I slept badly and awoke with the biggest headache of my life. I took a bunch of paracetamol and stayed in bed. In the late afternoon, I took another handful of paracetamol, grabbed my London A-Z and took the tube to Hampstead station. It was a far shout from where I lived. Outside the pubs, window boxes exploded with flowers and it was dead posh, the atmosphere far more tranquil than Hackney’s. I’d been in this neighborhood before on one of my many searches for the women in my head. But of course I’d been everywhere in London. It doesn’t mean anything, I admonished myself.
Melissa’s flat was a cheerful-looking, yellow brick building on a cobblestone lane with old-fashioned street lamps and black iron posts. Before I knocked on the black door with the fancy knocker, I said some quick, urgent prayers to get them out of my system. “Melissa safe, Nick safe, me safe,” I whispered because it would be my last chance to say my protective prayers out loud. For the next several hours, everything had to stay strictly in my head, and I couldn’t move my lips. That was the hardest part, not moving my lips. I’m sure I wasn’t always successful and seemed like a crazy person mumbling to myself.
I rapped on the door with outward confidence, though my mind was skidding everywhere, and Melissa let me in. She was in socks and green corduroy trousers, and a gray jumper over an untucked white shirt. Her eyes were an even richer brown than I’d remembered, and I felt myself dissolve into them. Melissa hung up my coat and scarf. I handed her my black bucket hat with Kurt Cobain’s signature embroidered on the front in red thinking, please be Melissa, please be my Melissa, please be my Melissa.
Nick padded down the hall, her hair sticking up like she’d been lying down. She hugged me and held on long enough for me to rest my head on her shoulder. She smelled nice, like London in the rain. “I honestly don’t know what to say. What you did—it was wicked. You saved my life.” She had a black eye, swollen lip, and assorted bruises. “I thought I was going to die.”
Something in the kitchen smelled gorgeous. Melissa opened up cartons of Indian takeaway and put the kettle on. “How do you take your tea?” she asked me.
“White with six sugars,” I said, with as much dignity as possible. Melissa started laughing. “Ta, Dr. Jones,” I murmured, as she handed me my cup.
“Please call me Melissa,” she said. “And you’re welcome. Sit down and have a Ruby.” When I looked confused, she added, “‘Ruby’ means ‘curry’ in Cockney rhyming slang. Ruby Murray was a popular Irish singer of the fifties. I thought you’d like that.” She knows I’m an Anglophile, I realized. I could hear a twinge of posh in her accent, but she downplayed it.
I bathed my face in the steam of my perfumed Earl Grey tea and felt my head clear for the first time all day. The hot, spicy food made all the difference. I was so tired the curry made me feel high. I felt my forehead thaw. Nick acted subdued but managed to eat a vegetable samosa, a little biryani rice, and some naan. I could tell that pleased Melissa.
“So, what are you doing this side of the pond then?” Melissa asked me. “Besides rescuing damsels, I mean.”
“I hate the American flag and everything it stands for,” I said then smiled to make my tone seem less heavy. “Every time I turned around in America, someone was shoving Jesus Christ and the flag down my throat. Sorry.”
“My sister’s name’s Amanda, too,” Melissa said, “but everyone calls her Jake after Jake Burns from Stiff Little Fingers. When she started playing guitar, she’d only play Fingers songs. The name just stuck.”
“That’s one of my favorite bands,” I said eagerly. “My favorite bands are Nirvana, the Clash, the Jam, Stiff Little Fingers, Therapy?, the Pretenders, and Patti Smith.”
“Spot on. Those are pretty much the same as mine. Except I’d list the Clash first and add the Ruts.”
“You’re right,” I said. “I can’t live without the Ruts either.”
“I see we speak the same language.”
Her approval made me feel bright and shiny inside. And Nick perked up a bit when we talked about music.
Melissa put the kettle on again and asked me, “How do you take your coffee?”
I hesitated. “White, eight sugars,” I said, and Melissa looked amused. “I’m glad you’re having a laugh. Why do people think it’s immature to ask for lots of sugar?”
“Why don’t we go into the sitting room?” Melissa suggested. “You can see my records.”
