nineteen

I'd never been to Terri's home before that day, and was surprised to discover that she lived in a very 'nice' house near the top of the hill that led to the northern end of the ring road. Originally four of us set out to visit her place, but Stewy dropped out at the bottom of the hill muttering, 'I'm not walking all the bloody way up there.' So that left only me, Tony and Terri.

Terri's foster parent's house reminded me of a chocolate cake. It was a very square, unelaborate house (of the sort a five-year-old paints) with coffee-coloured paintwork and brown window frames and an oak front door darkly-stained to look like mahogany. Inside, the house was decorated with an almost childish simplicity, like a giant dolls house. All the rooms featured the standard things you would expect to find in them (sofas, fridges, tables and such like). But there was nothing more, nothing extra or unusual. It was just like a show home on a partly built estate - no clutter, no mess, no personal belongings, just four leather bound books on the sideboard in the lounge, two oranges in a bowl and a soup ladle hanging from a hook in the kitchen to add a touch of homely authenticity.

"Are you sure you live here?" I asked, as we stood in the kitchen the kettle gurgling up water for teas all round.

Terri nodded and took a pasty from the fridge (which unsurprisingly was a very well-ordered fridge, the kind that has separate compartments for milk and orange juice and a dozen large eggs in a rack inside the door).

"Want some?" asked Terri thrusting the pasty at me. I declined - a fear of spilling crumbs on that perfect beige and white checkerboard lino outweighing any pangs of hunger.

When the kettle had been boiled and the tea had been made we all went up to Terri's bedroom. I expected it to be covered in posters and piled high with jeans and records, cosmetics and magazines and all the usual teenage debris, but to my surprise her room was just as twee and tidy as any other in the house. The walls were painted a pale almost fleshy pink colour (what might be described as anaemic salmon). Along the top of the wall was a flowery border which matched the curtains and the duvet on the bed. The duvet was carefully turned back to reveal the heads and arms of an old but well cared for teddy bear (sitting up slightly as if just resting rather than sleeping). On a small bedside cabinet a large white hair brush was laid neatly on a square doily beside an open box of earrings and rings and narrow silvery bracelets in front of a large pine-framed mirror tilted back slightly on a pine stand. The only indication that the room belonged to Terri was a large pair of Dr Martens, placed heel to heel, toe to toe, in front of a pine wardrobe.

"Nice room," I said as I stood awkwardly by the door.

"The beds very bouncy," said Tony sitting on it and checking the firmness of the mattress with a press of his open palm.

"Yea, it's all right," said Terri. "'Till I get my own place sorted."

We sat and chatted for a while about how great it would be to have your own flat, like the ones above Reckless Records. Then when we'd finished our tea we followed Terri to the bathroom to get our hair 'sorted out.'

"Right get your T-shirt off," she said.

"Do I have to?" I said, self-conscious of my pale, scrawny torso.

"You'll get dye all over it otherwise," said Terri.

"Dye?"

"Yea, no-one has hair that colour," she said running her fingers over my head. "It needs to be darker. It won't be worth cutting it otherwise."

"I think mine needs to be a bit lighter," said Tony.

"No problem" said Terri taking a bottle of peroxide from the bathroom cabinet.

After Terri had given us a trim and had massaged the dye into our scalps, which was quite a pleasant sensation, she wrapped an old towel round each of our heads like turbans. The inevitable 'oh goodness gracious me, golly, golly gosh' impersonations of colonial Indians followed until I discovered a blue dribble of dye running down my cheek.

"Fucking hell," I said staring at the inky stain on my finger. "I'm going to look like a bloody, like a bloody..."

"Blue hairy thing," said Tony in his fake Indian accent, as I raised my hand to remove the towel from my head.

"Leave it alone you bloody spastic," said Terri. "It's all right. It goes black on your hair."

"Black?" I said "Black? It's not going to be black is it?"

"Naa, it's going to be bright bloody pink," said Terri sarcastically. Tony sniggered.

"I'll look like bloody Sid Vicious," I whined.

"More like a chimney brush," said Tony maliciously. "You haven't seen the way she's cut it."

"What about yours then?" I said nastily. "You're going to look a right fucking poof, you are."

"Oh thanks," said Terri huffily.

"We were only joking" I said, noticing the rather worrying way she had started to scrutinise the open blade of the scissors she was holding (the way a mediaeval executioner admires the deadly sharpness of his axe.) "I'm sure it's going to look great, isn't it Tony?"

