Love And Shame

The first five pages of one of the novels I am currently writing. Please note I know school Friends who are addicts, and who enlightened me when I questioned them on the habits.

LOVE AND SHAME

CHAPTER 1

As Darren hurriedly walked the crescent shaped street he caught sight of two fellow junkies ahead of him. They were as undesirable in appearance and state of mind as himself, and walked as equally fast with a similar purpose as pressing matters were so near at hand for both parties that a small conversation, or pleasantries - or even acknowledgments, were most definitely out of the question as time was precious and of the essence.

Darren had wanted to run the unhindered journey he had just endured and his mind had unreasonably willed it, but after a few long steps his drug abused rake of a body protested almost instantly, which caught him out of breath and made him wretch his empty insides out - green bile soaked the pavement which was unsightly for the onlookers who passed by, who contemptuously glanced on at the offending image with no remorse for remaining unhelpful and silent; their good deeds and Samaritan type behaviour would be saved for someone more deserving and not less, as they presupposed correctly that this was a drug afflicted rat who scurried in the gutters of criminal behaviour and immorality.

Darren curiously looked on at his associates as they did him, both knowing their mutual intent and purpose. The two junkies turned into a cul-de-sac, and like moths drawn to a flame, they picked up their pace in eager anticipation of what lay in wait at their destination straight ahead of them. Darren looked on behind them with a philosophical mind placing himself in their shoes with understanding - it was like he, along with them, who was knocking on the downstairs door to an upstairs flat and then with little impatience shouting through the letterbox for an immediate response.

He opened the garden gate he wanted to his left, which was small in size but loud in voice - as its piercing cry of protest as it scraped on the concrete path alerted the occupants to the flat he was heading for (and any curious neighbours for that matter).

Before he got to the door it was opened for him, he stepped inside and made his way to the kitchen; he could hear behind him the thick plank of wood being rammed back into the slots on either side of the door - a necessary precaution he was thankful for. The room was warm, but the concrete floor looked cold and bare without any upper surface blanketing it. The walls were less inviting, as the wallpaper had been shamelessly torn in places and was vandalised by ink by the occupant’s unruly children. This aside, the rest of the room was ascetic with wealth as most of the appliances still wore a showroom shine while nestled under an expensive oak fitted kitchen.

Darren leaned up against the sink and lit a cigarette while he waited for his brother, who had been side-tracked by having to discipline the behaviour of his two young sons in their bedroom who were AWOL (Absent Without Leave) from their beds - he could hear his brother's threats from where he stood, which further enhanced his own vow to never have children of his own: he liked his independence and saw from his own eyes how these 'little devils' took up all of their parent's time; but what he experienced was the strife of a poverty stricken council community, and the parents he knew were drug addicts who struggled to support their addictions with the hindrance of children.

He heard a door slam, then immediately after his brother entered the room deep in agitated thought - and slumped as if the weight of the world were upon his shoulders. As soon as their eyes' met, Darren's brother drew strength from his weaker sibling and inflated himself with his chest out large like an alpha male gorilla exerting authority, only instead of beating his chest he put his hands on his hips, and sternly said:

'Where the fuck have you been? I've got punters waiting over there,' he indicated with his hand in the direction of the flat the junkies had just entered, 'and no doubt you've had little concern apart from your selfish own. I tell you, if you wasn't my brother I'd sack you right here and now on the spot.'

Darren guiltily averted Ian's gaze by looking into space ahead of him, as if not acknowledging his recklessness directly would lessen the blame somehow. Ian looked on, and the ensuing silence that followed was deliberate on his part - he waited impatiently for an apology, an explanation, or even just a response, but time was an issue he had to address, and Darren he knew from experience was quite able to 'stare out the wall' until the negatives of responsibility became positives of business, so he interceded on Darren's distress by ordering him directly to the bathroom to get his parcels out.

Darren, sluggishly bent forward (a deliberate outward act of repentance) proceeded slowly to the toilet as if each step needed to be masterfully placed in order to get him there, which rather than induce some brotherly forgiveness only served to annoy Ian the more. He returned a short while later in stark contrast to his departure - with a keenness in his step and a confidant air about him, with his recent past all but forgotten he raised a smile in the knowledge that his payment was close at hand, and stated as he passed the parcels over to Ian:

'There's fifty white and fifty brown there - so I'll have two of each.'

