The song is this: Warnography
Chapter 7
Come To Jesus, Junkie
Monday loomed again, and I rattled down
the Central Line to another day of answering the telephone and sealing
envelopes, posting out pamphlets on general wellbeing, as mine sank into the quicksand. Then, after work, I was back at Debbie’s. The usual things went on, and I was there all
night, of course. But this time, when it
got to about half-past eight in the morning, I just couldn’t be bothered to go to
work, so rang in with a vague excuse, and Debbie and I carried on scoring
through the morning, and everything was fine and dandy, but, because of all the
money I’d been spending, Debbie returned from the cashpoint with bad news,
saying, as she slammed the door behind her, ‘There’s no more money available.’ I was gutted.
It felt like a landslide inside.
Within minutes, our fragile alliance was
disintegrating. Debbie said she needed
to sleep, I had no choice but to haul myself across London back to the flat,
where, on arrival, I gave a few polite words and disappeared into my
bedroom. My effigy in the window looked
crooked, smug in its defeat, like I was jeering at my own downfall. Below, in the car-park, the secretary of the
Conservative Club was manoeuvring her blue jeep into the disabled spot, as was
her wont, due to it being near the door she took boxes of booze into for the
dulling of right-wing despondency in the neighbourhood. Her squat body had more width than height,
contrasting the narrowness of her mind.
She’d whinged once or twice about slightly late rent payments – think
she might have chucked me out if she’d known the reason why. But then I’d rather be addicted to crack than
Thatcher, although they’re both quite similar in their callous short-termism, I
guess.
Wednesday morning, back to work, and assorted
needy people ringing in with requests for a local therapist. Then Emma rings. Would I like to meet up on Friday? Luckily, it was our week to be paid, so I’d
have money in the bank, although money now had the glint of a double-edged
sword. I gauchely accepted her
invitation, quietly panicking within that it would only lead to another shy
retreat on my part, and that might mark the end of her attempt to bridge the
gap between us.
Friday comes, I’ve recovered slightly
from my indulgences, so I leave work and go to meet Emma. She was there with a group of friends, which
included her boyfriend, which was slightly disappointing, but again, Emma and I
seemed to talk away in our usual intimate fashion.
But I was really messed up by this
point, and I kind of knew it. All I can
recall is sitting there, chatting with Emma, and being very edgy and sombre. I told her about the crack again, and I think
she picked up that there was more of a problem than she first thought. But what could she say? What she did say was, ‘You’re my Ben. Don’t worry.
You’ll be ok.’ Then, when I left
early for no apparent reason, she followed me out. In my pathetic way, I was pleased to have peeled
her away from her boyfriend, who, I thought, would be sitting inside feeling jealous
I had such a pull on his girlfriend.
Emma dragged me back inside, and we sat chatting at a separate table
from the others. I can’t remember what
we said, but I think it was more of the same, mixed in with me not being able
to tell her how I felt. I was paralysed on
the verge of making another desperate proclamation of love that would sound more
like a confession. But we couldn’t sit
apart all evening, so she asked me if I wanted to come back and join the
others. I really couldn’t face that, so
said instead I’d go home, promising to be ok, and in touch within a day or
two. Once free, I made a beeline for the
tube and went straight to Debbie’s.
Memories now become something of a
blur, a patchwork of frustrating days at work, and nights and days at Debbie’s. Financially, I was spending far more than I
was receiving, so I tried to find new ways of getting money in the
short-term. I can remember ringing my
parents from the office, and asking for five hundred quid, which was a lot to
ask for under any circumstances, making out I needed help with the rent, and
had to buy a suit, probably for a non-existent job-interview. As soon as it appeared in my account, I was
off again. Then, when I couldn’t justify
any more requests for money from my parents, I rang the bank and asked them for
an extension to my overdraft. ‘No
problem, sir, you’re working, you’ve been a reliable customer, how much would
you like?’ And off I’d go again.