"Oh yea, great," said Tony with a limp smile.

There was more than a moments silence then Terri with a sudden grin said, "I know - I can pierce your ears!"

I instinctively reached up and gripped the soft, virgin lobe of my left ear between thumb and forefinger.

"Come on," said Terri. "It won't hurt. I've got some ice in the fridge."

"I don't know," I said, still gripping my ear.

"Well Tony wants his done. He said he did"

I glared at Tony.

"Did he? When?"

"He's always on about getting his ear pierced," said Terri.

"Well he's never said anything to me," I muttered, glaring at him. Tony smiled apologetically and shrugged.

"I thought it might look good," he said, "for the band."

"See," said Terri. "You won't get no gigs if you look like a couple of fucking divvies."

Tony nodded and stared at me, all cow eyes, sombre and pleading.

"Oh all right," I said. "I'm going to get fucking killed when they see my hair, anyway."

Back down in the kitchen, Terri took a bottle of brandy from a cupboard and poured a large measure into each of two mugs and handed them to us.

"To numb the pain," she said, as she opened the freezer compartment of the fridge.

I lifted the mug to my ear and tipped it up attempting to douse that soft left lobe in alcohol.

"I think you're meant to drink it actually," said Tony, sipping away.

"I know," I said, hastily moving the mug to my mouth and spluttering down a huge swig of brandy. "I was only mucking about."

Terri sighed and cracked ice cubes from a plastic tray onto the draining board.

"Here," she said, dropping an ice cube into my hand "And don't put it in your drink."

"Ouch it's cold," I said.

"That's a surprise" said Tony just loud enough for me to hear, revelling in my discomfort.

Terri took a wine bottle from the fridge.

"It's OK," I said. "The brandy's enough for me."

"Pratt," said Terri, removing the cork and returning the bottle to the fridge. "Stick that ice on your ear. I'm ready now." She suddenly produced a needle out of nowhere. It was probably quite small but at the time seemed the size of a small javelin. I gulped.

"Are you sure that's clean? You can get all kinds of diseases you know."

"Stop bloody moaning," said Terri.

"Yea stop bloody moaning," echoed Tony, grinning excitedly as he applied an ice cube to each side of his ear.

"But I haven't made it cold yet," I whined.

"Too late," said Terri. She stood behind me, forcefully grabbed my towel turban and pushed my head to one side.

"Keep out of the bloody way," she muttered as I reached up to cover my ears. I let my hands drop limply into my lap and felt the fridge-cool cork against the back of my ear and then a sudden jab of pain.

"Fucking hell," I groaned, jerking my head to one side, sending the cork flying across the floor. I started to stand up.

"Sit down," said Terri. "I haven't finished yet."

Tony retrieved the cork and handed it to her. I sat down and pressed a half-melted ice cube to my ear. It slipped from my fingers.

"Keep still this time," said Terri.

I felt the cork pressed behind my ear again.

"Shit this is worse than going to the dentisooouchhhhh."

Terri removed the needle and dabbed at my ear with a piece of kitchen paper. There was a brief twinge of pain as she squeezed a sleeper through the needle hole. Then she handed the paper to me.

"Keep that pressed to your ear," she said. "You're bleeding everywhere." Then, with no fuss at all, Terri pushed the needle straight through Tony's ear.

"OK?" she said.

"Didn't feel a thing," he smirked.

"Oh yea," I muttered.

"I didn't," he said. "I'm all numb."

Terri looked at her watch.

"Your dye should be done by now," she said.

Terri rinsed both our heads at the same time. It was fairer that way she said. We knelt in front of the bath together, heads bowed like members of a strange religious cult awaiting some kind of joint baptism or condemned prisoners knelt before an open grave we'd just dug for ourselves (which, as it turned out, was not far short of how I felt when I first saw what had happened to my hair).

As the dregs of the dye spiralled, gurgling, down the plug hole, like the blue black ink rinsed from a fountain pen, we lifted our heads together and, to the never-forgotten sound of Terri's uncontrollable laughter, slowly blinked open our eyes.

"Fucking hell blondie," I said. "Wait until you see yourself."

Tony stared at me as if I were an alien, the look on his face a mix of shock and sheer horror.

"Your mum's going to have a fit," he said (and he wasn't wrong there).