Poppy Shakespeare (24 page)

38. Why I like fireworks and stuff like that you can skip if you can't be arsed

If there's one thing I reckon makes life worth living apart from dogs and Angel Delight and that first swig of Tennents with
the sun in your face on a bench up Paradise Park, if there's one other thing it's fireworks every time. I gone with my mum
up Ally Pally one year when I was really small and I sat on her shoulders and watched it all, and the biggest rockets you
seen in your life, like this whoosh and then darkness and everyone waited . . . then BANG and the sky lit up like a dome,
like we's all inside this enormous dome like St Paul's or something, instead of the night just going on forever. It was like
someone cupped his hands around and my mum's face, tilted back to the sky, reflected the light and . . . I can't describe
it but that was one of my happiest moments ever.

Fireworks on the Darkwoods always starts round mid-September and it doesn't end till February and even then it don't really
end; there's always a group of teenage dribblers letting off crackers and bangers and shit on that little patch of muddy grass,
about the size of a MAD money giro, where Rowan Walk runs into Elder Rise. Nasser the Nose done fireworks as well; he used
to fire rockets out the toilet window, only opened half an inch - all the Sunshine House windows only opened half an inch
- and try and get people going past. Once I was walking back from school with Mandy, the one who topped herself, and we seen
one coming along the pavement, like straight towards us along the pavement about a foot in the air. It was like one of them
torpedoes or something, like
The African Queen,
'cept bigger and faster, more of a cruise fucking missile. We jumped to the side and it veered straight for us. So we jumped
again and it veered again and the third time we jumped it gone ZAP! in my shin, and I didn't dare look, thought it blasted
my leg off, that's how much it fucking hurt. Then Mandy starts laughing. 'Sod off!' I gone but I had a look down and I seen
the rocket stucking straight out of my shin like right angles. It was still alive, made this fizzing sound and all you could
smell was like burning flesh and Mandy's stood there pissing herself. 'Sod off!' I gone and I started to walk with the rocket
still stuck out my leg.'Why don't you pull it out!' goes Mand. 'I ain't fucking touching it,' I said. 'They'll have to call
an ambulance.' And I should of had an operation most probably, 'cept it fallen out as I gone up the steps and they never believed
me in the office and even though I shown them the hole, like right through my fucking leg practically. 'You can have a bit
of Savlon if you want,' they gone. 'Savlon!' I said. 'You taking the piss?' 'Suit yourself!' they said and shrugged and gone
back to chatting like they normally did, like we weren't even there, do you know what I'm saying, never give a fucking pig-shit
about us, and I ain't told nobody this before but right until that hole healed up I kept sort of hoping it might go sceptic
and I even tried to help it along like rubbing in bits of dirt and shit but it weren't having none of it.

39. How me and Poppy gone up the tower looking for proof

That Saturday me and Poppy met outside the tower. The queue for the fireworks gone twice round the car park and halfway down
Abaddon Hill but Wesley had saved us a couple of places right at the front; he'd been sat there since Friday, him and Swiller
Steve and Chip and a mountain of empty beer cans. 'Here they are!' White Wesley said as me and Poppy stepped into the light
of the entrance. 'Alright girls?' he said. 'Look at you!' 'Look at what?' I said. 'Dig da outfit!' he said. 'You got make-up
on?' 'Fuck off!' I said and everyone laughed. Chip give me a wink but I made like I hadn't seen.

Behind us the queue had all started up harping. 'Oi, you! Wait your turn like the rest of us! Can't you see there's a queue,
or what!'

'Do you think we should go to the back?' said Poppy. 'Why?' I said. 'Well. . .' she said. 'No fucking way!' I said.'Darkwoods
dribblers, innit!' I said. 'Always blaming somebody else. They could of slept out if they wanted,' I said. 'It's first come
first served,' I said, 'cause it was and besides of which I couldn't walk no further in my heels.

At seven exactly, not a second before, Sharon unlocked the doors. He held up five fingers. 'Five at a time.' And he counted
us off as we gone in the lobby. Wesley then Swiller Steve then Chip, then me, then Poppy and locked the doors behind us. We
all had to write in the visitors' book with the name of what flop we was visiting. 'Put Mitchell the Meds,' I said to Poppy.
'I'll put Mitchell the Meds as well. I always visit Mitchell,' I said. 'Or Lee if Mitchell's taken. They's only allowed two
visitors each. Look,' I said and I turned back a page and shown her my name from the year before, then the year before that
as well. 'Year before that it was Lee,' I said. 'Fucking Margery barged her way in. Year before
that
it was Mitchell,' I said.

'Get on with it!' growled Security Sharon. He ripped the corner off a foil sachet with his teeth and sucked the drink out.

The lift was piled full of carrier bags. 'What da fuck?' White Wesley said. Then the bags begun to rustle and shift and first
a foot appeared then a hand round the side and then the face of Professor Max McSpiegel. 'Is this the seventh floor?'he said.
'Oh dear,' he said. 'I keep going down. I'm trying to get up to the seventh,' he said. 'But this script has got a life of
its own. The bags keep pressing against the buttons.'

