Poppy Shakespeare (8 page)

Course everyone had their own explanation why Brian the Butcher fainted. Which seeing as he couldn't remember nothing, he
weren't in no position to say and all he could do was sit in his chair and nod and say, 'Very much so.' Sue the Sticks said
it was love at first sight, she'd seen it happen she said. Which being as she sat with her back to the door she
couldn't
of done unless she got eyes in her crutches. But that didn't stop her seeing him in her imagination and what Sue imagined
and what Sue seen was one and the same, pretty much. So from that time on, she always sworn the moment he first set eyes on
Poppy Brian the Butcher got blown off his feet by love. Literally, she said, blown off his feet, she'd seen it happen herself.
And she said Brian should go on the breakfast TV. 'They always have stuff on like that,' she said. 'Give everyone a bit of
something to hope for.' And she even offered to go on with him, like just as a witness to say she'd seen it happen.

Michael said Brian had had a premonition. Said he'd seen everything that was going to happen if they sold off Mental Health
Services and it was such an awful terrible sight, he'd fainted clean away. And he told us all the things Brian seen and Brian's
sat there nodding his head, but when I asked him later he couldn't remember none of it.

Course six months later people remembered, said maybe Brian
did
have a premonition, and they tried to make out they'd said so all along. It weren't no coincidence he fainted the morning
Poppy arrived they said; there was even dribblers who'd have you believe Brian the Butcher was some sort of prophet. When
all actually happened was Brian come through seen the flops hadn't got their dinner yet. And he started to panic on account
of that meant he must of stopped hand-washing early, and
that
meant the tower was about to fall over and seeing the flops kicking about on the floor he reckoned it already started. And
that's when he fainted and fell to the floor like a tomb on the shit-coloured carpet.

Not that it mattered to me either way. By the time they got Brian back on his feet I was through in the canteen eating my
fatty lamb stew. And I ain't saying it was nice exactly, but it weren't the worst I've tasted. And I felt pretty lucky to
of squeezed through in time, the last before the hatch come down. And I felt kind of sorry for the others as well on account
of they'd missed their dinner.

18. How everyone reckoned the sun shone out Poppy's arse

That first day Poppy gone down alright. After she'd saved Brian the Butcher's life, people give her the benefit. So when she
started slagging the doctors off, how she shat better crap than they come out with, I ain't saying there weren't a bristle
gone round but people was prepared to overlook it. On top of which she got novelty value; no one met a dribbler like Poppy
before, and when they finally got their heads round the fact she meant what she said,
she didn't
want to be there,
they was that fucking jiggered, that stunned to the core, it never occurred to them they should be offended.

All afternoon they sat round her asking questions. How many times she been sectioned? (She hadn't.) Where had she been in
before? (She hadn't never been nowhere.) What meds was she taking? (She weren't taking meds and she weren't
going
to take none neither.) What rate of MAD money was she on? (MAD money? What the fuck's MAD money?!) She never heard of MAD
money? She never heard of
MAD
money?
She never heard of MAD MONEY!!!!
And so it gone on. And each time they asked her and each time she answered, their shrieks of surprise got louder and louder
and louder. And the shrieks got so loud that the dribblers down the line couldn't hear what Poppy was saying. So Astrid told
Michael and Michael told Verna and Verna told Candid and so on all round the room. And you heard the shrieks like rippling
through the flops.

But the more Poppy's answers got passed around, the more they got stretched out of shape. 'Cause everyone wanted to try them
on, do you know what I'm saying, they couldn't resist it, and giving a little tug here and there, and not too concerned with
drying them flat or nothing. So sometimes when they come back round they never even recognised the answers they'd passed on
two minutes before, and they passed them again and they give them a good old yank as they handed them over. And once a rumour
got that overstretched there weren't no way of shrinking it back into shape if you even wanted. Which I reckon that's how
half the stuff 'bout Poppy Shakespeare started in the first place.

Some of the flops come over to look at Poppy. Clifton give her a poem he'd wrote on a napkin from the canteen. Something like,
'Poppy, red as your name. Your hair is like a glowing flame.' Which it weren't anyway, it was black/ brunette, but he said
he'd changed it 'cause of poetic licence. Fifth-Floor Elijah give her a blessing and Safid shown her this passport photo and
asked her if she was his mother.

'You not got a question for Poppy, N?' Rosetta said, patting my arm.

'She's sulking,' said Astrid.

'Fuck off!' I said.

'Go on, man,' said Wesley. Do you know what I'm saying! It was like some fucking celebrity come to visit the Dorothy Fish!

'No it's
my
fault,' said Poppy. 'I was really rude. I'm sorry.' She looked across at me but I made like I never seen.

