The 'Incident'

Therapist said I needed to go back there at some point to face my fears and to get ‘closure’ from the issues. Turns out that at some point should not have been any time soon.

The place has not changed since (except maybe a couple of bar staff). I walked up there with R to see a band that we used to watch loads when we were younger (greatly encouraged by the boy we met at the pub, who claims that his dad runs or owns tha place, which I mostly find … odd.) So we were at the Vaults, having a few drinks, as R had been having some issues and I’d been on holiday for a week. So we went to the Vaults for a chat and a catch up and were talking to lots of nice people and generally being merry. I would like to state here that I was not drunk. Yes I had had a few drinks but was not drunk. (you know how sometimes you have those nights where you can drink and drink and just not get drunk?)

Anyway after some umm-ing and ahh-ing we decided to go and that this was as good a time as any. So we walked up to mine to get some money and then on to the 1 in 12. We got there and when we were walking up to the outside I was fine. I went in and ditched my coat. Saw Lee and Chris (more about Chris later!) and said ‘Hi’. I ordered drinks and all of a sudden it all came crashing down about my ears.

The 1 in 12 is a little dingy place hidden right up at the top of town. It’s a so-called communist-anarchist club named due to the fact that at the time of it’s birth there were 1 in every 12 men unemployed. The city I live in is the birth place of the Labour Party (not, I’m sure that this is something still to be proud of) and so it has strong socialist roots. The club however if it can be called a club is tiney. The doorway is just that, a small corridor about a meter long with a plain white painted door. The door opens and all there is there is a flight of stairs leading up. The walls are stone and are painted black and red half and half. The colours of the club and movement it supports are black white and red and the logo is painted in bold on the side of the building. Once you go up the stairs there is a small doorway just off them on the right. Go into this and there is a smallish rectanglar room. The door is in one of the short sides and is flanked by the tiney sound booth on the right and the bar on the left. There is again red painted stone walls, that when the room is full are slimey and wet with condensation and the sweat of the people inside. There are windows all along the right side that open out on the the alley way that you walk down to get there. They are covered with wire mesh to try and stop people falling out. On the ceiling there is army netting, the kind the recurits have to crawl under when practicing manouvers. At the far end, opposite the door is the stage. This is really nothing more than stage blocks set up to support the drum kit, guitars and performers. Most of the time, at the good gigs anyway, the band are impossible to see through the throngs of people there.

Back in the starcase and the stairs continue up. On the next floor there is another corridor, this one slighlty wider. Again you have to turn right off the stairs to access this. On the right of the corridor are the Girls Toilets. On the left are the mens. Through this, passing them both is the Members Lounge. There is another bar here and several charirs and tables. At the far end is a pool table. This room is a little blurry to me. The third floor is even vauger in my memory. This room at the very top of the stairs is the Anarchists Library.

The building is used by all sorts of people. I have some strong views on anarchism, and most of them are based on my profound distaste of anarchistc-punk sentiments. The place, as much as it tries to proclaim that it is a meeting place for alternative thinkers and punks who know we can change the world (generally it seems that the master plan for this in bradford involves, squatting, squat parties, drugs, semi-poetic graffiti and the all too shambolic anarachist ‘A’ symbol spray painted on various buildings around the city) The real frequenters of this ‘Club’ as far as I can tell (as well as the abouve ‘psudo-punks’) are underage kids who easily get served here. (are drunk 14 year olds part of the anarchist-communist revolution!?)

The Girls Toilets (as this description is vital to the story, and are imprinted on my memery) are small. There is a mirror above the sinks and there are two of them on the right wall as you walk in. On the far wall there is a bench-like window-sill with a frosted glass window and a chair. On the left there are two cubicles. The first has a sparkly gold toilet seat and lid. The second, nearer the window has a silver sparkly tolilet seat and lid. The doors are topped by a frosted glass pane each. They are permanatly dirty with ingrained filth on the floors and graffiti years old all over the walls and doors. There is enough room in here for maybe six girls, as I recall of the night this all relates too, there were three over by the window, two on the window-sill and one one on the chair with one more on her knee. There were three girls at the sinks. Washing their hands. Checking themselves out in the mirror and chatting. This particular night the clientel were all ranging in age from 15 to 19 more or less. There were bands playing, and these can always be heard from the allyway outside, where many more of our teenagers were drinking, and smoking weed.

The three girls our story here relates to were the ones over by the window. One of them is a 15 year old me.

(I find it much easier to write this and distance myself from the events about to unfold if it is written in third person. The remainder of this story is ture, and did happen, six years ago. This is vital information to the realsiation of the the nature of the reaction I had when I returned there last night.)

This event was a party of sorts thrown by one of the girs school-mates. Not school friends, because in truth they were not friends, and mostly, from the impression they got were only invited to make up numbers. A boy, about 18 years old walks into the toilets. No-one really takes much notice. The exact dialog between the boy and the three girls is unknown, but ultimatly results in two of our girls being thrown into the near side toilet cubicle (the one with the silver sparkly seat). The boy follows, and the door is locked. There is a threat issued to the girls in the tolilet, that if they do not get-off with eachother (getting-off being the terms suded for kissing, snogging, whatever the kids all it now) there will be a rape taking place. As I am sure you can imagine (although, I am not sure how anyone who was not there can imagine) the girls were confused and somewhat terrifed. The kiss happened, much to the cringing of the girls, and they were let out. In shock about what had happened they laughed it off, with silly comments. This relife did not last long however as the boy returned with one of his friends. The friend had heard all about what had just taken place and wanted to see for himself, two young, distressed 15 year old girls making out with each other. The girls were once more thrown into the toilets, this time with both boys locking them in there. The girls realised that this was not a joke and most of all was not funny. The request was re-issued, and this time the girls refused. They were friends, not lovers they inisted. The second boy got angry. The third friend, who has been absent from our tale for this time is now hammering on the other side of the door, protesting that this was not funny and demanding that the girls inside the cubicle be let out. The seccond boy who was by now even angrier had no intention of letting this happen. Take a moment to recall the frosted glass panel at the top of the door. This was put through with the second boy’s fist. Shards of glass shattered all over and our third girl was covered in it as it rained down on her on the other side of the door. The Rape threat was re-issued and the girls, once again relented. This time was worse though. The angry boy took the opportunity to slide his hand, covered in blood from punching the window up one of the girls tops and proceded to grope her breast, leaving blood all over it. The girls pulled away and in pure terror demanded to be let out, having given the boys what they wanted to see. The girl we are primeraly talking about here has now made her bid for freedom and is sitting sobbing on the bottom stair near the entrance to the club. It is quiet here, she thinks and she can be safe and alone….

To Be Continued......

really can't write much more right now.