EPISODE 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 couple of weeks of stubble, and a look of having just got up, meant that
the shambling Dennis cut quite a caper around the Green. He was a friendly guy though, and, although
he ripped me off once or twice, was never threatening or violent, and didn’t
hold back on the drugs like my new owner, Jacob, was making a habit of doing.
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 lounging, or languishing, 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 begging for a smoke. 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, presumably to coax a gift of crack from me. 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, about dawn, when I
realised I only had a tenner left. 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 of 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 lugs, then threw it on the
carpet between us, half-smoked.
I thought I should make my way. 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,’ he said.
Either I was still hoping I’d stumble on someone with heroin, or I just
didn’t think I should reward his force with financial gain, so the tenner
remained 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 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, and 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, increasingly revealed by the light of a new day dawning, and
very wet.
TUNE INTO THE NEXT EPISODE THIS TIME TOMORROW...
EPISODE 16
White City
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