Busted (be cool and pray)

The taxi reached Fulcrum Point at the end of City Bridge.  It's called fulcrum point because that's where everything tipped over.  Here, a man in sunglasses was directing traffic.  He directed the taxi into a special lane, where big white jeeps manoeuvred to box us in.

A commotion of moustachioed men with the better grade of polyester shirt swarmed the car.  The back doors flew open and three men seized Tractor Mike.  They were screaming about a "Mr Ali."

Mr Ali?  What the everloving fuck?  Is there no end to random bullshit in this country?

A man was poised to snatch my door open, too.  I didn't flinch, a mammal playing dead.  But his official moustache, hyper smile and knowing eyes intimated this wasn't random bullshit.

We had been chosen.   Marked and ambushed.  They knew the car, the route...I wondered if they knew about the ounce of number 4 in my secret pocket?

If they did, that could mean Mandatory Life.  Before they got to throwing my carcass into the Kafka-squared goat-fuck of penal justice, we could have a conversation.  I hoped.

Not bothering to introduce themselves as Narcotics Control Bureau, the guys directed us in convoy to headquarters.  In the back seat, they worked on Tractor Mike.  Proposed he confess, since they knew about Mr Ali and the drugs.  Tractor fronted perplexity, but I figured the truth would out in due course.  Matter of time.

I focused on preparing for the next stage, the conversation.  Already dreading the stage after: withdrawal, plus whatever.  A big portion of Hell, with Hell on top, no glazed cherry.

Bundled through an office of sneering, lounging cops, I assured myself that whatever happened, I would retain enough money to score a razor.  I could make a shiv, if I wasn't too sick.  If I got too sick, I could try becoming a little green bird in my own head and fly away.

I finalised that plan while watching them strip search Tractor...

This was bad and getting worse.  I wasn't surprised too long; bad things happen.  Took a while to believe that.  Maybe sank in when I was walking with three other junkies.  We were going to score - they cheated me, of course.  A car ran over my foot, didn't stop.  As I hopped along moaning, one junkie smiled like a clown.

"Hah.  Nobody gives a fuck, man."

True.  Nobody gives a fuck, until it's their turn to suffer.  Then it's too late, so why give a fuck.

Tractor stood pale and naked, blinking from sweat.  My turn next.  First level of a deep mineshaft of indignity.  I braced myself: whatever happens, deal with it.  Humiliation, confrontation.  Prison, gang-rape.  That's right.  A helpless hate-puppet, a voodoo doll for other losers to stick.

But I won't bow.  Got it?  If they overpower my body, whatever, but that isn't me.  They can cut and burn the meat, but they won't reach the emerald green bird, soaring above.

One problem, there: heroin.  Pumping three grams of number 4 every day...the green bird is already caged.  How tough would I be after 48 hours withdrawal?

I didn't want to think about it.  Like I hadn't wanted to think about why two guys in shades had been standing near the taxi.  One even looked at the number plate, then at my face.  He nodded.

Driving away, we saw them up an alley...talking into a radio-phone.  Tractor looked to me.

"What shall we do?"

"Nothing we can do."

I denied this was happening, wished things were still routine.  My routine consisted of taking lots of smack.

Now we were having the conversation, the chief and I.  They basically had us, but their intel was garbled.  The chief claimed he witnessed the deal...I knew he hadn't.  And this fucking Mr. Ali person?  Er, no.  Also, Tractor's strip search had turned up nothing.  I was surprised at that myself.  But Tractor was a veteran, had already done five years somewhere else for crack-inspired armed robbery.

I didn't have reserves of convict cunning, but I had a good line of credit.  In many ways, I was on top of this stupid game.  At the hospital, they said I was "resourceful."  Partly encouragement, mostly an excuse to deny medication.  Like, since I was 'resourceful' I could go out and get my own supplies.  So I fucking well did.  Now I wanted to deploy my resources to escape, and go back to sleep.

They took Tractor out for a more thorough search.  Apparently, they made him put his foot on a stool, a lame attempt to dislodge anything stashed in his crack.  They forbore to manually search his rectum.  Can't blame them!  But if they'd been more professional, they'd have discovered where he reflexively stashed his grams.