'We ain't gonna fit in dere,' said Wesley. Sounded like Dizzee fucking Rascal. 'We'll have to wait for de other lift, innit.'

'Perhaps if we piled them up some more,' McSpiegel said and he picked one up what had fell out the side and piled it on top
of the others. But as soon as he done it another fell out exactly the same and when he picked that up another fell out and
there weren't no holding them back.

'We'll have to wait for de other lift, innit,' White Wesley said, pushing the button again. But there weren't no way I was
missing the fireworks standing around for a lift never come, so me and Poppy squeezed down the side, legs spread, arms wide
to make like a fence and Professor McSpiegel stacked them behind, do you know what I'm saying; you could feel them all pushing
but we never shifted an inch. Then Max McSpiegel stood at the front with his arms stretched side to side. And Chip chucked
the last few over his head and pressed number seven. 'See you up there,' he said and he give me a wink as the doors shut.

It must of been 'cause of the bags I reckon but the lift gone so slow, do you know what I'm saying and in jerks as well like
Middle-Class Michael was hauling us up on a pulley. Every time the lift give a jerk, one of the bags jabbed into your back
or against your leg or so hard in your neck it felt like it lopped your head off. 'What you got
in
them?' Poppy said.

'Ah!' said Professor McSpiegel.

'It's his book,' I said, 'innit, Poppy,' I said. 'His
History of
the Abaddon;
that's what it is.'

'Ah!' said McSpiegel. 'But which chapter? That's the question.'

'Seeing as how we've helped you,' I said, ignoring him, 'cause once he got going . . . 'Seeing as how we've helped you,' I
said. 'Maybe you could help us an' all.'

'Delighted,' said Max McSpiegel.

'Me and Poppy are looking for proof.'

'Ah!' said Professor McSpiegel. 'Proof!'

'We got to prove she's mad,' I said.

'Mad,' said Professor McSpiegel. 'I see.'

'It's not that I don't
know
about madness,' I said. 'Do you know what I'm saying. I know all there is to know,' I said.

'I been a dribbler since before I was born. My mum was a dribbler and her mum as well and all the way back to Adam and Eve
and the Garden of Eden and . . .'

'The thing is,' said Poppy.

'The thing is,' I said. 'It's proving it. I never
had
to prove it,' I said. ' 'Cause it's true, do you know what I'm saying. Everyone always known I was mad since before I was
even born,' I said.

'But
I'm
not mentally ill,' said Poppy. 'I just need to
prove
I'm mentally ill to get me a lawyer to prove I'm not . . .'

'Poppy,' I said and I give her a nudge. Two carrier bags come toppling out like over between our shoulders. 'He don't need
to know all that,' I said. 'All she's saying, Professor, is . . . Well put it like this, Professor,' I said.'How do you prove
you's mad?'

'How does one prove one's mad,' said McSpiegel. 'Hm!' he said; he'd of stroked his chin if he didn't got his arms stretched
either side to hold up the carrier bags. 'Hm!' he said. 'Presupposing of course, one accepts proof itself as a viable concept
. . .'

'What?' I said.

'Presupposing . . .' he said. 'I mean, can one prove
anything?'
he said.

'Ain't got no choice,' I said. 'We got to.'

'Ah!' said Professor McSpiegel. 'You see. Reality's one thing. The truth quite another. Proof, if proof exists at all, might
be seen as the bridge in between them,' he said. 'But is such a construct feasible?'

'Fuckin'ell!' I whispered to Poppy. 'No wonder his book's so long.'

'I'm not being funny, Professor,' I said, 'but all we's asking, do you know what I'm saying, is how to prove you's mad, just
like . . .'

'Precisely,' said Max McSpiegel.

'Supposing you
had
to,' Poppy said.

'Ah,' said McSpiegel. 'But
can
one be compelled to perform the impossible? Alright,' he said. 'For the sake of argument, let us suppose that rather than
proof, which may lie beyond our reach, we are striving instead for the
appearance
of proof. A sort of Platonism . . . ' he said.

'For fuck sake,' I gone and I turned my head like sideways to look at Poppy. But Poppy was turned to Professor McSpiegel so
all I got was the back of her head and a great wodge of papers jabbing my cheek.

'According to Plato,' goes Max McSpiegel, 'what surrounds us is not reality but the
appearance
of reality, not the truth itself but a
reflection
of the truth. Imagine,' he goes, 'that this lift is a cave, and we're all chained together . . .'

'Might as well be,' I said. Poppy still didn't turn round.

'And imagine it's dark, maybe just a small fire throwing shadows on to the walls. We've never been outside the cave, so what
are in fact merely shadows, reflections, we take for reality. But suppose one of us escapes . . .'

'Hang on!' goes Poppy. 'I heard of that! One of the men escapes from the cave and . . .'

'Alright,' I said. 'I'll tell you what. Why don't
I
just get out and leave you to it. Seeing as you's so fucking smart,' I
said.' Can't see what you need
my
help for.' Poppy turned at that; I could feel her turn but I never looked, just folded my arms, which I shouldn't of neither,
could of been killed — started a fucking avalanche, bags come tumbling down both sides, crashing and smashing and tearing
theirselves . . .

