didn’t want to be reminded of the fact they had somehow failed their beautiful daughter. It was far easier to banish her most visible mistake. They had hurriedly handed Kiki back to Social Services. Kiki had gone from the funeral back into care in her best dress.
It was inevitable, therefore, that she had fallen into the same black hole as her mum. Drugs had filled that hole, of course they had, and the world she had ended up in made it only too easy to lead a life of scoring, using, dealing and all the concomitant crime. She thrived on chaos and drama underpinned with violence, manipulated by men who saw a pretty and vulnerable girl who could be used and abused. And to find she had a use had given her a purpose. She had been a naive but willing victim, wild and rebellious, not really caring what happened to her, because she knew only too well that anything good could be taken away overnight, that just when you thought everything was going to be OK your world could be turned upside down. Going down for a crime she hadn’t masterminded, by the time it happened, was an inevitability she accepted. An occupational hazard.
Now, as she stood on the beach, smiling for the camera, glowing in the warmth of the sun, she knew at long last that she trusted herself; that she was in control of her destiny. No one could destroy her now, or bring her down with them.
‘What do you think?’ the photographer thrust his camera at her to preview the pictures he’d taken. She still couldn’t believe what she saw. Not a skinny, mangy creature with matted extensions and peeling false nails dressed in minimal denim and high heels, but a glowing creature in a Hawaiian dress, her hair braided in hundreds of tiny plaits piled on top of her head, her skin smooth, her eyes, once dead, as bright as the light that bounced off the sea. She looked, she realized, happy. Something she had once had no experience of. She hadn’t recognized the feeling when it had crept up on her: a lightness, a warmth, a tingle that was not drug-induced and that didn’t fade once the hit had worn off.
She almost hadn’t gone to the workshop that afternoon. The prison often put on talks from visitors they thought would inspire the inmates. Why would she want to go and see some famous artist bang on about painting? It would have no bearing on her life either inside prison or out of it. But something about the poster drew her in. Sebastian Turner, one-time bad boy of the British art scene, had spoken to her somehow. The photo on his poster showed both vulnerability and defiance, and something deep inside Kiki connected with that bravado. She wondered what he was hiding. So much that after a nondescript lunch of something vaguely orange floating about in a beige sauce, she found her way to the art room.
When he arrived, she couldn’t take her eyes off him. He was petite and pretty, but with a panther-like stealth that made him dangerously attractive in a dissolute rock-star kind of way. Dressed in skinny leather jeans and a white shirt, he obviously came from a privileged world – he spoke like the people who had surrounded her when she was younger, in a clipped, languid drawl. Kiki had left that speech pattern long behind. It didn’t do to talk nice in the circles she moved in. But it reminded her so much of her mother when he began to talk that she thought she was going to cry. She moved to the back of the room so no one could see how emotional she was – it was a sign of weakness to show cracks. She pulled herself together and listened to what he had to say.
He spoke passionately about his drug abuse, about the privileged background he had nearly thrown away, about his art and how it had been a curse at first, but ultimately a blessing. As she watched him talk, she felt something inside her. Now, she recognized it as hope; a tiny little flame that, as he spoke, burned brighter. She wanted more than anything to be part of the world he spoke of. To feel what he
It was inevitable, therefore, that she had fallen into the same black hole as her mum. Drugs had filled that hole, of course they had, and the world she had ended up in made it only too easy to lead a life of scoring, using, dealing and all the concomitant crime. She thrived on chaos and drama underpinned with violence, manipulated by men who saw a pretty and vulnerable girl who could be used and abused. And to find she had a use had given her a purpose. She had been a naive but willing victim, wild and rebellious, not really caring what happened to her, because she knew only too well that anything good could be taken away overnight, that just when you thought everything was going to be OK your world could be turned upside down. Going down for a crime she hadn’t masterminded, by the time it happened, was an inevitability she accepted. An occupational hazard.
Now, as she stood on the beach, smiling for the camera, glowing in the warmth of the sun, she knew at long last that she trusted herself; that she was in control of her destiny. No one could destroy her now, or bring her down with them.
‘What do you think?’ the photographer thrust his camera at her to preview the pictures he’d taken. She still couldn’t believe what she saw. Not a skinny, mangy creature with matted extensions and peeling false nails dressed in minimal denim and high heels, but a glowing creature in a Hawaiian dress, her hair braided in hundreds of tiny plaits piled on top of her head, her skin smooth, her eyes, once dead, as bright as the light that bounced off the sea. She looked, she realized, happy. Something she had once had no experience of. She hadn’t recognized the feeling when it had crept up on her: a lightness, a warmth, a tingle that was not drug-induced and that didn’t fade once the hit had worn off.
She almost hadn’t gone to the workshop that afternoon. The prison often put on talks from visitors they thought would inspire the inmates. Why would she want to go and see some famous artist bang on about painting? It would have no bearing on her life either inside prison or out of it. But something about the poster drew her in. Sebastian Turner, one-time bad boy of the British art scene, had spoken to her somehow. The photo on his poster showed both vulnerability and defiance, and something deep inside Kiki connected with that bravado. She wondered what he was hiding. So much that after a nondescript lunch of something vaguely orange floating about in a beige sauce, she found her way to the art room.
When he arrived, she couldn’t take her eyes off him. He was petite and pretty, but with a panther-like stealth that made him dangerously attractive in a dissolute rock-star kind of way. Dressed in skinny leather jeans and a white shirt, he obviously came from a privileged world – he spoke like the people who had surrounded her when she was younger, in a clipped, languid drawl. Kiki had left that speech pattern long behind. It didn’t do to talk nice in the circles she moved in. But it reminded her so much of her mother when he began to talk that she thought she was going to cry. She moved to the back of the room so no one could see how emotional she was – it was a sign of weakness to show cracks. She pulled herself together and listened to what he had to say.
He spoke passionately about his drug abuse, about the privileged background he had nearly thrown away, about his art and how it had been a curse at first, but ultimately a blessing. As she watched him talk, she felt something inside her. Now, she recognized it as hope; a tiny little flame that, as he spoke, burned brighter. She wanted more than anything to be part of the world he spoke of. To feel what he
Similar Books