Does any job pay enough to peer up a man's anus?  Yes, Narcotics Bureau can, no doubt.  Higher the rank, bigger the slice, but cake for all.  That was the subject I wanted to broach with Chief.  How much?

First I had to be guilty.  And by sleight of hand and the grace of Goddess, they didn't find my ounce.  At one point, when the disappointed cops left me alone, I almost threw it behind a monitor.  But then they pushed our taxi driver in.  Staunch fellow, played dumb.  Loyal.

So they had to let us go, with no charge and no hard feelings.  Grudgingly.  We'd stayed cool, got lucky.  Hugely.

Eugene Richards pic

The Bad Guys were given 90 percent of the script but still fucked up their role in the movie.  Cops knew who, where and when...but we skated.

How did they miss an ounce of heroin, 60% pure Moon Rocks, stashed on my person?

A magician shouldn't reveal techniques...but it's basically down to another bust a year earlier.

Preparing for a long train journey, I had 22 small folds of good brown in a snuff-type box, as well as five foils interleaved in a book called: "Four Basic Principles To Make Fortune Come Your Way."  I never got to read it, but found out one of those principles is not to act like drugs are legal.

An hour into a 36 hour journey, I was wrenched out of nod by the lapels.  Piggy eyes staring into my contracted pupils.  One of a pair of cops began a thorough frisk.  Just before he got to the cargo pocket with my kit, I thought "fuck it" and grabbed the box of wraps.  Before I could swallow them, the other cop punched my head and grabbed my wrist.  The stuff flew in the air and onto other passengers, one lady shielding her baby from the evil shower.

One cop tore my luggage to pieces, finding nothing.  While the other took me to the toilet, for intimacy.

"This will cost you a thousand dollars, or it's jail.  Where's the rest of your money?  Only $30 here."

"There's no 'rest'.  I'm a junkie, man, broke."

He even checked under my balls, in case I had a wad of notes there.  Sadly not.  Had to be content with whatever stuff they picked up in the carriage, and my pocket dough.  He kindly returned $5 for snacks, which I straight away offered back for just one bag of scag.  Leaving with my drugs and money, he refused indignantly.

"No.  We are the police!"

The rest of the journey was misery numbed by downers.  Amidst a nitrazepam fog, I decided to improve concealment tech.

This I did by stitching a credit-card-sized pocket inside my jockey shorts.  Positioned a thumb length from the button and a finger-width down.  The shorts can be manoeuvred so that the package is covered by a belt, if worn.  It should be safe from a pocket search, and from a ball-grope when cops 'check for an extra nut.'

Saved my life literally, during a very thorough palm-frisk at Colombo Airport.  The penalty for heroin trafficking in Sri Lanka is death; my fat personal supply would have qualified. 

It also saved me at this Bridge Bust.  As my partner in crime was stripped and searched, I was deploying a little charisma.  My turn came and I wasn't stripped fully, but of course they wanted to look in my underwear.   I undid my belt and jeans and hooked my thumbs in the shorts waistline, palming my stash.  Lowering the ensemble, I stretched it out so a cop could look at my groin and down the legs.

"See?  Nothing much there, sad to say, ha-ha."

As with any trick, it's partly about props but mainly in presentation.

Of course, the best tricksters seldom need props.  They perfect mind-control.  But it's hard to control other minds when your own is lost to drugs...

Fuck The Police.

Merry

No fucking milk in the fridge again.  Or anything in the fridge.  Humanities graduates shouldn't live like this, thought Credence.  Or feel like this.  Sickness knocking, soon be clucking.  Could things be worse?

His phone rang.  Dragging it from a charity-shop trench-coat dressing-gown, Crede prayed for a merciful angel.

"Hi darling; Charmian.  Feeling yucky?  God, I know.  Might play hooky from the office.  Boss is in Milan and I have his Lexus to play with, tee-hee.  Well, I am his P.A...  Pretty Arse and all that."

"I get the picture.  What's up, Charm?"

"Just wondering, how much would a teenth of each be?"