'Might as well just get out,' I said, when they'd finished and all gone silent. I couldn't get out 'cause the lift was still
going, but anyway that weren't the point. I
say
it was going; the higher we gone, the slower and jerkier it got. Like a couple of inches and stop for a breather then half
an inch, then a couple of inches; reckoned Middle-Class Michael might keel over and die of a heart attack any second.

It taken the nurses best part of an hour to fucking let us in. Poppy was helping Professor McSpiegel, carry his bags one by
one out the lift and pile them up on the landing. I stood with my back to them pressing the buzzer again and again and again
and again and hammering on the glass and swearing. I seen that Caina go past three times but she never even looked, do you
know what I'm saying. I mean, they's getting fucking
paid!

'They may be reflections,' I heard Poppy say. 'But they're heavy enough! My arms are aching.'

Professor McSpiegel give a laugh, not a proper laugh, just like 'Hoh, hoh, hoh!' I nearly fucking puked.

When Ptolomea answered the door, she said 'Yes?' I said, 'We come to see Mitchell.' 'Alright,' she said and she pressed the
release then stood there, arms folded, chewing. 'Two visitors per patient,' she said. 'Yeah?' I said. 'Me and her!' I said.
She scowled as I shown her the pass. Anything, she'd of give,
anything
to have it said something different. But there it was,
VISIT APROVED
in red letters. She stared so hard she gone permanent cross-eyed, trying to rejig it, make it say
FUCK OFF.

'Do you know which room Mitchell's in?' said Poppy as we gone down the corridor.

'Shall I ask?' she said, 'cause I never said nothing.

'N?' she said.

'Oh, sorry!' I said. 'You speaking to me now?!' I said.

'I'm sorry?' said Poppy.

'Forget it,' I said.

'Look, N,' she said. 'Oh for fuck sake!' she said. And she give a great huff, proper strop!

We was outside the dorm but I couldn't go in, could I, not with us not talking. So I made like I was reading this notice sellotaped
up on the wall. 'Abaddon Patients' Rights,' it said. 'Roberta visits the seventh floor on the third Friday morning of every
fourth month and the second Wednesday of every third month except when the twenty-first falls on a Sunday . . .'

'N,' she said.

'Get off me!' I said. We stood there ten minutes in silence.

'Look . . .' she said.

'Alright!' I said. 'I'm only doing it for you,' I said.

'I know,' she said. 'I know. I'm sorry.'

'What you having a go at
me
for? I'm trying to help you out,' I said. 'Get you some proof, do you know what I'm saying.'

'You've been really helpful,' Poppy said.

'And my feet are killing me!' I said.

She patted my arm. 'Come on,' she said. I could swear I heard her sigh.

The other lift must of done twenty trips in the time it taken us thanks to Max McSpiegel. The men's dorm was full to overflowing
with Darkwoods dribblers pushing and shoving and crowding the windows and stood on the lockers and hung from the rails round
each bed, like dirty washing. Every few seconds one fell to the floor, sworn a bit, rubbed his hands on his jeans, then jumped
back up again.

I couldn't see Wesley nowhere at first, then I spotted him. Him, Steve and Chip, in a row on top of the wardrobes. Wesley
was writing his name in the air again and again with a sparkler he'd bought off these two Rumanians going round.

'Come on up!' they called.

'You joking?!' we said.

'Nah!' They reached down. 'Come on! We'll give you a haul.'

'Haul yourself!' said Poppy. 'I may have put on, but I don't weigh
that
much!' And she can't of done neither; my whole life before and let alone my whole life since, I never seen nothing so nimble
and swift as the way Poppy Shakespeare jumped up on that wardrobe — not Nadia Commonitch I mean, neither; not nobody, not
nothing.

'Come on, N!' shouts Poppy. 'Come up!'
She
got a sparkler now as well. Like whose idea
was
this!

'I'll help you up, N,' says Chip, jumping down, almost landed on top of Angelorna, squeezing herself through the crush of
bodies to hand out apples and parking.

'No way!' I said. 'I ain't going up there!'

'Come on!' they said.

'I ain't!' I said. 'I'll sprain my ankle.' But in the end I didn't got no choice the way they all gone on. Chip give me a
leg up and Wesley pulled and Poppy got hold of my arm and pulled and 'Christ!' I said. 'Good job
Astrid
ain't coming up here!'

After the fireworks - 'They're amazing!' said Poppy.'I've never seen them before from above! Aren't they incredible, N!' she
said. 'It's like looking down on fountains or something. That must be Primrose Hill,' she said. 'And Highbury . . . And Ally
Pally, down there . . . This was such a good idea, N!' I shrugged. 'I
said
they was good,' I said. After the fireworks we stayed on the wardrobes, chatting and eating our parking . . . 'So come on!'
said Poppy; we'd been drinking a bit - three quarters of vodka in cartons of orange. 'So come on! How do you prove you're
mad?'