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.
