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Thanks, Sharon, Come Again By Gill Ainsworth
Sharon straightened her shoulders, gritted her teeth and marched towards the automatic doors leading into Oakside Shopping Centre. “Excuse me, Madam.” A smartly dressed woman manoeuvred to block her progress. “Can I--” Sharon glared at the woman and circumnavigated her. Why the clip-board brigade with their endless demands for personal details insisted on harassing shoppers was beyond her. All she wanted to do was buy an outfit for the office party. She glanced down at her feet and groaned. When she pushed her big toes skywards, they poked through her trainers. I need new shoes. And underwear. Jeans, too. A feeling of freedom round her right knee told her it would burst through the wafer-thin denim next time she knelt. But she would buy only a size twelve slinky dress. In the January sales she’d nearly succumbed. If it hadn’t been for an old woman collapsing in a shop, she’d have walked out with a bag full of clothes for which she hadn’t paid. The double doors to Oakside slid open with a whoosh, an air-conditioned breeze stroked goose pimples across her arms, and the voices began: “I need… Eloise would really like…” Sharon entered the shopping centre. Keeping to the centre of the aisle and weaving between fellow shoppers, she did her best to ignore the whispers. But they were so real she almost expected to see a demon perched on one shoulder. Sometimes she even caught herself checking. All I’ve got to do is make it to French Connection. They’re bound to have something. But it wasn’t that simple. The girls’ night out the previous Christmas had made sure of it. She’d stared into the hypnotist’s eyes. They were green, bottomless. Only where his pupils should have been were white dots. She’d fallen towards the dots like a starship tumbling to the furthest reaches of the galaxy. And then, suddenly, she was awake. Raucous laughter came from the audience, and Sharon flushed with embarrassment. Her friends told her she’d strutted her stuff on stage as if she were Jordan. Sharon didn’t believe them. Then they told her she’d done a striptease down to her bra and knickers, declaring she would shop till she dropped for the rest of her life. Sharon had fled the room, the hypnotist’s words echoing inside her head. “There won’t be any after effects,” he had shouted over the laughter. He had been wrong. Sharon heard the voices. It wasn’t just Oakside. She’d ventured miles, trying different towns. The voices followed her. Now Sharon avoided shopping centres altogether. It saved her pounds; her bank balance was exceedingly healthy. Unlike my head, she thought, and took several deep breaths to quell the nausea creeping into her stomach. I should’ve asked a friend to come with me, she thought, as she furtively looked round for security guards. Only what if she saw me pinching stuff? What if my friends found out about the voices? She shuddered. Shoplifting was bad. Insanity… She passed a trendy kids’ store, selling designer teddy bears and other toys. She didn’t care whether Eloise wanted a doll’s house. She refused to detour into a shoe shop. So what if Tandry needed a new pair of sandals? She wanted a new pair of trainers, and she wasn’t going to get them either. Then she reached French Connection. “See that!” a voice whispered, and Sharon had to stop her head turning towards a display of sun dresses. “Ennie would look so chic in one of those.” “Shut up,” Sharon whispered back, and walked past the hangers with their silky skirts and shimmering dresses. “I don’t know an Ennie.” “Yes, you do.” “I’m getting a sexy dress. That’s it.” “Would you like to try those on?” A shop assistant stared at Sharon, a smile carved into her face. “What? Oh!” Sharon looked down to see three coat hangers in her hand. Each supported an item of clothing with an orange, size eight tag. She shook her head. “No, I’m still browsing, thanks.” She waited until the woman had disappeared and then hung the outfits on the nearest rack. “Shit, double shit, and blast,” she said, stuffing her offending hands into her pockets. Then she reached the evening attire. She flicked through the hangers until she came to the strapless dresses. She chose a size twelve in azure, held it up to her with one hand, and ran the fingers of her other hand across the chiffon. I can’t. I haven’t got any shoes that’ll match. Standing in front of the mirror in the changing room, Sharon knew the dress was her. The colour set off her blue eyes and her chestnut hair. She scribbled her signature on the credit card slip and accepted the overly large carrier bag with FCUK written across it. As she exited the shop, she prepared herself for the hand on her shoulder and the demand to return inside. She didn’t think she’d acquired anything, but self-doubt etched at her conscience. If only she could go home. If only she hadn’t bought the blue dress. Then she wouldn’t need new shoes. “Tandry needs sandals.” Forget Tandry. She continued along the parade. The shoe shop that had the sandals