I’d been lucky so far. On a couple of the days when I’d been absent
from work, Polly the manager had also been away. She’d come in the following morning and there
I’d be, perched at my desk, like I’d never been away. She’d say, ‘Was everything ok
yesterday?’ I’d say, ‘Yeah, pretty
quiet.’ But soon, I was spending as much
time at Debbie’s as I could. A limit of
two hundred and fifty pounds a day on my bankcard meant that, if you timed it
right, it was quite easy to blow five hundred quid over the space of two days,
and then, money allowing, another two hundred and fifty on the third. It became standard procedure, to borrow, blow,
salvage, then savage my bank-account in monthly cycles. I don’t know if the Natwest mainframe noticed
my new spending patterns, but if it did, nobody rang.
But within a couple of weeks, there came
a point where I simply couldn’t conceal the trouble I was in any longer. After another daylong or two-daylong session
with Debbie, I was travelling back across London to the flat, and nearly
passing out on the train. There was a
couple sitting opposite me, and I felt like they knew exactly what I’d been up
to. They felt like my parallel life,
travelling on the same train, but unobtainable.
I could barely keep my eyes open, and felt like a ghost. Then, when I was walking down the high-street
to the flat, I just burst into tears, dived into the nearest phone-box, and
rang my sister. I could barely talk for
crying. My whole world, such as it was,
was collapsing around me. I had no
choice but to ask her to tell mum and dad.
I didn’t have the courage to tell them myself. Then, after a few minutes, and a little
calmer, I made my way down the high-street to the flat, and once again had to
pretend everything was fine. I tried
making hot-chocolate in a large pint-glass, which inevitably smashed when I poured
in the boiling water. Josie’s boyfriend
came into the kitchen and tidied up, lamenting the loss of one of his favourite
glasses. I just wandered off into my
room, feeling very, very sorry for myself.
News of my downfall having reached my
parents, it wasn’t more than a few days before I was being collected by my mum,
dad, and sister, and taken down to the family home on the south coast. Once there, I registered with a local GP,
explained my predicament, and got signed off work for a month. Someone, probably not me, rang Polly to say
there was a sick-note in the post. As
far as she was concerned, I was suffering with depression, which, considering I
worked in a ‘therapeutic environment’, was a bit like James Herriot catching
foot-and-mouth.
I made out that I was using my time at
my parents constructively, having a serious think about my situation. But I had no idea as to the gravity of things. A week or two later, I insisted I felt a lot
better and went back up to London on the train, and straight to Debbie’s. Two days later, I re-emerge, ring my parents,
say I’m in too much of a state to get down on the train, so they come up and
collect me again, this time at one in the morning, and we all drive down in the
darkness, with me either sulking in the back or swearing and cursing like someone
possessed. At one point, we were parked
in a service-station car-park. My dad
and sister had gone to get some food, leaving me and my mum in the car. I’d said that I didn’t want anything to eat
or drink. When they were gone, my mum
asked me if I wanted her to go and get me something, to which I very reasonably
replied, ‘Fuck off.’ The character-shift
between my normal self and the person I became in the few days after using was horrific. No one was exempt from my rage. In fact, the more I loved the person, the more
likely they were to get it.
So I spend another smouldering
fortnight with my parents. A couple of
weeks pass, in which I’ve had another serious think about things. Back on the train I get, with a warning from
my dad that I’m ‘entering a minefield’, and no doubt a concerned frown from my,
by now, distraught mum. Two hours later,
whose door am I knocking on? I think you
know the answer to that.
But this time things got so bad that
even I had to acknowledge the game was up.
It began at Debbie’s, but at some point Sandra turned up, and she and I
ended up disappearing off to another guesthouse for the night. I can’t even remember how we got there, but I
do recall the odd look we got from the porter who gave us our keys. Then we went upstairs and embarked upon
another night’s smoking. As on our
previous overnighter, Sandra kept going back and forth to the bathroom to smoke
in private. I remained in the bedroom,
dreading that her indiscretion might get us into trouble. A couple of hours later, I noticed I was running
out of my eye-drops, which were, and still are, my constant companion. Without them, my eyes get very dry. For about two hours, I was able to squeeze
another drop out, but there came a point when nothing came, however I tilted
the bottle. Of course, I should have
upped and left, gone home, somehow. But
that would involve departing from my dearly beloved. So I filled the bottle with water from the
tap, which stung, and as the night dragged on I could tell my eyes were
beginning to go red.
