EPISODE 16
I spent the next three days in
bed, brain flatter than a leaking battery, torn red t-shirt on the floor, and
one of the Discovery channels burbling away as I drifted in and out of sleep,
occasionally raiding the cupboard for whatever was left to eat, which was never
much at this time. When I rose, in a
bout of desperation, I wrote a handwritten letter to my doctor, asking to be
sent to rehab, or a psychiatric ward, or wherever there was a vacancy.
A few days later, I made an
emergency appointment, and my doctor, almost impotent to help, sent me to my
local drug service. I made an
appointment and went in for an assessment.
I was assigned a counsellor, who I saw for about six months. She was very good, knowledgeable, honest, and
patient, but she couldn’t stop me using week after week, and coming in with
tales of increasing dissolution. By this
point, the compulsion to use crack, with a heroin chaser, felt like something
separate from what I considered to be myself.
It was as if the decision was made in me, but not by me. ‘It’s happened again,’ I’d say, time after
time, and she would say, ‘You mean you’ve used again.’ Whilst this was true, I had used, none of the
complementary tools and therapies offered me had any effect on my using. I just became a more literate addict, and
could talk at severe length, week after week, month after month, sometimes
quite engagingly, about the same thing – I’d used. Truth is, at this time, I wanted my coke and
smoke it – I wanted to use, but didn’t want to consider the expense and
consequences, and heroin, sneaking up on the rails, had only made the whole
cycle seem slightly less unmanageable, softening, as it did, the harsh comedown
from the crack.
Ear acupuncture, shiatsu,
reflexology, cupping, body acupuncture, hypnotherapy, and various relaxation
CDs, all made a minimal indentation on my pattern of use. I even wrote a few worthy articles for the
drug service newsletter, all teacher’s pet stuff, saying how wonderful the
therapies were, and how I found the service so very valuable as a community hub,
but they were all just words, worthy, placatory, hollow words. The drug service subscribed to a magazine
called Black Poppy, a health and lifestyle magazine written by users and
ex-users alike. Over the months, I wrote
a few articles for it, even compiled a cryptic crossword, with mostly
drug-related answers, but even this, coupled with volunteering at the
magazine’s office, and the new friends it afforded me, made no difference to my
using.
So far, the most successful path
I’d found to getting a period free from crack was going to my parents’ by the
sea, which I did many times at this point, in various states of disrepair. There, I’d be spoken to frankly, in a spirit
of concern, and bewilderment, by both parents.
Then, having had another good think about my predicament, I’d return to
London and relapse. The hypnotherapy,
dispensed by a chap in a shack in Ealing, and paid for by my parents, seemed to
work for a few days. Hypnotised on a
Monday, I managed to abstain from crack, with money in my pocket, ‘til Friday. But then, when I blew it, it was back to scoring
at every opportunity, regardless of the time of day, or the danger.
By now, I was firm friends with
Faith, especially when I arrived at hers fresh from the cashpoint. It was kind of unfortunate that she lived on
the same street as the drug service. In
fact, it was probably possible to see the drug service from her window. Often I’d have an appointment that I simply
wouldn’t show for, because I’d stumble into Faith’s place literally yards from
safety, like a rugby-player with a knack for tackling himself.
One afternoon, I was marching to
an appointment, knowing full well I wouldn’t get there, because I’d already
decided to trip myself up at Faith’s place.
Torn at her door, half hoping she was out, half wishing she’d hurry up
and answer, I was surprised when my old chum Dennis appeared before me. Butler-like, he ushered me into the
living-room. He’d already scored, and
furnished me with a pipe, which led to a flurry of notes being pulled from my
pocket, accompanied by the request, ‘Can we get something?’ He was happy to oblige, and called down the
hall to Faith to let her know he was popping out. She came into the living-room, and was
equally delighted to see me, and the notes I was by now scrunching into
Dennis’s palm. She returned to whoever
she was entertaining out the back.
