text: If Crawley were in America they’d call it a bumfuck town. There’d be hillbilly’s living on the outskirts and two thirds of the residents in the town would have the same grandfather. This is Britain so only half of the residents share the same grandfather and, being British, he’s not quite as vocal about his racism. We’re far more polite about our prejudices. You’ll be pleased to know I’m one of the other residents - with a different grandfather. And different skin. And a different accent. And I went to a different primary school. But don’t worry, my dad works at Gatwick just like everyone else’s parents, so we’re united on that front. Marcia’s different too, we sit next to each other in maths and she lives on the road behind me. She doesn’t share my deep love of Kerouac, or Sylvia Plath, or Salinger, but we do share a love of Japanese horror and a gaudy desperation to leave this place behind. My phone lights up with a message to say she’s leaving now and I regret telling her I was almost ready. Only mildly disgruntled at my lateness when we met on the corner, she quickly dives in to tell me about how amazing Bad Orange’s new album is. I drink in her enthusiasm, and make the right noises for her to continue effortlessly, as she describes the lyrics and how they make her feel; the sampling ‘to PERFECTION’, and reeling off references I never understand but adopt into my own repertoire to sound more cool than I am. I’m a good parrot in that way. Our knees knock together as she hands me half a headphone to listen with her. She wants me to understand, see? The cinema is mostly set up for parents to take their kids for a couple of hours of peace, Disney movies and rom coms but, in some strange small effort to unfuck this bumfuck town, they’ve tapped into some funding to also show ‘culturally relevant content’. So we’re watching Black Water, from the same director as The Circle and The Circle 2. Yes, it’s Japanese horror. No, we aren’t technically old enough to get in. The person on the desk either doesn’t care or Marcia’s strange ability comes into play and the tickets are in our hands without any questions. Marcia wears footballs shorts everywhere. She’s great at PE and in the football team so she somehow gets away with it throughout the school day when I get picked on for my tie not being knotted quite right. And then - like this - getting into the cinema or buying beer. Either people just like her or they don’t believe anyone would be dumb enough to try to buy anything underage while dressed quite so much like a teenager. Whatever, it works and I benefit. There’s no one else in the whole theatre. ‘No more subtitles for you, Crawley’ I think. At least they tried, eh? The movie starts. We’ve sat ourselves at the back at the top right next to the speakers and the fear makes me tingle as much as the bass. My way of dealing with fear is to stick my fingers in my ears, Marcia’s is to squeeze my hand very hard and open her eyes even wider at the screen. The whole room is very dark and in a moment of almost silence (the black water is very still right now and no one is being murdered, currently) I hear a click and notice a sliver of cold light creep through the wall a few rows down from us. ‘Fuck, Marcia, look’ I whisper. She looks. She darts up and clambers over the seat as I hiss at her ‘what the fuck are you doing?’ I don’t know why I’m whispering. No one else is here. Out of respect for the characters on screen who’re hiding from a maniac and soon to be decapitated, I guess. Her hand grabs the crack of light and opens a small door before disappearing through. I sit motionless before her head pops back round the door. ‘Come on then!’ Half expecting a time portal behind the pale light, it’s disappointingly pedestrian, just a sparse steel ladder leading up into darkness. She’s already half way up when I start climbing and she bangs the hatch at the top open to reveal the night sky. You can’t see many stars, Gatwick lights made sure of that. But it’s warm and there’s a view of our town I’ve never seen before. It’s strangely quiet, just the constant hum of the motorway in the distance and I suddenly feel very alone. Marcia has found a slightly higher spot where you can better see over the walls surrounding the roof. We could be on the top of a mountain. Or in a tree house. But we’re on the roof of an imax in the world’s worst town. Marcia points up to the inky night sky ‘could be Black Water couldn’t it.’ I follow her gaze, mouth open in wonder at the vastness above us. A seagull shits in my mouth. I wish this were a joke. A seagull. Shits. In. My. Mouth. And I’m transported straight back into Crawley. ‘Fuckkkkk’ Marcia is rolling around, crying with laughter. I’m spitting and gagging and rinsing my mouth with overpriced doctor pepper. ‘Fuck Marcia you cannot tell ANYONE about this!’ ‘Only in Crawley babe. What happens in Crawley stays in Crawley.