"Teenth of each?  Maybe...like a hundred-fifty.  But Charm..."

"I'm in.  Look, I've done some chip-chop with petty cash, so there's a hundred for the kitty.  You bell one of your dodgy mates and get us sorted."

"Hum.  Might be possible, but..."

"We'll hook up later and have a fucking nice time."

When it came to dodgy mates, Goley's name came to mind.  Credence wasn't sure what he thought of Goley.  Apart from suspecting he might be Goley in a matter of time.  

"Hi Goley.  Only Crede.  How you doing, mate?"

"Fuck.  Just woke up.  Er, shit, really."

"Well, me and Charm are hoping you could sort something out again.  Square you up, course.  Like, teenth of each?"

"Yeah, no doubt.  We'll head to Merry.  Fucking tasty gear up there."

"Merry?  What's that?"

"Merrywell Gardens Housing Estate.  Hard Drugs R Us."

"Okay, I'll get the readies sorted and we'll take a wander there."

"Take a wander?   Ha-ha, you can't be serious.  Very bad idea.  No, get some wheels and text back.  Merrywell Gardens isn't a place to be strolling about, know what I mean?"

Credence knew.  He dialled Charmian to ask about the insurance policy on her boss's Lexus...

Shorty after, Charmian handed Credence car-keys and cash with a shaky, skinny arm.

"Look, I don't have a fucking clue about insurance, but if you prang that car, I'll lose my job.  And my home, too.  I'm already behind on the mortgage.  You will be careful, darling?"

Big shrug from Credence.  She didn't ask for the keys back.

Goley was barred from the cafe; he sat outside by a bin until pick-up.

"Nice motor."

Settling in, he rummaged the owner manual from the glove box to build a joint on, irritating Crede.

"Don't know if we can smoke in this car."

"Don't know if I give a fuck.  By the way, we'll need to be on red alert.  Merry can be like, mental.  Bit random, full-on.  Shit happens, and it happens there.  Let's be on our toes."

Goley assured a nervous Credence that it should be cool, if they were cool.  He made calls from Crede's phone, then knuckle-bumped his shoulder.

"Yesss.  Game on, son, game on."

By the time they were sitting in a high-rise flat, Credence had completely lost orientation.  Many twists and turns, driving and walking, then stairs, all concrete.

A woman of around thirty had let them in, then slumped in a sofa chair.  She had matted birds-nest hair and wore a short dressing gown.  Patterned tights sheathed her legs, ending in four-inch heels.  Patent black with a glittery ankle band, like a posh cat's collar.  Following a ladder back up her calf, Credence saw she had clocked his gaze, her mouth twisting with moody calculation.

A man abruptly strode in, ducking the door lintel.

"Raleigh.  Alright, Goley?"

Goley hastened to introduce Credence as a good mate, long known and well solid.

Raleigh gave a thumbs-up.  He wore Magnum Hi-Tech boots, black FUBU sweatpants and a gunmetal bomber jacket, XXL.  Bumping fists with his guests, he landed in a battered PVC recliner, nodding toward the woman.

"This is Polly.  The one and only Polly Jean Harvey."

Crede turned to greet Polly, who kissed her teeth and sneered at the men.

"Don't be a fucking knob."

Ral laughed and turned his attention to a large TV which sat on it's own box. There were many such boxes around.  Apart from the sofa set and recliner, there was no other furniture or décor.  Devices were connected to the television, satellites and things.  Even the rubbish-strewn coffee table was a packing box, Zanussi.

The TV was showing tennis.  They watched the ball thwack around while blue-grey smoke poured off cigarettes.  A doorbell ding-donged, ignored in the hall.

Inclining his head to the television, Ral glanced at Credence.

"Bag of sand on Federer, me."

Credence gathered Ral was claiming to have bet £1000 on Federer to win.

"Right, cool."

"Not really, cunt's losing.  So, what can I do for you, mate?"

Relieved to get down to biz, Crede explained he wanted a sixteenth of brown, same of rock.  Raleigh laid it out.  Yeah, it would be £150 - change goes in the charity box, ha-ha - and it wasn't far away, with an associate who would be available in half an hour.  But the bloke doesn't drive, so Ral would take Crede's car and money, then return to supply the guys, right?   Sweet as...