Come nine in the morning, it was time
to move on. Somehow, we’d burned a hole
in the pillowcase, and the bin was full of foil. As on our previous stopover, we were
convinced that any second the cleaner would be knocking. This was an unfaceable prospect, so we
pre-empted it by scarpering. Downstairs,
there were two women behind the reception-desk.
I paid for the room with cash, hoping to make a dash. But they asked me to sign my name as well,
which I did. Turns out that Sandra had
signed me in under a different name. The
women seemed suspicious. I can’t blame
them.
The morning was sickeningly bright,
and already getting warm. I think it was
April, about four months down the road since my first encounter. It seemed very busy, and I soon realised that
we’d emerged on Portobello Road on market-day.
Sandra and I wandered about looking for the nearest cashpoint. The plan was to get some more money out and
go back to Debbie’s. We had nowhere else
to go. We found a cashpoint and I tried
to get some money out. ‘Amount available
to withdraw, nil,’ read the heartbreaking news on the screen. A wave of dismay and helplessness passed
through me. I knew there was no way I
could get any more, and I’d just used my last to pay for the room. But Sandra kept insisting I should ring the
bank and ask for an extension to my overdraft.
I told her there was no way this would happen. Even if they said yes, I wouldn’t be able to
access the money until the next working day.
Furthermore, it was Saturday, so the bank wouldn’t even be open. We were fucked, and we stood there squabbling
by a callbox for a few minutes, until, buckling under the weight of Sandra’s
nagging, I found myself standing in the phone-box pretending to ring the bank. Actually, I was just mouthing stuff with the
dialling-tone in my ear, with Sandra scowling through the glass. Then I re-emerged and told her they’d said
no, at which point she began cursing and spluttering. I couldn’t take anymore. By now, my eyes were feeling really
sore. I was torn between remorse at what
I’d done and a desperate desire to find a way to carry on. But there was no way. I had to get away from her, so I just started
walking away. She came after me, yelling,
but the crowd was too thick. I walked as
fast as I could into the heaving mass, her anguished voice behind me, calling and
cursing my name. Then some bloke decided
to join in. ‘Yo, Ben,’ he bellowed. But it was too late. I was gone.
But I had no idea where I was
going. I was penniless, eye-dropless,
and even if I’d known the way to the nearest tube-station, I couldn’t have
bought myself a ticket. The best thing I
could think of to do was ring my parents and reverse the charges. When I eventually found a callbox, I rang the
operator and gave her the number. My dad
answered, and she asked him if he’d accept a reverse-charge call from
London. I can’t imagine what
palpitations that caused. He was about
sixty-eight at this point, had already had two heart-bypass operations, and
took medication for angina and diabetes.
I was sweating beads by now, and can remember telling him I was
dehydrated and I didn’t know where I was.
I don’t know if there was something wrong with the phone, but after about
ten seconds, I could still hear my dad, but he couldn’t hear me. I answered, telling him I was still
there. But he couldn’t hear me, so he
called my name again. I answered again,
but it just wasn’t getting through. For
all he knew, I’d collapsed, or just walked away in a stupor. I pushed open the glass door and went looking
for another callbox. I found myself
walking along a long residential road, stopping every hundred yards to sling
more tap-water in my eyes. Eventually, I
arrived at a tube-station. I recognised
it. It was Ladbroke Grove. There was a bunch of churchy people there,
some of them singing, some of them collaring agnostics and asking them if
they’d thought about letting Jesus into their life.
I went straight to the payphone and
rang my parents again. This time, my mum
answered. I told her my situation. In desperation, she called the local police
and asked them to come and look after me, probably referring to her partially sighted
son having run out of his medication, rather than her crack-smoking son who’d
just been on a bender. What else could
she do? I had no money for the train, no
eye-drops, and was weak with hunger and thirst.
Then I tried to ring Emma. She
was staying at her boyfriend’s at the time.
Whoever answered told me she was out, but they’d let her know I’d
called. Then, for want of anything
better to do, I slumped to the ground and waited for the police to turn up.