The front room was airy and bright, with pale yellow walls, bright pink moldings, and white lace curtains in the window. I saw a turntable in one corner and a row of record albums that stretched along one whole side of the wall. I immediately dropped to my knees in front of them and, since my back was turned, took the opportunity to say the prayer that had been welling up inside me, putting enormous pressure on my brain. Please let Melissa love me. Though I recited it in silence, I felt relieved at the chance to move my lips.
“Everything by the Clash and the Jam,” I announced, delightedly flipping through vinyl. She had everything, from Wreckless Eric and Peter and the Test Tube Babies to the Vibrators and the Adverts. She had the first two XTC albums, a huge collection of Sham 69 and the Damned, the Wall’s Personal Troubles & Public Issues, and the first Killing Joke LP. I also found the really important singles like “City of the Dead” and “The Prisoner” by the Clash, the Jam’s “Dreams of Children,” and Magazine’s “Shot By Both Sides.” “Magic,” I said, “the history of punk in vinyl.”
“You’re into all the old British punk?” Melissa asked, smiling.
“Each new punk record that arrived from England was like manna from heaven. You have no idea how much it meant. Those fourteen songs from the original Clash album are embedded permanently in my heart. Along with This Is the Modern World.” I had a vivid recollection of my younger self listening to the second Jam album, reading the lyrics, and staring at the pen-and-ink drawings on the record sleeve for hours, days, weeks. It was a whole new world, like somebody had opened up a window and let the air in.
“Whenever I meet someone who seems about my age,” Melissa said, “I want to know—where were you in 1977?”
I knew exactly what she meant.
“Things were different then,” she added wistfully. “We were the original punks. The political, intellectual punks.”
“Everything new’s not shite or without intellect.” Nick couldn’t help herself and finally got involved in the conversation. “A lot of it’s got politics and ethics. Not everyone under forty has forgotten what punk means.” She seemed about five years younger than I was.
“Ouch,” Melissa said.
“What about American bands like Rancid, Anti-Flag, and Bad Religion?” Nick spoke up again, forgetting her pain for a moment.
“I love Rancid, as they model themselves after the Clash, but I can’t listen to them endlessly,” I said. “I can’t get excited about most current bands. I like what they’re saying, but it’s not my sound.”
“Yeah, I know. I’ll listen to anything that reminds me of the Clash,” Nick admitted. “What about AFI? Now’s there’s an awesome Yank band.” Nick pronounced the word “awesome” with an American accent.
“I don’t really listen to them,” I said.
“Oh mate, well, you’ve got to.”
“If you’ve got some you could lend us,” I said, “I’ll give them a serious listen. What about your bands I might not have heard about on my sorry side of the pond?”
“I like Capdown and Mouthwash,” Melissa said. “Punk ska.” When she said that I pictured her dancing. I thought she would look dead sexy.
Nick said, “I like the Mingers and Bug Central.”
“I love the reissues and old bands’ new releases on Captain Oi!,” Melissa said. “Have you seen their catalogue, Amanda? I only let myself order from it once a month.”
“Captain Oi! is my savior,” I said. “I wish I could buy everything on that label, but I can’t afford it.”
“I like going to see bands that do animal-rights gigs,” Melissa said, “like Active Slaughter, Dog on a Rope, and Smiling with Semtex. And I like to support antiracism and antifascism benefit gigs.”
“I love your band Hole. And I like the Distillers,” Nick said. “Brody rocks.”
“First she sounded like her ex,” I said, meaning Tim Armstrong from Rancid. “And now she sounds like Courtney Love from Hole. Which brings up somebody—” Of course I meant Kurt Cobain, who’d been married to Courtney Love, and his band Nirvana.
“Oh, aye,” Nick said, “Kurt’s magic.” She smiled for the first time without wincing. “Patron saint of losers like me.”
“You’re not a loser and neither was he,” Melissa said.
“No, really. It’s okay. I don’t feel bad about myself when I listen to him. Even when he’s screaming, he cradles my brain gently, like it’s a precious bird’s egg or something.”
“That’s really good,” I said, impressed by her imagery. “That’s exactly how it feels.”
“The best band since the Clash,” Melissa agreed.
“The only band since the Clash.” I lifted up my trouser leg to show off my “Kurt” tattoo. “I’m the only lesbian I know with a man’s name engraved on her leg.”