It was when Poppy didn't show up next day the tide begun to turn. It weren't strictly logical maybe, but we'd sort of assumed
she'd come in the gap where Pollyanna should of been. So when Astrid and Middle-Class Michael come in and seen the 'P' chair
empty, it was like already we sensed there was something wrong. When Dawn turned up we was getting that edgy we forgotten
to tell her our names, or where to sit or anything, so she walked up and down between the rows, looking around, like she'd
lost the sugar down Kwik Save. But when Brian the Butcher finally come in, left his coat on his chair, had a quick look round,
and gone off to wash his hands, that's when people begun to say how Poppy weren't going to show.

'She's not coming in,' said Astrid. 'What did I tell you!'

'Maybe she's lost,' whispered Tina.

'Lost!' said Astrid. 'She can't be lost! You can see the tower a hundred miles away!'

'She could have got lost on the Darkwoods,' Rosetta said. 'Even if she could see the tower.'

But Astrid snorted. 'She's not got lost!' she said.

'Poor Brian,' said Sue the Sticks. 'You see how he looked?'

'I know,' said everyone, 'cause everyone seen.

'It's cruel,' said Sue. 'That's what it is. Poor Brian! I knew he should of spoke to her yesterday. I said to him, I said
"Grasp the nettle!" "Go for it, Brian!" I said. "You're only young once!"'

'He's not young, is he?' said Candid Headphones.

'He's younger than me,' said Sue the Sticks. 'Watch your mouth!'

I ain't saying I was over-concerned if Poppy come in or not. But the rest of them, they got that worked up, how she'd led
Brian on, how she'd led them
all
on, how she'd took Pollyanna's place, cost her her life, then just chucked it away like an empty packet of fags.

'Pollyanna could of been sat there now,' said Astrid.

'Don't,' said Rosetta.

'Well she could,' said Astrid.

'I know,' said Rosetta. 'But that not Poppy's fault.'

'Whose is it then?!' said Astrid.

They got themselves that worked up about it, that when Poppy walked in at half-eleven, I reckon they was almost disappointed.
She sat herself down in the empty 'P' chair, lit up a Bensons, crossed her legs and the toe of her boot switching left right
left like the tail of an angry cat.

'We was wondering where you were,' Astrid said.

Poppy looked up and she glanced around and everyone looked away. She lit up a second fag and sucked it down.

'You found us alright?' Rosetta said.

'Can't miss us, really,' Astrid said.

'Something like that,' Poppy said, and she lit up another.

'Brian come through,' said Sue the Sticks. 'Think he was looking for you.'

'Do you still feel you shouldn't be here?' whispered Tina. But she gone bright red 'cause Poppy didn't answer.

The clock with no hands gone round and no one said nothing. Poppy's boot kept switching left right left.

'Where did you get your boots?' said Sue. 'They real or just imitation?

'I had some like that once,' she said. 'Well similar, different heel. They're nice,' she said.

'I give mine away in the end,' Sue said to Verna. Verna nodded. 'I give them to my niece,' she said. 'Don't know if she
wears
them.

'I couldn't no more with my leg,' she said. Sue the Sticks, she was Slasher Sue then, had a leg cut off when she jumped out
a tenth-floor window. 'Not practical, do you know what I'm saying?

'Shame,' she said. 'They was nice boots as well. You'd never of known they was only imitation.'

'How often do you see the doctors?' asked Poppy, suddenly.

And everyone turned to her, like reflex, and I met her eye like just for a second before I looked back out the window.

'The doctors?' said Astrid. 'What do you want to see
them
for?'

'Does it matter?' Poppy said. 'I just asked how often you see them.'

Astrid snorted and turned away.

'Once a year,' Rosetta said. 'Once a year for our assessment.'

'But for other stuff,' said Poppy. 'How often?'

'What other stuff?' Rosetta said.

Astrid tutted and rolled her eyes.

'She wants to know how often we see the doctors,' Sue the Sticks said. 'Once a year,' she said to Poppy. 'We see them once
a year for our annual assessment.'

'And what about in between?' said Poppy.

'What about
what
in between?' said Astrid and she bit her lip 'cause she hadn't meant to say nothing.

'We don't normally see them in between,' Rosetta said. 'Unless it's to change medication.'

'I'm not on medication,' said Poppy.

'Well you don't need to see them then, do you!' said Astrid.

'Shhh!' said Rosetta, shooking her head.

'Don't tell
me
to shhh,' said Astrid.

'But how do they know if you're better?' said Poppy. 'If they never see you, how can they tell?'

Middle-Class Michael been quiet up to then, like he'd wore hisself out the day before with keeping on giving his speech. But
now he seen Poppy wanted an explanation. And if there's one thing Middle-Class Michael loved it was doing an explanation.
So he started explaining about the assessments, how every year on your anniversary the doctors would call you in and decide
if you'd got better or worse or stayed the same. And being Middle-Class Michael he didn't stop there, he has to go into every
system they ever come up with ever for measuring madness. There was the Reichman Scale and the Blunkett Spectrum and this
Chinese one I can't remember but Quok-ho said it meant something to do with gibbons. In the olden days, Middle-Class Michael
said, they could tell just from the shape of your head, or by testing your humours, not humours ha-ha, but humours you got
inside you. There was two different systems now, he said, an American one and one for everyone else. Then he started to list
all the diagnoses, what symptoms you needed definite and what's like your bonus ball.