Ian looked over the ten small parcels in his hand with a careful eye, each containing ten deals of heroin or crack-cocaine in each, not just for acknowledgement of receipt, but for a suspicion of mistrust that he had not just for his brother but for all addicts likewise. Once satisfied that all looked in order he began decapitating the knots of polythene from one white and one brown parcel with his teeth, cringing at the second with a distasteful and cursing look at his brother as a taste of excrement violated his tongue. Darren found it hard on recognition of the offending look to keep an expression of nonchalance, as the smugness he felt inside was striving to burst forth on his face in all its obvious glory: it did, and though he felt guilty for it, he felt no remorse, a paradox that influenced him to look away to regain a composure more suited to his brother's possible charitable sentiments to his own drug induced needs. He turned back to face his judge and juror, and was reprieved as Ian was, and had been, predisposed. Ian, to Darren's favour, had selected two of the largest deals for him, yet it was more with protocol than an expressive outward sign of forgiveness. After having them dropped into his eager clutches, Darren then toyed with them in his palm with thoughts of devouring them playing on his mind, frustratingly on his part in another time and place other than this one - literarily! He wanted to leave instantly to the drug den on yonder across the street: but he didn't want to seem disrespectfully rash (although his intentions were blatantly obvious to Ian, as they always were) so made some obvious idle small talk to lead up to his immanent departure. Satisfied, Daren then said his farewells and proceeded to let himself out.

He hugged himself outside, a vice like grip influenced by the cold elements. The two deals he carried in his mouth warmed his thoughts. He crossed the grassed island in the centre of the close, and lost his balance as he tripped over the frozen churned up mud from hasty vehicles from wetter days: he cursed inwardly and made a mental note to take more care next time, then only to repeat the same sorry incident moments later before the other side. He smiled at his stupidity, but didn’t care, as hopefully, within a matter of minutes, he would be pacified with a pipe in his mouth.

As he neared the flat door, Peter opened it and stepped out into the unknown world of expectation. Darren scrutinized him as they inevitably advanced upon each other. Peter looked a picture of ill-health, a facial and bodily appearance that was synonymous with being an affluent member of the drug scene. His skin was taut over the bones of his face, and his eye sockets were sunken to depths that would be more suited to a starved prisoner! He was dishevelled with his long unkempt hair, ash smudged face. And, regardless of his prosperity, he took little care of his dress, as this was not dissimilar to your average roaming tramp! Peter had little concern for personal pride and well-being, he rarely ventured into the judgemental world outside of the cul-de-sac, and a lot of his associates were dressed likewise, so he had gone passed caring; his world was driven by his next hit of rock (crack-cocaine) or fix of heroin, and seemingly nothing else mattered.

‘Alright Darren, how’s it going?’ Enquired Peter.

‘I’m alright, who’s upstairs?’

“Billy, Jodie, mad Bob, and a couple of lads from across town. Where the fuck have you been, we’ve been pulling our fucking hair out waiting for you? I’ll tell you what Darren, you take the fucking piss, next time I can keep you waiting, I fucking will.’

Darren dropped his head to avert the uncomfortable piercing eyes from his verbal aggressor that seemed to venture into his very soul, and mumbled an insincere apology, that Peter incoherently took as such. Peter informed Darren to leave the door on the latch, and swiftly and purposefully strode off to Ian’s flat.

Darren pushed the door open and entered the cramped hallway. An electricity card meter, prized from its holdings, lay idle at his feet; he stole a glance at the open box where it should have been and shuddered at the live wires recklessly connected ripping-off the utility. He bade as he was told, trampled over a pile of unopened letters, then took the bare stairs two at a time, which groaned under each eager foot.

He entered the sitting room and was instantly engulfed by a dense cloud of cigarette smoke – a temporary substitute for the junkies within. Darren could see and feel their eyes watching his every move, but he didn’t care, his routine from experience was familiar to all of them. They knew they would have to wait a little longer, and in the meantime enviously look on as Darren carried on regardless.