“I worship at the church of Saint Kurt too,” Nick confessed. “And I’m Catholic.”
“I can’t help it, but I get Kurt confused with Jesus,” I said. “He looks so much like those racist blonde, blue-eyed renditions of our Lord.”
“Yes, he fits in so well with all the other albino peoples of the Middle East,” Melissa said. She and I laughed, but Nick went quiet.
“God,” I said, suddenly registering the fact that she said she was Catholic, “have I upset you? I’m so sorry. My mouth is forever going off without my brain.”
“No, you didn’t,” Nick assured me, but she had tears on her face. “I think Kurt makes a lovely Jesus. I just feel completely shattered all of a sudden.”
Melissa looked at her quickly. “Are you in pain, love?”
Nick shook her head. “I should just go to bed. Am I going to see you again?” she asked me.
“Sure,” I said.
“We owe her a meal at the Iskem,” Melissa said. “She used her falafel as a hand grenade.”
“I must’ve missed that,” Nick said. “I was a bit out of it, me.”
I shrugged. “I threw my dinner at his head to distract him. No big deal. And you’ve already fed me.”
Nick kissed my cheek, said, “Be lucky,” and went into the room where she was sleeping.
“Hang on half a mo.” Melissa followed her.
Alone I thought, keep Nick safe, keep Nick safe, please let Melissa love me, this time keeping my mouth still, something I practiced rigorously as a survival tactic.
Melissa returned about twenty minutes later. “I wanted to tuck her in with a Valium and some pain medication.”
“How is she really?” I asked.
“I sat up with her last night. And I buggered off work today and took her to see a rape-crisis counselor.”
“Maybe I should go so you can sit with her.” I felt bad, imagining Nick too scared to fall asleep.
“I’ll check on her. She wants to try and sleep. I think she feels safe with us right outside the door.”
“Was she badly hurt? Is she going to be okay?”
“She has a bit of vaginal tearing. And the bruises you can see. Of course the emotional damage is more significant. But it could have been much worse. Without your intervention.” Melissa smiled. “Thank God the physical wounds will heal quickly. I’m just so grateful that I didn’t have to talk to her about an HIV test or tests for pregnancy and other sexually transmitted diseases. I’m grateful to you.”
“I should be getting back to mine,” I said awkwardly, blushing, thinking that Melissa probably did want me to leave now that Nick had gone to bed.
“Have another cuppa before you go.” Melissa got up and switched on the electric kettle.
“Ta very much.”
“I’m glad you didn’t bugger up your hands. You’ve got that lovely Gibson SG.”
“You know about guitars? You’re a perfect person.”
“I told you, my sister’s a musician. She plays with a punk band in Canada.”
I could feel the effects of landing on my head returning but figured I could suppress them with another cup of tea. “What’s your sister’s band called? Does she have anything out I can listen to?”
“Bow Wow Mao,” Melissa laughed. “She met them while they were touring the UK. They took her on as second guitar for their European tour to enlarge their sound, then asked her to stay on. Their original guitar player quit, and now my sister writes most of their music. She keeps promising to send me a copy of their self-released CD but hasn’t come across with it yet. And they’re supposed to be building a website and Myspace page for the band, but I think they’re on tour in Asia now.”
I thought about Ann and Nancy Wilson moving up to Canada from Seattle so the men in the group could stay out of the Vietnam War. “She sounds smashing.”
“She is, rather. I’ve got a ton of music gear upstairs. Nick and Jake are best mates. I worry about Nick now that she’s gone. She doesn’t trust that many people. She likes you, though. I can tell.”
“Really?” My heart leaped. Then I wondered aloud, “Is she afraid of the police? Did you call them?”
“She didn’t want to report it. And I’m not going to push her.”
“Why? Don’t you think someone should? Report it, I mean.”
Melissa shrugged. “I know we’re all responsible for getting rapists off the streets and that, but sometimes the whole ordeal is just too much for someone. And since it wasn’t what a lot of people still would call a successful rape, and he didn’t leave behind DNA, I doubt he would be caught or that it would be a top priority for the police. He doesn’t know who she is or where she lives.” She frowned, deep in thought, then tried to lighten the mood by saying wryly, “Besides, people have a nasty habit of dying in police custody in Hackney and falling down stairs when there aren’t any, if you know what I mean. A bloke died just the other week in Stoke Newington station.”
