, her eyes closing to initiate the beginning of finding her inner peace. The goal was to escape the troubles and tribulations of the world she was in; at least, that was what it had said on the brochure.

Closing her eyes to the familiarity of her back garden, she inhaled deeply through her nose to still the busy thoughts bothering every inch of her mind. A swift whip of air trailed along the exposed flesh of her arms, the hairs bristling into erection just as her ticking mind went blank–fading into darkness and silence. No longer was the image of her purple back door vivid behind her eyelids; she drifted into complete serenity while sat in a rushing world, the noises of hurrying cars and the laughter of mirthful children falling deaf on her ears. Growing weightless, she felt herself suddenly disconnect from her body, rising from her shell and moving across the starry sea, being consumed in total peace. The typical chill of English weather no longer gripped her arms to form goose-pimples, but instead was greeted by a glorious warmth covering her from head to toe. Breathing a relaxed sigh, she slipped smoothly back into her shell and managed to peel her eyes open.

She blinked.

This was not her back garden; her back garden was filled with vibrant, bright green grass damp from England’s rain and smelling of the rich earth; the small garden was faced by her towering white brick home with the purple door leading inside; cut off from her neighbours by the rose-knotted iron fences. The smell of England was absent and the threat of rain nonexistent. Before her was the scenery of another world entirely: the blinding light above beat rays of heat–strong, blistering heat causing beads of sweat without needing a single movement–coupling with the gritty dirt collecting between her toes, warming the soft skin. Through her squinted eyes, narrowed in sensitivity to the sun, she could see small huts and paths in the distance with seated people dressed in vibrant hues circled around a copper-skinned bearded man in the middle. Clearing her mind of the observation of this strange place smelling like an Indian restaurant, she observed the older man in the middle closely.

He was perched atop a pillowed pedestal with his legs crossed and his yellowing toenails long and threatening; but in spite of the scraggliness of his unkempt beard, the unclipped toenails, and the length of his hair as knotty as her rose bushes, this man in the circle had a stupid grin plastered onto his wrinkled features. Startled alone by the sun above and the cloudless azure sky, she directed her eyes away from the man in the middle, gliding her vision along the peculiarly long-haired men and the solemn-faced women. She eventually stopped at the man sitting beside her, his head bowed and his features–at least most of them–were shielded by a curtain of dark, wavy hair. She only realised then that her mouth had been open, the feelings of terrified panic and confusion gradually being registered.

Her hand shook; managing to lift it seemed a triumphant feat in of itself, her finger jabbing against the shoulder of the dark-haired man beside her. She failed to gain even a sliver of his attention.

“Excuse me?” She stopped, falling silent. That wasn’t her voice; in fact, these weren’t her hands. Her voice was deep in tone and her hands were certainly larger than these slender mitts.

Peering down to see what other differences were there to further frighten her of this bizarre situation, she noticed long tresses of blonde hair hanging over her shoulder in a braid–but she wasn’t a blonde at all. If only to further confirm her terror and befuddlement, she studied the bottom of her right foot. Except that, it wasn’t her right foot at all. There was one indication–only one–to prove to her: a long scar running vertically from just under the ball of her foot through to the very edge of her heel. The scar she had earned by stepping on a knife left between the rocks at Brighton was missing from her right foot; the skin pale and clean with only grains of dirt clinging to the flesh. She knew, now, with absolute certainty that this was not her body, that she knew nobody here, and that despite the many people present with their eyes closed and their legs crossed, she was all alone.

She screamed. A loud, shrill, terrible scream capable of waking the burning dead floating down the Ganges. The various people circled were startled out of their trances, eyes bursting open to glance sharply around in search of the source of the disturbance.

Groans of disturbed meditators, whines of individuals no longer at peace, and the bitter grumbling of the man beside her fell on deaf ears. She jumped onto her feet, in a total state of hysteria with her eyes wide with fear of the unknown and unexplainable surrounding her. All of it invaded her sense, pumping a sudden powerful burst of adrenaline roaring through her, compelling her into a fast sprint around the unfamiliar environment managing to dodge the people standing in the way. She saw trees blurred into green and brown shapes; she saw buildings ahead twisting and turning into distorted images of something so utterly mundane, she saw the dirt beneath her feet spread ahead of her into a textureless odour. She saw people’s expressions distort from irritation to bewilderment as they stared–they all stared. Stared at the madwoman throwing people to the textureless ground beneath before she collapsed onto the grains of dirt below, bursting into tears while on her knees, head bowed.

“Oi, what’s wrong wiv her?”

“Somebody get George. Tell ‘im his wife’s lost it.”

“What’s she lost?”

She sobbed hysterically, a foul wail able to put a banshee to shame coming from between her parted lips (for whoever’s parted lips these were). More and more voices pitched over her cries; one trying to top the other in order to be heard.

“–George, help her–”

“–What the fuck is she screaming and crying for–”

“–Pattie, darling, you need to calm down–”

“What’s the matter with her–”

“Will you all just shut the fuck up!”

She didn’t know when he knelt before her, the dirt below clinging and staining the white material of his drawstring trousers. It was only when his garland–threaded with orange and yellow flowers–came into her teary view did she glance through the curtain of blonde fringe to find a pair of black eyes, endless and universal in their gaze, watching her with concern. His knees were stained with red dirt but he didn’t care. Or at least she thought he didn’t care. It seemed that way.

“Luv, are ye alright? Can ye tell me what’s the matter?”

Another voice behind her whispered, “Has she gone ’round the bend?”

“Fuck off.” George snapped, breaking eye contact for only a moment. “Fuck off! Leave ‘er; she’s upset… Go on!”

“Come on.” Another said, possibly managing to ward off the audience crowding around the two kneeling figures.

She felt calloused fingertips curling around her chin, gently tilting her bowed head upward. Suddenly, the blurry world cleared into the image of the man before her–the same dark-haired man from the circle who had ignored her attempt for his attention. Now she had all of his attention to herself; he tentatively wrapped his arms around her shoulders, bringing her into his warm, comforting embrace. In spite of her overwhelming distress and the glaring chance she may be nowhere near home and may never see home again, she could not ignore the sense of calm he provided for her. But she also was one to appreciate beauty when it was holding her close: fluffs of shaggy, long black hair framed the sharp cheekbones leading to his mismatched lips. What she could see from before certainly formed the portrait of a handsome man with an aura about him so tender and wise. He was undoubtedly handsome.

He stroked her arm gently, “Pattie, luv…” He murmured for only her ears to hear as many onlookers still lingered, “What’s wrong? What’s upsettin’ ye?”

Her features–Pattie’s features–contorted to reflect the utter confusion she felt. She pulled out of the man’s grasp, looking bemusedly–and tearily–into those bottomless black orbs once again.

Her brows deepened onto Pattie’s doll-like features. “Pattie?”

George’s black eyes grew in size gradually before she saw nothing else but black; before the sun and warmth disappeared–traded in for a terrible chill overcoming her, beads of icy water trailing along her arms. She peeled her eyes open with some difficulty, the absence of the man’s arms around her shoulders warning her of the truth before she saw it.

Gone was the azure blue sky with no cloud in sight; replaced by thick, grey clouds overhead. Gone was the warm, dry dirt replaced by the damp, bright, green grass she was so unfamiliar with. Gone were the small huts and trees replaced by the familiar clean white brick of her home with the purple back door facing onto the back garden. Gone was the man who held her close in his worry. Gone were his bottomless eyes.

It was all gone.

She was home again. Safe. Explainable. Familiar.

And yet… she felt she wasn’t going to be here for long.