Darren liked the power he felt he had over them, they all wanted what he had, and he deliberately acknowledged every sorry face individually with a smug smirk. He took off his coat, not before emptying the paraphernalia that he required from its pockets – a small pocket knife, pipe, cigarettes and a lighter.

He settled stood up by the side of the roaring coal fire, and felt a comfort in its warmth, then prepared the contents of his pipe on the fire surround. The crack sizzled as he put the flame to it, he sucked on it for all he was worth until the taste of burning ash distastefully met his throat. He held the smoke down until he desperately needed to breath, then inconsiderately blew the large plume of smoke out into the face of Jodie opposite him on the sofa-chair, who returned a contemptuous glare, and not just for the offence, but for the taste she craved to have in her own throat.

Darren’s mind floated, his body felt weightless, endorphins rushed out in every direction stimulating a buzz not dissimilar to an orgasm; he shuddered in ecstasy from his very core as he rode the feeling until the inevitable fade came ten seconds later. In his own mind his senses had now heightened, but the realism of the inducement was that they had actually lessened, especially in regards to reality. He felt more consciously aware of the room and his new found insecurity – someone could attack him in an instant; he felt cowardly and envisaged all the negative possibilities of such a hostile occurrence, yet put on a brave face.

He needed reassurance of his wavering social confidence, and some reciprocation from the room that he ’was not caught out’, as he felt obviously stiff and uneasy: what could he say, and to whom? He instinctively spoke to Jodie who was the closest in proximity, and rashly uttered in an unusually deep voice that he was sorry for blowing the smoke in her face, then upon eye contact immediately looked away in shame and guilt for his lie – he cursed his lack of confidence and his stupidity in what he had said.

He now felt extremely nervous, and although he wasn’t outwardly shaking, it seemed like he was. He avoided any eye contact and busied himself with another pipe, and reasoned, like he always did, that once they had their drugs they would pay him little unwarranted attention: and the ones who themselves would be smoking a pipe, would surely feel likewise and would conduct themselves with a similarity in accordance like himself.

The addicts, who were close to the low window, were restless in their observations out of it – necks craned uncomfortably, bodies twisted and contorted into unnatural shapes for vantage; they sadly looked upon each other in temporary despair; every face told a similar story – malnutrition, deprivation and neglect, and so much more, but not to them, as they accepted their lifestyle, and often revelled in it, they had their slice of heaven in the drugs that they took, but coming down from that conceptual paradise leads them to the hellish realism of their affliction, as Billy and Bob were experiencing this state of mind at present, not willingly, but their bodies demanded it from them!

Time inevitably passed, and the silhouette they saw out of the window soon formed into the prodigal Peter, where upon his return he would be welcomed back in the same fashion as by the biblical father – with open arms.

Peter entered the room, and was immediately set upon by the waiting pack, each demanding instant attention.

Out of lustful hope, and not respect, he sorted out Jodie first with her deals, much to the disappointing glares of injustice by Billy and Bob, who had been the first to arrive, pay and wait: Jodie was flattered with the sentiment, and was in no way concerned with the envious hostile looks, but would be superficially reciprocal to Peter’s obvious intentions. She smiled, thrust her breasts out and ran her hand seductively through her short, blonde hair as Peter rummaged through the deals in his hand.

After a few moments there was a flurry of drug-taking activity by all. The important aspects of paraphernalia were supplied by their host, not thoughtfully, but tactfully, as instant gratification meant satisfaction, a service not supplied by some other dealers who paradoxically prioritised their privacy and who were not themselves members of the drug-taking fraternity – but also, sometimes a punter had ‘more’ money to spend!

Peter was rudely interrupted from smoking his crack by a knock at the door, which was promptly followed by a shout through the letterbox indicating who the person was. He was still irate with Darren and glanced over at him preparing a pipe, and out of malice more than being predisposed, he ordered him to go and open it. He took satisfaction in Darren’s look of protest as he himself was predisposed and revelled in his ensuing negative body language.