Crede's heart sank but no surprise.  This was typical.  The bullshit hadn't stopped since starting hard drugs.

How did he start hard drugs, again?  Must have been, what, years ago.  Second year at uni, bunch of them went for parachute jumps.  Lot of fun, but the euphoria wore off and the pub vibe later was depressing.  Credence noticed a curly-haired dude looking pretty washed-out, too.  This person was so excited earlier, before the jump.  Like a kid at Christmas, almost delirious.  Credence started chatting.

"Quite a buzz, eh?"

"What?  Oh, the jump."

The guy smiled with wry nostalgia, as though the jump happened in a misspent youth, not that morning.

"Yeah, I was well tuned up.  Coke.  Hey, still got some left.  Fancy a charge in the bogs?"

Why not?  Crede imagined a line of Charlie on porcelain.  In the cubicle though, Curly levelled a citreous glass pipe at his new friend's jaw.  Eyes big with conspiracy and mischief, he poised a tiny blowtorch at the bowl.

"Suck 'till I pull away."

Credence did, heart skittering with trepidation, then braced back against the wall.  His mind suddenly went to four, five, nearly six dimensions, jaw locked so tight he couldn't voice a Holy Fuck, cheeks aching from maniacal grinning.

Curly readied a pipe for himself.  Glanced at Crede and chuckled.

"Ha-ha, your face!  Cheshire Cat, man.  Classic.  No worries...got some gear we can toot for the comedown."

From there to here.  Credence stuttered a formal protest.  Of course he knew it would be sweet and didn't mean offence, but it wasn't his car to lend, wasn't even all his money, and...

Raleigh endured this stoically, one eye on Federer as Credence rambled on. Pretty decent, really.  He could have acted outraged, complained that whoever Credence was, he'd come to Raleigh's crib with the loser Goley, expecting Ral to do favours and run around, his slut and gadgets left at their mercy, and now this shit?

Instead, he waited for Crede to trickle out.  Then reached over, palm up.

"Keys and dough."

Resigned, Credence tried not to get tense, think negative.  Before Raleigh could depart on his mission, the doorbell began ding-donging like crazy.  Then a steady thwack thwack on the door.

Swearing, Ral told Polly to see to it.  She tutted and tottered into the hall.

"It's Tane!"

Before Raleigh finished shouting to not let that cunt in, a little man entered the room to stare at Raleigh, who lumbered up frowning and growly.

"Yo, Tane."

No response.  Credence didn't know what to make of Tane.  This un-remarkable runt wore old clothes, not middle-class charity-shop discards but the cheapest mismatched sportswear.  Typical inconspicuous marginal type, Crede reckoned. But there was a strange vibe to this one...

Tane noticed Credence too, advanced a measured step with gaze held steady.  A twitch of a smile...and what's with those eyes?  Not 'hard' like Raleigh's, whose visage now wilted anyway.  No, in droopy lids Tane's black eyes seemed burnt. Or burning.  The goblin drawled a challenge.

"Yeah, mate?  Yeah?"

Credence sat transfixed.  He felt giddy, gooey with butterflies, almost giggling. Mastering reaction, forcing his feet not to flee, Credence found himself full of fear.  He'd been on edge already, but this creature was another level.

Raleigh recovered some poise and stepped between them fast.  Tane didn't flinch, just spacey-stared through Ral's chest.

"Fuck's sake, Tane.  Look, all that shit before...not my fault, man.  I'll see you right.  Going to pick up in a bit.  Drop by later for a burn.  It's cool."

Ten seconds passed.  Tane turned to leave with a chilly smirk.

"Take a fuck to yourself."

The front door slammed.  Once Goley had been sent to ensure Tane wasn't lurking, everyone breathed out.  Raleigh shook his head and turned to leave.

"Fucking psycho, that kid.  Back in a bit."

Kid?  Credence wouldn't have taken Tane for a youth.  True, he looked under-formed, skin pale and tight.  Bad diet or something.