was out of the question. She would choose somewhere that used radio tags. The voices wouldn’t tempt her when an alarm system operated. Surely? Now Sharon had two overly large carrier bags and an overwhelming desire to leave before anything happened. She wiped away a strand of hair that had glued itself to her forehead. For all the chill of the air conditioning, she was perspiring. The closest exit was straight ahead. Ignoring the draught around her right knee where the denim had finally parted, Sharon began walking. Then she saw a window display and hesitated. It was a sea of blue denim. Jeans, skirts, hats, everything that could be made from the fabric floated across meters of rippled cotton. Music blasted from the speakers in the store. “It’s a kind of magic,” Queen sang, and Sharon joined in hoping to drown the voices. Apparently Tandry would also like a denim jacket to go with the sandals Sharon hadn’t obtained. She found a pair of jeans--they were faded to white across the backside and down the front and back of the legs--and headed for the changing rooms situated next to the display of jackets. The jeans shrank her backside to sexy and made her legs look longer. She put them on her credit card, too. Home, she thought. She’d stayed too long; she knew she had, because one dress, a pair of shoes and a pair of jeans couldn’t possibly weigh as much as her three carrier bags did. And she could feel someone’s gaze burning into her back. She looked over her shoulder, convinced a security guard was watching her. All she saw were shoppers. Unless a guard was hiding in a doorway, she wasn’t being observed. For the time being. I’ll dump what I haven’t paid for in the toilets. But that’ll mean doubling back. Going past even more shops, including the one with the perfect pair of sandals. It was too risky. She’d succumbed to the voices; things would get worse. She juggled the bags to wipe her sweaty palms on her jeans, and wondered how much psychiatric help would cost. The thought of confessing to her doctor--the man who’d nursed her through childhood mumps and chicken pox--made her skin crawl. “Please. The sandals for Tandry,” came the whisper, and Sharon stopped, clapped her hands over her ears, dropping her bags in the process. “Please,” the voice said again. Sharon retrieved her bags, jostled her way towards a bench and squeezed herself between an elderly gentleman and two teenagers. I’d rather go naked than steal, she thought, dumping her shopping between her feet. She wiped her palms again. Her whole body was prickling with sweat now. No old woman to save me this time. I hope she survived her heart attack. Sharon stood, stepped away from the seat. If I leave the bags, someone’ll notice. She glanced at the old man who still sat on the bench. A do-gooder, no doubt. An image of him hobbling after her, tripping, spilling the contents over the floor, ink tags still attached flashed through her mind. Or the bottom of one of the bags will split. Either way, I’ll be caught. End up in jail. Sighing, she picked up the bags. Bobbing heads obscured the exit: distraught mothers dragging disappointed children who probably wanted the same doll’s house as Eloise, teenagers with spiky hair who would look good in the perfect sandals, baseball caps in assorted colours that co-ordinated well with Tandry’s denim jacket. It was a rugby scrum even the New Zealand All Blacks would have had trouble penetrating. Sharon fixed her gaze on the writing above the door. EXIT TO TRAINS AND BUSES, it said. Sanity was less than twenty yards away. “What about getting more clothes?” the whispers asked. Fifteen yards… “You can’t have finished!” Only eight paces… “More stuff. Get more stuff! Please, Sharon.” Now the voice was high-pitched, desperate. Sharon grinned. Five steps and she would be free. Already, hot summer air wafted towards her from the open door. It dried her clammy skin with its promise of escape. The group of people in front of her crossed the threshold, a car alarm began wailing somewhere in a nearby street, and something swooped down and grabbed her bags. All of them, including her purchases. “Won’t fit any of us,” a voice said, and her party dress fluttered back to the ground. For a moment nearby shoppers froze, staring at the roof. Sharon looked up at empty rafters. Then the world began moving again and the dress attached itself to someone’s shoe, was dragged a couple of steps, then fell loose into the grimy street. Sharon stared at the shredded fabric, and a voice whispered, “Thanks, Sharon, come again.” Sharon bolted through the open doorway straight into someone. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean--” She stopped. The clip-board woman’s stalking me, too! “Would you like one of our catalogues?” “What?” “A home shopping catalogue. Would you like one? No obligation. Just look through, see if there’s anything you fancy. We operate a sale or return policy.” “Oh, yes! Yes please.” Sharon grinned. Let’s see the voices try and get me at home.
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