Darren unwillingly parted from his activity with his shoulders slumped and asked Peter in a sorrowful voice of self-indulged pity to keep an eye on his crack that was left on the fire-surround, to which Peter lied he would. Then in stark contrast to his negativity, Darren set about the matter at hand with such positivity and speed (wisdom influenced by mistrust) that he was back within moments, eyeing up the fire surround as soon as he returned.

The punter followed soon thereafter – he had temporarily been inconvenienced by being unduly instructed to put back up the barricade, an irresponsible act Darren cared little of in his present haste.

Peter, aware and quietly amused at Darren’s folly, thought over the incident with mischievous deliberation, then finally raised his eyes and opened his mouth to summarise and pass sentence:

‘Darren, what do you think you’re fucking doing?’

Darren faced his aggressor surprised, temporarily losing the question in his frenzied mind as the attack itself was foremost in his thoughts.

‘What do you mean?’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘I don’t get you!’

‘What have you just done wrong?’

‘Nothing.’

‘You lying bastard. What the fuck have you just done wrong?’

Darren innocently looked about the room to try and determine what in fact he had done wrong, if indeed he had, and was met with some curious and humorous looks which made him feel very uncomfortable; his gaze stopped at the window. Peter picked up on it straight away, and promptly launched another attack:

‘Yes, there’s another thing, you have not once looked out of the window.’

‘I have,’ lied Darren, and ingeniously added in his defence, ‘every time I’ve looked you’ve been busy, and therefore haven’t noticed.’

Peter, wise to his deviance, turned to the others for assistance in his prosecution. One by one he enquired of them if they had noticed Darren glance out of the window? They were all willing and eager to assist in the condemnation of the accused and let this be known by their obvious amusement at Darren’s distress.

Darren, in his present state averted all eye contact by resting his line of vision on his clenched fumbling hands before him, which Peter took as an obvious act of admission.

‘You’ve got guilt written all over you,’ Peter pushed, ’I’d fucking hate you to be a witness for me in court. Which brings me to my point, if we don’t see them coming how the fuck are we going to get rid of everything in time?’ Peter was on a roll and took it to the next level, he stood up and poked Darren’s head repeatedly, ‘you’re so fucking slow and a selfish bastard,’ he stopped short on hurting his finger and faced up to Darren with such proximity that he felt uncomfortable himself, but he carried on regardless as he was now the leading male performing a show for the audience around him, especially Jodie, ‘fucking look at me when I’m speaking to you.’

Darren sulkily lifted his head up aware that his face was glowing, flustered to the extreme he went into space before their eyes met and went into the perspectives of the others and felt worse for his supposed insight while Peter remained silently transfixed with his beaming countenance. Peter turned to smirk at Jodie who returned the same which was all he needed to enthusiastically resume his reprisal:

‘You should have waited downstairs to sort the fucking door out instead of leaving it for Stephen to do,’ he turned to the said named person for acknowledgment of the indictment, but was met with a look of bewildered misunderstanding to the intent of the proceedings in progress, ‘and for not keeping an orderly observation out of the window you can go over to Ian’s for Stephen’s order, and fuck if I’m going to pay you in any sort of way. You’re a cheeky bastard and you’re lucky I don’t fuck you off.’

Darren quietened his outer voice, but inside he was cursing Peter with every obscenity he could conceive of from his scatty lapse of sense of order. He plucked up the courage to address his absent eye contact directly as a sentence had been passed, and felt immediate domination of the stare ways by Peter which aggressively humbled his intent to a demanding aversion of obedience to any negativity, and in the extreme he once again filled his vision with worn carpet!

Peter scanned the room for influence to his masculinity, and rested his gaze on Jodie’s humble but shapely chest, which then rose to her knowing smile upon his character. His senses returned to the situation at hand, and he enquired of Stephen his want for his will, which Darren would now fulfil in kindly penance of mock humility. He reiterated the order and took pride in Darren’s obvious aggrievement with knowledgeable sacrifice of time and place of mind, in the fact that the journey would not prove fruitful for his part and was thus an endeavour of subjection rather than appreciation.

 

Thank you. Love love, Andrew.