“Fuck me, are you serious? That’s where I tried to take her.”
“Well, I don’t think they would have murdered you both outright,” Melissa said. “I was being facetious. Except, of course, that it’s true. The Plod killed a Nigerian man by kicking him in the head and strangling him in a choke hold. It was ruled an unlawful death, but no one was ever prosecuted. A Chinese woman died in custody in Stoke Newington. It helps to be nonwhite.”
“That’s like the States. Everyone knows you can get in trouble driving while black. Or even reaching for your wallet while black. And don’t get me started on voting while black. Let’s just say our current president is unelected.”
“Hackney cops shot a man walking home from the pub carrying a table leg in a plastic bag. They decided it was an assault rifle. It was Arthur Fowler shot dead leaving the Queen Vic.” Arthur was a popular, kindly character on EastEnders.
“That’s mad,” I said, loving her accent and trying to sound like her.
“We have these special armed-response units now to cope with the rise in gun violence. The problem is they haven’t got enough training. They go straight from pepper spray to guns. They haven’t got intermediate weapons for mid-range violence. A mate of mine, Ivan, is a photographer. He rode with the Stokie armed-response unit and said it was terrifying, like riding with teenage boys who were all going, ‘Ooh, look at us! We’ve got guns and a really fast car!’ Whenever they get called out, they’re going to shoot something.”
I thought about police saving my life when the Nazis showed up at our gay-pride march in Huddersfield in 1981, at the end of my last term in England. It was the first time the gay-pride march was held so far north. The Dibble—that’s the police—had to call in reinforcements from all over northern England to protect us from the National Front skinheads who descended on us from every part of Britain. Like hairless, pale ghosts they came for us singing, “You’re gonna get yer fuckin’ head kicked in.” It was the first time I’d ever heard that song, and like a complete prat I turned to a woman next to me and said, “Oh, isn’t it lovely? They’re serenading us.” They surged forward, and I remember people gobbing on us and the cops holding them back. Nobody carried guns then, not even the criminals, but I have no doubt I’d be dead today if it weren’t for police intervention.
“I want to show you something,” Melissa said, getting up and leading me past the room where Nick was sleeping. At the end of the hall, canvases and easels leaned against a door to the back garden, and I could see there was another room there off to the right.
“Do you paint?” I asked. “Can I see your work?”
“Sometime.” Melissa led me into the back lounge. It had a comfortable vibe, just like the rest of her flat. There was a white carpet with colorful mod circles, pale lavender walls, a computer, shelves full of books and CDs and a nice flat-screen telly. I went directly to the CDs.
“Wire, Pink Flag. Eddie and the Hot Rods. Generation X. The 101ers, Elgin Avenue Breakdown.” That was Joe Strummer’s band before the Clash. Their best-known song was “Keys to Your Heart.” It was anthologized on a lot of punk compilations and I was fortunate enough to have the original vinyl. I looked at the neon colors of the X-Ray Spex Germfree Adolescents CD then said, “You’ve got a CD of Jeopardy?”
“You know the Sound? I didn’t think Americans knew the Sound.”
“I have the LP from 1980. I didn’t know there was a CD version.”
“An online place called Renascent is reissuing everything. Now that Adrian Borland is dead.” Unfortunately he had hung himself.
“‘You’ve gotta believe in a heartland,’” I quoted from my favorite Sound song. “You’ve got the Equals,” I said, more to myself than to her, “the Chords, and the Jolt. And you’ve got the Records. Shit, you’ve got a ton of Ruts I’ve never even seen.” I picked up a CD of the first 999 album reissued by Captain Oi!. “Nick Cash tried to fuck me once between sets in 1979, but I refused.”
“How could you resist a genuine punk star?”
“It was difficult.”
“Come on, five minutes out of your life. Surely you could have accommodated him.”
“Yes,” I said sarcastically, “a line from a virtual stranger like ‘let’s fuck’ always turns me on.”
I flipped through some homemade CD-Rs, concerts by the Clash, the Jam, the Pretenders with the original lineup and Patti Smith. I wondered idly if Melissa had ever listened to Patti Smith at the same time I’d been listening to her, and if that’s how our thoughts got entangled so I could hear her inside my head. “Oh my God,” I said.
