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Clara
It started with winking. Iām lying in bed, listening to Jay-Z on the radio, trying not to think. Thenā¦ wink. Never been a winker. More of a blinker. If I try to close one eye the other is destined to follow. You see? Iāve always thought winking is for people with a swagger and what have I got to swagger about? Nowt.
Now and again my body gives me little messages, in different ways, and this time it happens to be winking.
A Thursday and Iām not thinking but winking. Sweating. Itās 7.58 a.m. and Iām dripping. Thirty degrees in Blaenau Gwent in a flat where all the windows are nailed or painted shut. Roasting. Believe me, itās not a home, itās a tomb.
The heat has built up for days and days, something my nan would have called ātoo hot for dogsā. Too hot to sleep, too hot for my head, in bed, in a corner of the globe called Green Meadows. Opposite the Flying Start Hub in Sirhowy, you knows? Who ever named it Green Meadows must have been on crack and Iām feeling strange cos of the heat and, on my back, in bed, my naked body stretched out, Despicable Me duvet flung long ago onto the brown-and-white Home Bargains rug, I can see the Artex swirls where they should be and my left eyeā¦ winks.
Every few seconds my left eye closes and opens without command. Shit. My brain is overheating.
But what can you do or say? Who do you say it to? Put on your sunglasses, have a bowl of Cheerios and prepare for the day.
Todayās going to be sticky, tricky, cos of the heat. Look up and out the skylight in the kitchenette, blue canvas in a picture frame. I ponder the challenges of that blue yonder, today, as the kettle struggles to catch up with the heat. I consider some toast but the toaster is broken.
Iām a shoplifter. And hot weather is the pits for shoplifting.
I steal to order for a girl called Diane. Diane scares the shit out of me. You know those types, not big but scary ā her calmness makes me wary. Diane is The Devil and she must be obeyed or else she will burn me. Got orders from The Devil for three pairs of leggings, two spangly tops, a mohair jumper and a puffa jacket. In July. Only in Tredegar, I tell you. Dare not come back with anything less than the list. Diane hosts a get-together every week at her red-brick semi ā sort of an Ann Summers party for shoplifted goods. She even puts on a golden spread of food stolen from M&S in Friarās Walk.
I look out on to the back, and through my sunglasses I can see the world is melting. A blue-and-white van with high-backed sides scours the street for any old iron ā a skinny lad jumps out and picks up a discarded radiator. Hot metal.
Today is definitely a day for stealing swimwear.
But no one wants swimwear in Tredegar, I tell you.
Say what you will about me but I do not shit on my own doorstep. I goes to Newport or Merthyr or Aberdare or anywhere to pinch, to source Dianeās list Iāll go that extra inch, yard, mile.
I met someone once who said they ābelievedā in shoplifting because itās a form of redistribution. Direct action against the corporations. Do me a favour. There speaks someone who is not truly skint.
I donāt believe in anything because I canāt afford to. Not God or any sort of religion or people or kindness or Santa Claus or most of our laws or the power of face cream or that eating more vegetables is good for you.
Believing in stuff is pointless.
Before I leave the house I spy my tablets on the table ā have I taken them today? I think soā¦
I walk to the bus stop ā down Chartist Way ā and step onto the X4 to Ebbw Vale in the shadow of Lidl. Two girls at the back start to giggle and I ignore, taking off my sunglasses cos I think itās rude not to see peopleās eyes when you speak to them. But thatās a mistake as the driver asks:
Why you winking at me?
Iām not.
You just did.
Look, just give me a single to Ebbw Vale, yeah? Any chance I can have half?
How old are you?
Eighteen but Iām saving up to buy a Lamborghini.
Driver gives me half single.
As soon as I sit I know the day is far too bright for me; no way can it be this hot for so long in Tredegar. Itās like someoneās turned up the contrast on the telly and the remote is lost down the back of the settee.
As we trundle through Rhyd y Blew one minute Iām thinking about KFC ā advertising really works on me ā and the next moment I get a sign.
Iād almost forgotten about the signs, hadnāt had one in four months but there it is.
The sign, basically, says:
Today, Clara, you should kill yourself.
I know. Charming.
Every once in a while Iād like to get a good sign, like: āNice shoes Claraā but no, theyāre always telling me stuff I know I shouldnāt do.
10.07 a.m. Changing room. Peacocks. Ebbw Vale. Thereās no Loss Prevention Officer (can you believe thatās what they call security nowadays?) and the woman who looks after the changing rooms couldnāt give a toss about loss so I take in ten items.
Iām struggling to get all the clothes on and now sheās taking an interest, this woman who looks after the changing r...