Dennis and I were negotiating what we wanted, and who we should get it
from, when another figure appeared in the doorway. It was Jacob, and he didn’t seem very happy.
He said a cool hello, and
reminded me of a previous warning, given some days before, not to hang out with
Dennis. According to Jacob, Dennis would
con me, keep drugs back, was a known criminal, in fact was everything Jacob was
himself. Then he addressed Dennis
directly. ‘Ben is my associate. I look after him.’ ‘He just wants to score,’ Dennis said
lamely. ‘Ben, come with me,’ Jacob
instructed, ‘I’m taking you home.’ I
didn’t want to go home. I wanted to
score. ‘I’m ok,’ I said, trying to
appease the now approaching figure of Jacob, ‘I’m happy to share whatever we
get.’ ‘You won’t be getting anything,’
he replied, ‘I’m taking you home.’ I
didn’t believe this for a minute – he just wanted me away from Dennis, so he
could take control. ‘I don’t want to
have to slap you,’ he warned. His crazed
yet cold eyes were up against me, and I thought I’d better go along with
things. Then I was being escorted down
the road, with Jacob saying, ‘Ben, I know if I let you go, you’ll find someone
to score through, so if you want to get something, tell me now.’ So my protector and I went round the corner
to this couple’s place in White City, just off Wood Lane, near the BBC. I’d kind of dreamed of going in there, having
established myself as a known comedian, or some such. Now I was skulking past, at pace, desperate to
top up the pipe I’d had courtesy of Dennis, some half an hour ago – not much of
a party-piece.
We arrived in some dive, a flat
that even the How Clean Is Your House team would have had to touch up before
filming. It was inhabited by a guy who
looked like a cross between Wayne Slob and Mr Sneeze, haggard’n’gaunt, hair an
explosion. His partner, who it turned
out he beat (no doubt the bond that brought him and Jacob together), seemed
quite friendly and normal, even made me a cup of tea, and took an interest in
my various aborted dreams and aspirations.
She’d had them too. Somewhere in
the undergrowth of their living-room, there was a puppy skulking, apparently
acquired from someone at the very same drug service I’d been fruitlessly
attending for some months. Formalities
over, Jacob popped out with my clutch of twenties, and I took tea with my
hosts. My host, Spike, had been a
postman, until he got sacked for intercepting chequebooks, and allegedly gardened
for a well-known 80s singer. My hostess,
Suzie, showed me pictures of her children of whom she was very proud – they
were scattered about the globe, and seemingly quite happy.
I faked conversation until
Jacob’s return with the crack.
Unwrapping the bits, he went first, of course, then me, then our hosts,
on a variety of hastily constructed pipes.
Then Spike and Suzie began discussing something discreetly, and it soon
became clear they were injectors, of which Jacob roundly disapproved. He would smoke crack, but not heroin, and he
certain wouldn’t inject anything. I,
however, hell bent on experiencing all I could experience, made a mental note
of where I was, and to call back some time when Jacob wasn’t around. Spike and Suzie disappeared into the bedroom
and bathroom, respectively, to inject in peace, leaving me and Jacob smoking
just the crack in the living-room. When
they returned, Spike moaning he couldn’t find a vein, and Suzie talking so fast
it was hard to keep up, Jacob popped out to the cashpoint. I managed to cajole a heroin spliff in his
absence, which helped with the crack cravings.
Then, after an agonising wait, Jacob returned, and we all four smoked
away until the money ran out. The heroin
hadn’t really been enough to calm me down, but, somehow, having said our
goodbyes, we left, and Jacob and I parted on the street with a handshake, as if
having just sealed a small business deal, and later, there I was in bed,
sweating, and desperately trying to get to sleep, cursing every second, wracked
with regret that one, I’d ever touched crack, and two, I couldn’t go on smoking
forever, if necessary to death, cos it seemed there was no way out of this slow
nosedive my life had become.
TUNE INTO THE NEXT EPISODE THIS TIME TOMORROW...
EPISODE 17
Just A Little Prick
No comments:
Post a Comment