“That’s all Nick Cash wanted to hear,” Melissa said.
“No, Melissa. Heart. You’ve got live Heart.” I held out a concert from Boston in 1979. Something else caught my attention. “Bootlegs from Ann and Nancy Wilson’s solo tour? Are you fucking kidding me? I saw them twice on that tour. It was like going to heaven. Where’d you get them? I can’t believe it.” I flung myself ecstatically onto the plush, green settee.
“I downloaded them off the Internet. I belong to several online music communities. I’ve always kept a spot for them in my heart. It’s so liberating to be able to admit that to another old punk.”
“And here I thought I was the only one. I’m a Heartmonger,” I confessed. “It’s the only fan club I ever joined. I can’t believe we’re talking openly about this. I’m so glad to have met you.”
Melissa laughed. “I’m chuffed to have met you, too.”
“I have one more secret. I can’t believe I’m going to tell you this when I’ve only just met you. I listen to Oasis.”
Melissa made a face. “Oh, I don’t know. That’s a bit dodgy.”
“I know they’re wankers but I love their sound. Admit it. Their sound is fab.”
“Liam up-his-own-arsehole Gallagher?”
“His voice. And I love the way Noel plays guitar. Come on.”
Melissa said, “I think you should have waited until we were further along in our new friendship to tell me.”
“Who loves Heart?” I reminded her, and we both laughed. “Now, Jesus Christ, tell me about those Ann and Nancy solo-tour bootlegs, mate.”
“My computer has a CD and DVD burner. You can make copies of anything you like. And I’m taking you to Camden Lock this weekend for bootlegs.”
“Only one of my favorite activities ever. Can I use your computer sometime to send emails to my family?” I’d been using Internet cafés, but they cost money.
“Sure,” Melissa said in a fake American accent. “Sorry, that just slipped out. I didn’t mean to mock you. You can’t help sounding only halfway British.”
“Yet,” I insisted with confidence. “That’s alright. My mates at university didn’t like Americans either.” I’d told her I had studied at Exeter. “But by the end of first term, no one could tell I was a Yank. I’m always at the wrong place in the wrong body.” I thought about my black twin from the hospital where I was born. But through the joy I felt at being in Melissa’s company, my head started to bother me again. I felt blurry, like my brain was full of lint.
I asked Melissa to play an Ann and Nancy concert and closed my eyes to listen. Nancy played her unreleased song, “The Dragon.”
“I love the guitar on that,” I said. “That tour was brilliant. Just Ann and Nancy on stage with tons of instruments. They’re not corporate rock anymore. They played all the instruments themselves and split the lead vocals pretty much fifty-fifty. Nancy sounds great. And Ann. Well, you know our Ann.” I squinted up at Melissa. “Her voice breaks my heart.”
“Are you alright?”
“I’ll be alright in a second.”
“Do you feel ill?” Melissa sat next to me on the couch.
“I didn’t get much sleep last night.” I stood up shakily. “I ought to be getting back to mine.” I hesitated because I didn’t want to leave the scene of the Ann and Nancy bootlegs.
Melissa grabbed my arm and pulled me back down on the couch.
“Really, Melissa,” I protested, “I’m alright.”
“Tell me what’s wrong with you.”
“I’m having the worst headache of my young life.” I tried getting up again.
“Hang on. Did you hurt your head?”
“Kind of,” I said reluctantly. “When I tangled with that Nazi. I fell on my bread.”
“You what?”
“Cockney rhyming slang.” I was surprised she didn’t know it. My head throbbed and I put my arm across my face. “Come on, you’re the expert. Piece of bread, that’s your head. China plate, that’s me mate.” I tried to sound more Cockney. “Plates of meat, that’s your feet. Apples and pears, that’s the stairs,” I recited all the rhyming slang I was sure of except for “taking a butcher’s,” which I’d learned on EastEnders. Butcher’s hook, take a look.
“Loaf.” Melissa sounded exasperated. “Your head is your loaf. Loaf of bread, that’s your head. I’d be having a bubble at your expense, mate, if you weren’t hurt. Will you please tell me what happened?”
