Num8ers - By Rachel Ward Page 0,14
to see Spider out on the landing, but no such luck. I’d have to go inside. Given all the people hanging around, I wasn’t going to be able to just walk into the place, though; I was going to have to push my way through. Considering I didn’t know anyone and didn’t like being physically close to people, this was something of a tall order, but I was determined to go through with it now. Anyway, being small for my age, it was pretty easy to worm my way through — people didn’t seem to take offense.
Inside, it was so much worse than what I’d imagined: boiling hot, music so loud you couldn’t think, people crammed in, rancid armpits shoved in your face, overwhelming smell of smoke, dope, and sweat. And all the time, people’s numbers right in front of me, close up, no escape.
They say average life expectancy’s going up, don’t they, but I guess that doesn’t apply to kids from the projects of Greater London. Most of them were only going to make their forties or fifties; quite a few were checking out way before that. Casualties of how we all live now, I guess — cars, booze, drugs, despair. I’d rather not have known, but it wasn’t something I could switch on and off.
I’d got about ten feet in when I started to panic, wedged between a guy with his T-shirt completely soaked in his own sweat and his girlfriend, all hairspray and perfume. I didn’t see how I could get much farther forward, and the gap behind me had closed up. There was no air and the noise was so loud it was like it was actually inside my head, trying to burst out through my ears and eyes and nose. I was feeling light-headed, and as the strength started to go from my legs, I realized I didn’t actually need them; my body was held up by all those around me.
Through the smallest of gaps I saw a familiar logo on the back of a yellow T-shirt, bobbing up and down as its occupant moved in time to the beat. Spider! I took a deep breath and dropped to the floor, ducking down to squeeze through the sea of legs. I resurfaced by Spider and tapped him on the shoulder.
He half turned, smiled, and put his long arm across my back, holding me at my waist. Despite our little chat, I didn’t object. Drawn into his side, the familiar smell of his BO was almost welcome, and his arm supported me, giving me a chance to relax and breathe again.
He was saying something to me, but I couldn’t hear a thing. He bent down and yelled, “Good vibes, man! Here…” From his other hand he offered me a big roll-up. Battered and dazed just by having made it there, I took it without thinking. “Go on,” he shouted in my ear. “It’s good stuff.”
I looked at the roach, held between my fingers, blue smoke spiraling out of the end. It was just pot, nothing heavy. Then I thought of my mum, the funny angle she was lying at when I found her. Was this how she started? A harmless toke? No way I was going down that road. I handed it back to Spider.
“What’s up?” he asked.
“Nothing. It’s a bit hot in here — I think I need a drink.”
“You need to take off your hoodie, Jem, or you’ll melt.”
He was right. I could feel the sweat running down my front. I wriggled out of the sweatshirt, trying not to elbow anyone as I drew it up and over my head. Of course, I’d forgotten the knife. It fell out onto the floor. I held my breath, wondering what the reaction would be. Quite a few people had noticed — they just laughed.
“Hey, there’s no need for that here. Honor among thieves, right?” Someone ducked down, picked it up off the floor, and handed it back to me.
“Spider, who’s this you’ve got with you? She’s hardcore.” A wink of the eye told me they were laughing at me. I was fifteen and five foot nothing, no threat to them.
Spider grinned. “Yeah, this is Jem. You don’t want to mess with her. She’s little, but she’s mean.”
I wouldn’t normally like people talking about me, but squashed in there, it seemed like it was someone else they were talking about. It didn’t matter.
After a while, a big bloke came over to us and had a word with