Which was all very well but about as much use as a book to be perfectly honest. I could of told Poppy simpler myself and a
lot more practical, and I would if it weren't for the fact we weren't talking. If you'd got better they kicked you out and
if you'd got worse you got sent upstairs, so the thing was to prove you'd stayed the same; but not
exactly
the same, not
stuck,
they liked to believe they was making a difference, so what you done was each symptom got better, you found something else
got the same amount worse, and that way you made sure at the end, when they sent you out and totalled the columns, you made
sure you come out balanced.

Most probably I changed more than I needed to. I drawn it out in my head like a table, the same like we done in Life Skills.
And on one side I put all of last year's symptoms and on the other side all of this year's, and I marked them out of ten how
bad they was. For any symptom I crossed out, I written a new one opposite - and some of the stuff I come up with you'd never
believe it! Then I added all the numbers up and I fiddled them till they balanced, and if that sounds deceitful, you had to
be, and besides I was good at it. I knew how to shade a symptom from one to ten, just like colour by numbers. And not bragging
or nothing but I done it so well they had to invent diagnoses (Diabolus Syndrome, Azazel Disorder) on account of I gone through
so many they run out.

To be honest, I didn't mind the annual assessments. It give me something to think about. I'd start planning my next one as
soon as the door shut behind me. Then I'd sit for a year staring out of the window, shifting it up and down till it come out
perfect. I planned it so hard, the assessment itself sometimes felt like an anticlimax. Like over before it begun sort of
thing. When they come to the end of the doctors' questions, I'd still be waiting for them to go on and I'd drag out my answers
to make it all last a bit longer. Sometimes they cut me off before I'd even finished.

The other dribblers weren't like that though. I ain't saying they was insecure, but there weren't nothing got them so para
as the annual assessments. Wesley, he freaked out that bad when he seen Tony coming to fetch him, he leapt through the window,
glass flying all over, and gone straight through the roof of this four-wheel drive what was parked in the car park below.
And they still didn't let him off of it. 'Cause even as the fire brigade was trying to cut him out, all sawing away and Wesley
up to his chest in the roof of the car, and Dr Clootie, whose car it was, stamping and screaming, and us lot all pushing and
crowding the windows above, there was Tony crouched on the top of the Range Rover next to him, shouting across the doctors'
questions, and Dr Azazel sat on the boot, shooking his head and trying to work out whether Wesley was mad or not.

'You ain't said about the mirrors,' said Sue.

'We don't
know
that,' said Middle-Class Michael.

'Well
I'll
tell her then,' said Sue the Sticks, but Michael got in first.

'There's a mirror on the wall in the assessment room.' About so big; he shown her. 'It's been suggested it might be one of
those two-way mirrors with a viewing room behind it.'

'Like ID parades,' said Sue the Sticks.

'We don't have conclusive evidence,' said Michael. 'A smoking gun, so to speak.'

Poppy nodded but her eyes glazed over. I don't think she was even listening.

'It's stupid,' said Astrid. 'There ain't no room.'

'I heard them in there,' said Sue, 'and so did Candid.'

'And I smelled cigarette smoke,' said Wesley. 'And none of the doctors was smoking.'

'Amazing, Watson!' Zubin said.

'Fuck off.' said Wesley. 'I'm Wesley innit.'

'It's Holmes, anyway,' said Middle-Class Michael.

'You what?' said Zubin.

'It's "Amazing, Holmes!"'

Zubin give a tut. 'I was being ironic.'

'You've lost
me
anyway,' said Sue the Sticks, formerly known as Slasher Sue, before she give up self-harming. 'All I'm saying is we know there's
a room and there must be a room 'cause Verna's seen them selling the tickets down Sniff Street Underground.'

'What!' we said, everyone except Poppy who looked like a sponge been that overfilled she couldn't take in no more.

'Verna seen them Saturday lunchtime,' said Sue. She looked around and nodded her head, like 'See what did I tell you!'

'Watson!' said Wesley. 'What did I fucking tell you!'

'Go on,' said Sue the Sticks. 'Tell 'em, Verna.'

Verna looked down and fingered this bump on her finger. 'Some of the junior doctors,' she said. 'They were selling these tickets.
I don't know what they were for.'

'On Saturday lunchtime?' said Candid Headphones.
'I
was down there. I reckon I seen them too!'

'Go on,' said Sue.

'That's it,' said Verna. 'One pound a ticket, it was. Or six for a fiver.'

'It was probably a raffle,' said Middle-Class Michael.

'Exactly,' said Astrid; she was well pissed-off, 'cause she'd been down the Kwik-Kleen, hadn't seen them.