Chapter 15
Crackhouse Rules
It was around this time that the
beauty of a chap called Dennis was unveiled to me. I can’t actually remember where I met
him. I just recall our paths crossing
frequently around this time. Although I
couldn’t decipher his strong Grenadian accent too well at first, we soon found
that we were speaking the same language when phrases like ‘do you want to get
something’ or ‘where’s the nearest cashpoint’ were being employed. He was quite a spectacle, in his loafing,
lugubrious way. It didn’t take me long
to notice that his teeth were smashed to shards, as if some kind of dental
iconoclast had wreaked havoc in his mouth.
They were nice and white, but that only helped to highlight their
plight. The front two had clearly been
knocked for six, but there were jagged bits of white poking from the gum. It looked like someone had taken a set of
pliers to the bottom row. This, coupled
with a thick mat of stubble, and a look of having just got up, meant the
shambling Dennis cut quite a caper around the Green. He was a friendly guy and, although he ripped
me off once or twice, was never threatening or violent, and didn’t hold back
the drugs, like Jacob.
Dennis’s usual bolthole, having
scored, was a house not far from Faith’s.
For some weeks, it was my regular haunt, and most of my using would
occur or at least pass through there. It
belonged to a guy called David, who had mental health issues. Apparently he was schizophrenic, but there
seemed to be more to it than that. Whatever
the time of day or night, there would always be some scallywag on that bed, in
that chair, asleep on that patch of floor.
In addition, there’d nearly always be another band of bit players, just
to add fluidity to proceedings, sleeping, sitting around, going from room to
room, looking for a smoke. Stepping
through the net-curtained door into David’s, uninitiated, it was hard to know
whose place it actually was.
David himself seemed to spend much of
his time on his bed, encircled by a coterie of spongers, all waiting, like so
many sea-urchins, to see what bits of plankton were going to drop their way
today. I was an urchin, yet less
well-rooted. There’d be a knock at the
door, a general tramping into the hall would ensue, to see who it was, what
they had, if a pipe could be charmed out of them. Maybe even David would emerge, to claim what
was rightfully his, a pipe for ‘the house’.
Normally, if you visit someone, you might take a bottle of wine, a bunch
of flowers, box of chocolates.
Abnormally, crack-etiquette dictates that you’re obliged to cough up a
smoke for the homeowner, if you can tell who it is.
The bathroom in a crackhouse is
perhaps the most sought-after room.
Certainly this was the case at David’s.
Usually there were two or more people crammed in there, smoking, or
receiving or giving a blowjob. If you
were one of them, you wouldn’t remain undisturbed for long. There would always be someone wanting to have
a sneaky pipe in there, away from all the prying, greedy eyes elsewhere in the
house. If you wanted to get in there,
though, your chances were slim. Either
it would be locked, or, if the lock was broken, the door would get shoved
backatcha with the urgency of a guy with a pipe in one hand and his cock in the
other. But if you were one of those odd
people who actually wanted to use the loo, there might be a local paper on the
cistern, if you were lucky, an absence of loo-roll being a key feature of any
crackhouse worth the name.
The kitchen, you’ll be unsurprised to
hear, was pretty light on food, and mostly used by people who couldn’t get into
the bathroom. Even though it was
overlooked from outside, there would often be half a dozen people clustering in
there, some smoking, some blagging, some just taking in the ambience. Standing in there one morning, around five I
think, I found myself in the privileged position of buying the stuff direct
from the dealer, and having it placed into my closing hand, rather than Jacob’s
or Dennis’s. As with any product, the
more middlemen, the more you get ripped off.
One or two girls who were hanging around were swift to offer to ‘help me
unwrap it’, because ‘that cling-film can be fiddly, can’t it hun?’
News of my elevated status spread, and
moments later some guy with ill-fitting dentures was standing by me, telling me
it was his birthday. He failed, but I
wished him many happy returns. A
net-curtain hung vaguely in the window, which was one way of telling roughly
what time of day it was, and through it the next wave of visitors could be inspected. Many came and went, until, morning now
underway in earnest, I realised I only had a tenner left, and I was determined
this should go on some heroin, to soften party’s end.
There were about five of us left in
the flat, including David on his bed. I
went into the bedroom, putting feelers out regarding the purchase of some
heroin. No one had, or knew anyone who
had. The woman sat on the bed said, ‘Oh
look, Prince Charles wants to get something.’
