words for what I feel, seeing Cynthia douse herself with her own urine. It isn’t something to watch. All I did was push her to shut her up.
‘Shurrup, pisspants.’ Pauline knees her in the face. She is more interested in the pavilion, though, than in Cynthia. She wanders off to explore the dim corner beyond the badminton net, where a door hangs askew. I don’t know what her plans are. I only know that coming to this place is the end of the world for me. Suncream. Lallie. For Sale. I want to close my eyes and never open them, but I try and I can still smell the sweet vinegary piss stink, new and old. I wish Cynthia would stop crying. She’s got the worst cry ever, like a donkey or some other old animal, but it doesn’t sound real. It sounds like she’s trying to imitate a donkey, just to be annoying. A deliberate ee as she pulls in a breath and a long exhaled aw of involuntary distress.
‘Shut up!’
And this time, I mean to hurt her. I punch and kick, not aiming, just hurting. To get to what. To make her stop. To make everything stop. I do stop, in the end. She isn’t trying to kick or scratch or grab my hands. She’s balled in on herself, rigid, moving only with the impact of my hurting her. I haven’t got anywhere. I hate her more.
‘Pauline.’ She’s over in the corner, poking around in a cupboard with the wonky door. ‘Come and hold her.’
Because that’s what will make a difference. Being able to get to her. Pauline ambles over, striped with dust and carrying a half-strung badminton racquet. Between us, we uncurl Cynthia, pulling faces at the wee, so that Pauline can kneel by her head, pinning back her arms. We take off her glasses. Cynthia’s knees double up to protect her stomach but I’m much stronger than her and pull them down and sit on them so she can’t do that any more. I know what I’m going to do. I’ve got the knife, the one I got in Spain. I put it in my pocket this morning, along with the library ticket.
‘Get her fanny,’ urges Pauline.
‘You what?’
‘Sambos’ fannies are different. I’ve seen.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘I’ve seen pictures. Have a look.’
I can see the sodden navy crutch of Cynthia’s knickers.
‘She’s wet herself.’
Pauline shifts, business-like, releasing Cynthia’s arms.
‘Take your pants off,’ she commands.
It seems that Cynthia has stopped being able to understand us, even when we shout, so in the end Pauline gets hold of the sturdy waistband, loose around Cynthia’s narrow belly, and pulls. Gingerly I take the wet pants as they twist round her legs, leaving them to shackle her ankles as I push her knees apart to get a better look. Cynthia’s donkey sounds continue, softly. I don’t know exactly what I’m looking for. I’m not going to tell Pauline, but I’ve never taken a really good look at my own privates. Cynthia’s fanny is like a surprising pinkish ear hidden in the brown skin. I don’t want to get too close in case she does another wee.
‘Told yer,’ says Pauline. ‘Can you see the hole?’
Not really.
‘Oh yes!’ I exclaim.
Pauline arches over from where she’s holding Cynthia’s hands. She grins at me.
‘Dare you to touch it.’
I refuse, until she calls me nesh. I’ve got the Spanish knife in my hand now from my pocket, and I use the plastic bone handle to prod, glancingly. Pauline claims it doesn’t count. Cynthia has started to writhe like a hooked fish, so Pauline knees her head back against the concrete floor and she stops, wailing.
‘Go on, properly.’
I’m not nesh. It’s not disgusting anyway. But Pauline thinks it’s the most hilarious thing she’s ever seen, in that unhilarious way she’s keen on. She says I’m a lezzer because that’s what lezzers do, touch each other’s fannies. She says they lick fannies as well, and dares me to do that. I refuse. Then she starts saying ‘jam rags’. I tell her to shut up. I wave the knife. She dodges back but she doesn’t stop saying it. She swoops her badminton racquet like a sword, like we’re having a fight. She’s enjoying herself more than me, even though all her laughter is like hitting someone. It makes me frightened.
‘Eww, Grimsby docks!’ she says about my hands, which I don’t even understand, but has something to do with the smell from touching Cynthia’s fanny. I wish I was brave enough to