“Bubble bath, that’s a laugh,” I said slowly, figuring out the rhyme. I told Melissa how I’d landed on my head.
Melissa sighed. “Why didn’t you tell me this last night?”
“I forgot. Or maybe I had amnesia due to a head injury?” I suggested weakly, trying to joke her out of her sudden seriousness.
“How do you feel now?”
“Dizzy.”
She left and returned with her medical bag.
“I’m alright. Really I am.” I squirmed and started playing that Nick Lowe song “American Squirm” inside my mind.
“Stay still.” Melissa sat next to me, holding me down. Her arms were strong and reassuring. “You’ve got a bloody great nasty bump on your head.” She felt my head all around. “Did you lose consciousness?”
“I don’t think so.”
“You don’t know, or you wouldn’t notice?” Melissa asked. Then she lowered her voice and changed her tone. “You know, an assault of any kind can be quite traumatic. And not just for the intended victim.” She opened up her medical kit and pulled out one of her flashlights.
“What is that thing called?” I asked to cover my embarrassment at being examined by her.
“It’s called an otoscope. It’s for looking in your ears. Now, hush.” She shined the light into my ear.
“What are you looking for?” I wanted to seem interested and intelligent instead of in pain, which I imagined would be boring to a medical doctor.
“Bleeding behind your eardrum. You’ve got to be careful with a head injury.” She looked into my throat to check for bleeding there as well. She turned off the lamp and sat next to me in the dark. “Look here.” She held up a finger and shined a bright light into my eyes. “This is an ophthalmoscope,” she said before I could ask. “I’m looking to see if there are any blood vessels broken and examining your pupils. Your pupils open wide in the dark then narrow in reaction to light. If I shine a light in your eyes and your pupils don’t move, that’s bad. But you’re fine.” She turned the lamp back on and gently manipulated my neck with her cool hands. The pounding in my head got worse. I didn’t know how I was going to make it back to Hackney by myself. Melissa made me lie down on the settee and I told myself I should go home to be sick in private. “Grip both of my hands and squeeze as hard as you can,” Melissa said, and I was happy to do that. “Good.” She brushed her finger across my palms. “Does the sensation feel the same on each hand?” She pulled off my shoes and did the same thing to my feet. Then she propped me up and tested the reflexes in my knees with a meat tenderizer. Later I found out it’s more properly called a tendon hammer. “Have you got any nausea?” Melissa asked.
“I feel nauseous right now.”
“Have you thrown up at all?”
“No. Can I go home?”
“Do you have someone to stay with you?”
“No.”
“Shit. I want you to stay here tonight so I can keep an eye on you.”
I was horrified at the thought of putting her out further. Also I needed to get back to the bedsit to take my nightly antidepressant and anti-OCD medication. If I missed a dose, I’d feel sick and achy for days afterward like I had the flu.
Melissa said, “I think you’re alright but someone needs to watch you in case you start vomiting in the night or become unresponsive.”
“Why?”
“To make sure you don’t have a slow blood leak into your brain,” Melissa said, giving me a nudge. “Satisfied?”
“Very,” I said, “but I have got to go home.”
“Why?”
I paused. She’s a doctor, I thought. I could tell her about my medication. She would know what to do. She could even write me out a prescription. But I couldn’t tell her. I didn’t want her to know that about me yet. I wanted to know her better before I told her I was crazy. I decided I would either make it back to my bedsit or suffer the consequences in silence.
“You must tell me if the nausea or dizziness gets any worse,” Melissa continued. “If I’m asleep, don’t be afraid to knock me up.”
I asked in alarm, “Knock you up how?”
“Wake me up,” Melissa clarified.
“That’s right,” I moaned. “My head must really be bad for me to forget that expression.”
“I’m sorry I can’t give you anything strong enough for the pain. I have to be able to tell if you’re unresponsive and confused instead of just zonked.”
I struggled to get up.
“Don’t be daft, mate.” Melissa pushed me back into the cushions and covered me with a duvet. I closed my eyes because the pain in my head demanded it. I felt something soothing and cool. Melissa was sitting next to me, holding a wet towel on my forehead. “Relax,” she said softly. “I won’t let anything happen to you. You’re quite nice for a septic. Septic tank, that’s a Yank.”