Gauche in adversity, I’d obviously used a turn of phrase that set me
apart from my peers. A fairly calm guy
by the wardrobe offered me a cigarette, as if consoling a child who’d lost his
parents. I asked David if he knew someone
I could ring. He was too drunk, or
drugged, to answer. Then a fidgety guy,
on his haunches on the carpet, said, ‘Oy, blind man, gimme that fag.’ I fended him off with a word or two, but my
approach was too soft. ‘Come on, blind
man, gissa lug.’ I tried again to
placate, but in the end he got so animated I thought I’d better give it
him. He took a few drags, then threw it
on the carpet between us, half-smoked.
It felt like time to make tracks. But this was easier said than done, as the
tenner in my pocket, which I’d declared in my attempt to barter for heroin, was
a magnet for badness. I slipped out into
the hall and into the bathroom, surprisingly unhindered. From there, I would slip out into the
darkness, and away. However, as I pulled
shut the front-door, it swung open with a violent tug. Fag-thrower didn’t want me to go. Sight, plus the darkness, didn’t allow me to
run, and I didn’t especially want to argue or fight, so out came my elementary
diplomatic talents. ‘Now, look here,’ I
began, ‘I’m not looking for any trouble, I just want to make my way, I’ve no
axe to grind.’ He did, however, and
pushed me against the wall and held what looked like two old knives to my
face. Diplomacy had failed. I tried to gently ease his hands away, like
some amateurish dog-whisperer trying to get the creature to respond in a new
way to old dilemmas. This too
failed. ‘Get off me, blind man,’ he
explained. I tried to assure him I meant
him no harm, perhaps as Jean Luc Picard might when presented with a volatile,
but essentially frightened alien. But
even the values of Next Generation Star Trek fell short of resolving
things. ‘Don’t touch me,’ he warned
again, and I could feel old metal on my face.
‘Gimme that tenner, blind man.’
Either I was still hoping I’d stumble on some heroin, or I just didn’t
want to reward his force with gain, so the tenner stayed in my pocket. I called help into the still flapping
front-door, but no one came. Meanwhile,
my attacker was mauling me like a lion, with knives, and each time I tried to
fend him off he warned me not to touch him, and reacquainted my face with his
blades. I wanted to run, but couldn’t
see to. I didn’t want to fight, cos
violence breeds violence, innit? I was
determined to diffuse the situation with decency, reason, and fair play. However, having exhausted all diplomatic
channels, and concerned I might come away with my cheek slashed or throat cut,
I reached into my pocket and yielded up the tenner. He took it like a pushy child might a
present, snatching it from my clutches almost before I’d extended my hand. Then, as if off to the sweetshop, he
scampered into the night, pocketing his blades, bounding up the stone steps
into the backwaters of Shepherd’s Bush.
I gave it a few minutes, made a mental
note of the dangerous people I was now meeting daily, brushed myself down, and
made my way home in squally rain. Red
t-shirt ripped, and hanging from my shoulder, I trudged down Goldhawk Road on
the cusp of night and dawn.
Chapter
16
White
City
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, referred me to my local
drug service, and I went 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 degradation. 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.’ Seemingly, none of the complementary
therapies had helped, and nor had any of our circular conversations. I just became a more literate addict, and
could talk at severe length, sometimes quite engagingly, about the same thing –
I’d used. Truth is, at this time, I
wanted to use, but didn’t want the consequences, and heroin, sneaking up on the
rails, had only made the whole cycle seem slightly less unmanageable,
softening, as it did, the comedown from crack.
Ear acupuncture, very nice, shiatsu,
interesting, reflexology, quite sensual, cupping, whatever that is,
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 journal
written by users and ex-users. 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 time of day, or 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 place from her window. Often I’d have an appointment that I simply
wouldn’t show for, because I’d stumble into Faith’s 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.
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 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 set off on a journey to
this couple’s place in White City, just off Wood Lane, near the BBC. In my comedy fumblings, I’d dreamed of
walking in there, checking in for rehearsals, having established myself as a
comedian of note. Now I couldn’t get
past fast enough, desperate to reach our destination to top up the pipe I’d had
some half an hour ago. Why doesn’t the
good draw you in like the bad? Couldn’t
they see who was going by?
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 drug service we’d all been fruitlessly attending
for months. Formalities over, Jacob popped
out with my clutch of twenties, and I took tea with my hosts. Spike had been a postman, until he got sacked
for intercepting chequebooks. Now he
allegedly gardened for a well-known singer from the 80s. 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, he returned, and we all four smoked away
until the money went. 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.
And, as ever, I offer up a song for your consideration: Run Out Of Drugs Again
Maybe tomorrow?
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