Mandy ran away from an abusive home life. Her mom’s boyfriend sexually assaulted her on a regular basis and her jealous mother liked to slap her around in punishment, as if it were her fault. I’d felt sick to my stomach listening to the casual way Mandy told her story. As if she’d grown numb to it. I understood the numb part.
Living on the streets led Mandy to prostituting herself to survive. She developed severe anxiety and depression and was one more awful sexual experience away from committing suicide when she met Ham. Where Mandy wasn’t originally from the city, Ham was from a place called Ibrox that was less than fifteen minutes outside the city center. He got hooked on heroin at fifteen and his addiction cost him his family, most of his friends, and the ability to hold down a job.
Ham’s addiction didn’t bother Mandy. At least that’s what she told me. I felt sad for them both, not only because of what they’d been through or because they were sleeping on the streets. I felt sad because I could tell Ham loved Mandy. But when Ham had wandered off that day to speak to another homeless guy they knew, Mandy told me she was only with him because he protected her from other men and he didn’t mind the bad days she had with her untreated anxiety. Don’t you love him? I’d asked. As a friend, she replied. But it was clear she was offering him more than mere friendship for his protection, and I wanted to cry for her, because she was still prostituting herself . . . just in a different way.
“What’s up?” I asked, not really wanting to spend much time around them because they were too much of a dose of harsh, cold reality for my liking.
Before either could answer, the first fat raindrop fell from the sky.
“Fuck,” Ham glared upwards. “Knew it.”
“Are you guys going to find shelter?”
“It’s just a bit of rain. First wash I’ll have had in days,” Mandy laughed.
“Where ye off tae?” Ham asked.
I shrugged. I didn’t tell anyone where I camped out. “Going to get a wash, a meal.”
Mandy suddenly scowled at me. “Ye still on yer own? What did we tell ye about that, Busker Girl? Ye need a man. Or ye need tae find yerself some other women.”
Ham gave me a look of concern. “Or stay with us. We’ll protect ye.”
I knew he didn’t mean anything sexual by it, but I still shuddered at the thought. They both insisted that I was leaving myself vulnerable to assault by being on my own. Having wandered the city for a good few months now, I did see quite a few homeless people in pairs or as they’d suggested, women who camped out in small packs.
But I was being smarter than all of them. I slept where no one ventured, far away from the city center. I didn’t need anyone else to keep myself safe.
“I look like a slight breeze could knock me over but it’s only a fa?ade. I can kick arse, you know.” I grinned, trying to reassure them as I took a step back. “I can look after myself. Promise.”
“Ye’re going tae find yerself in trouble one of these days, Busker Girl!” Mandy called after me, and her words sounded prophetic in a way that sent a blast of cold shivers down my spine.
You’re being silly, I told myself, shaking off the feeling. I was fine.
I didn’t have their problems. I was being smart because despite my age, I had a lifetime of experience to fall back on.
This was my life right now. I liked it like this. I worried about important, basic-necessity stuff and all the other shit went away. I’d keep being smart as long as it meant not having to think about who I used to be.
* * *
THE BUS WAS ONLY A fifteen-minute journey north. I got off at a stop that was a mere five-minute walk from the swim center. It was always this particular center because it was a ten-minute walk from the laundromat I used and a twenty-minute walk from where I slept.
Every Saturday it was the same receptionist behind the desk. She was a nice girl who graciously held onto my guitar for me after I paid for my swim ticket. There was a sadness in her smile when she handed me the ticket, so I knew she knew I wasn’t there to swim. Still, she let me in.
Her kindness pricked my pride a little, but I didn’t have time for pride, I reminded myself as I wandered into the ladies’ changing room. The tiled floors had puddles of water here and there, the tiled walls glistened with condensation, and the large space was thick with the now-comforting smell of chlorine. I found one of the larger lockers free, hauled out my cheap shampoo and conditioner, my shaving cream and razor, a towel, and my body wash. After putting the rucksack into the locker with care not to damage my tent, I stripped down to my underwear.
Growing up, I’d never really been body conscious. As a teenager I developed slim curves, I fit into a size four, and no one ever mentioned my weight to me so it was never a factor. I didn’t fit in with the popular kids but I had a band, a fun group of friends, and we were too busy concentrating on finding success in the music industry to care about stuff our peers cared about. So truthfully, I’d only ever grown insecure about my looks when the band took off.
Anytime we posted to our Instagram, there were always comments about how I looked in the photo. If the angle was weird, had I put on weight? Was I pregnant? Who knocked me up? Maybe I should get a boob job? And I’d be so cute if I got a nose job.
Not all the comments were negative. Most were positive. Some were sexually creepy and invasive. It was amazing how easy it became to concentrate on those negative assholes though. To let them get to me when I’d never worried about my looks before. It was also disheartening that the negative comments racked up when some tabloid magazine announced I was dating a beloved famous guy because we’d been pictured together. They’d done that a few times over my career. Women could be vicious when they thought you didn’t deserve a guy they were fangirls over. Sad, but so fucking true.
Now I didn’t care about any of it. I didn’t have to.
I knew I was too thin now, but if anyone stared at me as I walked across the locker room in my worn underwear with my inexpensive products in my arms, I didn’t see it. I didn’t care.
Thankfully, finding a shower free, I stepped inside, ignoring the strands of strangers’ hair clogging the drain, and pulled the wet shower curtain over for privacy. After carefully stripping off my underwear, I rolled it up in my towel and set it outside the shower, hoping, as I always did, that no rat bastard would come along and steal it.
When the hot water hit, I closed my eyes and salivated over the sensation. There was nothing like a shower after days and days of going without one. I’d always taken a shower for granted. Now that it wasn’t a regular thing—being lucky if I could make enough money for one once a week—it was a pure joy. Not that I could really take the time to enjoy it because there was always someone waiting outside to use it next.
So I got to scrubbing. My body. My hair. Then I shaved. Mandy told me not to bother shaving. That leg hair kept you warmer in the winter. I’d been sleeping rough since late April and it had been pretty goddamned cold at night. Scottish summers weren’t exactly hot during the night but it had been manageable. It was September now. In a few short weeks, the nightly temperature would drop to not so manageable and I was trying not to worry about it.
Or the fact that my visitor’s visa was about to expire.
Feeling my stomach churn, I threw the thought out. I’d worry about it when the time came. My life was about working everything out on a day-to-day basis. It was simple. Easy.
After my shower, I felt more human again. I reached out, glad to find my towel and underwear still there. I wrapped the towel around me and walked out, ignoring the huffy look of the woman who was waiting to use the shower next. I locked myself in a nearby cubicle so I could dry off in private.
Back in my underwear, I left the cubicle to retrieve my stuff out of the locker. Once I was dressed and organized, I got out my hairbrush.