However, within a few minutes, a voice
from above was asking me if I was ok. I
looked up to see a reasonably elderly couple standing benevolently above
me. ‘Are you alright?’ asked the female
of the pair. I can’t remember how I
replied to that. ‘Are you listening to
the music?’ she asked, referring to the choir-angelic standing a little way
off. ‘Er, well…’ No doubt they sensed something was up. People in the business of saving souls can
spot a lost one a mile off. I thought it
only polite to stand up as I spoke to them.
Then, within moments, my hands were being gently clasped, and they were
praying for me. I must have given them
the go-ahead, I suppose. They didn’t
seem the type to do it without at least asking.
I got the works. They began by beseeching
Jesus to come into my life, comfort my troubled heart, and so on. They even broke into tongues, as a kind of finale. I asked them what all that meant, and they
said it was the holy spirit that made them do it. Sometimes they might be speaking Aramaic, the
mother-tongue Jesus, or it could be the language of angels. I kind of went along with it all. I didn’t think I had anything to lose. They said amen, I said amen, they asked me
how I felt, and I replied, ‘A little better, thank you.’
Then they moved on, as if there was a
quota for the hour. They were from a
charismatic, evangelical church in Notting Hill. Well, I now know it to be that kind of
church. Years later, I would, in desperation,
attend a service there. I met someone
quite nice there, and then went to another church with her, which was equally
as literal in its interpretations.
Neither turned out to be a spiritual home.
Next thing I know, there’s a policeman
and policewoman standing in front of me.
‘Are you Ben?’ asked the female of the pair. ‘Yes, I’m Ben,’ I admitted. ‘Your mother rang, saying you’re in a spot of
bother. Do you need taking to a
hospital?’ I said I didn’t. If I could just get on a train, I’d be able
to get home, loosely referring to the flat.
The Christian woman obviously overheard me explaining I had no money,
and very kindly gave me a fiver. I think
she also bought me a bottle of Lucozade in a nearby newsagent’s. As it was, the police got me through the
ticket-barrier, and I knew from that point on I’d be able to get home without
having to show a ticket. I thanked the
relevant people, and got the train.
My mum had obviously rung ahead,
because when I got to the flat Josie presented me with a large plate of
food. I sat there eating it on the floor
of my bedroom with her looking on concerned.
I thought I owed her some kind of explanation, so I told her that I’d
been somewhere where people were taking cocaine, and even crack. But I fell short of saying I was one of them.
Then it was back to my family
again. It was decided that I’d hand my
notice in at work. I couldn’t keep
sending in sick-notes. So, one
afternoon, I sat there at my sister’s computer, writing a letter to Polly,
explaining I had a drug-problem, and that the drug in question was crack. It felt like a dirty word. Crack doesn’t get a very good press. It doesn’t deserve one. I wished I was an alcoholic, though. At least that wouldn’t have implied the murky
world that crack did. Anyone could fall
prey to alcohol, it’s everywhere, almost compulsory. Try going out to the pub and having a
non-alcoholic drink without at least one person raising an eyebrow. But crack, that was off the map. You had to go looking for that, in dens,
dives, and dark, vice-ridden tenement-blocks, and that in itself implied a
certain desperation.
Within a week or two, I was on my way
back to London, but this time with my dad, to collect my things from work. We parked near the office by virtue of
stuffing copious change into a parking-meter.
Then my father and I went to pick up my reading-screen, a camera-monitor
contraption that allowed me to read print, which had been standing unused on my
desk for the best part of two months. Natalie,
Emma’s replacement, was vague and polite – she’d hardly met me anyway. Anita, a little more inquisitive, drew a few
half-truths from me. I told her that I
was depressed and had also been using cocaine, which seemed kind of true. Then I had to go and say goodbye to
Polly. She’d received my letter, and all
I can remember her saying, with reference to the crack, was that one really
should be careful with these things. How
right she was. Squirming with shame, I
faked an attitude of penitence, said we had to get back to the car, and that
was the end of my career in the counselling field.
And here's a song: Warnography
Well, that's it for today. Tomorrow is a new day.
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