It was boredom that had driven her to drugs and crime: and in her case, the crime had not been wholly in pursuit of the drugs, it had been embraced for its own sake. For thrills, for excitement, for a sense of being alive, for a momentary freedom from the tyranny of time. ‘All my childhood,’ Jilly had told Alix, ‘I sat with my eyes on the clock, waiting for things to be over. Waiting for time to pass. Bored? I thought I’d die. I thought I’d die of boredom. And I mean die. I thought I’d just stop breathing, at the dinner table, in front of telly, in school prayers, in lessons. I used to play these games with myself — that I mustn’t look at my watch or at the clock until I’d counted three hundred backwards, until my father had cleared his throat three times, until a cloud edged across the window pane, until the history teacher blew her nose — and then I’d look, and only a poxy five minutes would have passed. Five miserable minutes, out of a lifetime. And it just seemed so stupid — wrong, stupid — to spend the rest of my life waiting for time to pass. Glad when every day was over. Sorry when I woke up every morning. Relieved whenever a minute passed without my counting it out, second by second. What was wrong with me? I don’t know. When I was high, time flew. And it was even better, breaking into the chemist’s, breaking into corner shops. The excitement. Planning what to go for. Hiding in the dark. Listening out. Hearing one’s heart beat. You know what I mean?
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