Everyone settled in to wait and pass dead time.  Federer lost.  The door chimed constantly, maddeningly.  People began whistling and warbling through the letter box.  Sounded like sunrise in the bloody Amazon.  Occasionally, Polly poked her head in the hall, shouting return in an hour.

Two hours passed.  Polly had an idea.

"Something to eat, boys?"

They shrugged, and she used Crede's phone to order pizzas.  Her monologue got ever more bizarre, one pump jiggling as she warmed to her role.  Eventually, everyone realised she was only pretending.  Not that anyone cared.  They knew her drama was just anxiety.  Raleigh shouldn't have been away this long. Credence focused on not going mad.  Eventually, unlikely messengers arrived to cut his sinking heart from it's mooring.  End his misery with a mercy shot, the coup-de-grace.

Two teenage girls managed to gain entry, beside themselves with excitement.  Polly nodded permission to speak and the news burst out.

"Wow.  Tane got Ral!  Opened the car and stabbed his neck with a bottle.  Pulled him out, went through his pockets.  Then drove away!"

The other girl nodded agreement, scrunchied ponytail swishing against pink plastic puffa-jacket, squealing as she mimed a jugular gusher.

"Claret everywhere!"

Polly and Goley didn't seem to believe it.  Crede did.  He'd known all along something like this would happen.  All along.

David Gillanders pic

 

Picnic Pick-up

C'mon up he'd said, but the main door of the apartment building resisted my push.  I shoved harder and it grated open enough to squeeze through.  A large bin was wheeled-up inside.  The scraping sound signalled someone entering and a whistle summoned me upstairs.  That cat Jagga is more than just a pretty face, I thought wryly while ascending warily.

Jagga and his lieutenant Nerble slouched on the second-floor steps, surrounded by paraphernalia and trash.  They were smoking heroin off metal foil; I watched Nerble's pipe avidly chasing a brown blob resembling a frantic cockroach.  Looked like insect training for Beetle Olympics.  Fumes filled the air and I wondered idly if residents wouldn't maybe fuss.  Presume they'd be advised to fuck themselves.  Irrelevant conjecture.  Down to biz.

"Having a picnic?  Haha, nice day for it.  Got three scores?"

Jagga's woman must've kicked him out.  Nerble presented a Blackberry for my perusal.

"Sixty quid, ya nutcase.  Bargain."

I pulled 3 twenties from the sleeve of my bomber but handed them to Jagga.

"I'd rather buy drugs...maybe I got a problem."

Jagga's fingers were astoundingly filthy but I immediately gummed the little knotted bags he served.  Standard Operating Procedure.  Jagga regarded me slantwise through half-drooped glassy eyes.  His flared foil flute hung steep from split lips, casual expression of the man and his minute.  Arrogance, insouciance, power.  The gear was preme in town, probably from prison connects.

Enjoy your brief reign stoopid, I thought skipping to the exit.  The cops kept busting Jagga but he wasn't fazed.  Likely fatalistic, career criminal living in the moment.  Make hay while the sun shines.  Cheerful thought.  Soon I'd smoke the sun, ingest uncanny luminance, chemical dance round brain-stem maypole.

Passing by the bin and out the door, my arm was half-nelsoned and throat choke-locked.  In one smooth move I was tripped and flung down, police jujitsu.  Men were shouting in my ear to spit it out, spit it out.  From the ground I could see the dainty feet of a WPC who gazed down smiling, fondling spray cannisters on her utility belt.  Yeah...the little dog laughed to see such fun.

David Gillanders pics

Jack and Jill

David Gillanders pic

Jack and Jill were a couple aged mid-late 20s. They had dual income and no kids but often spent too much on drugs. One day Jonny visited, arriving in a new black Audi. Jonny was a member of the Kalashnikov Mansions Posse, a drug gang. He proposed to Jack they set up a skunk growing op in the couple's flat. The KMP would capitalise it, maintenance was minimal, and later they would share the crop. The main risk would be if anyone outside the loop got to know. So Jonny put heavy emphasis on silence.

"Don't tell anyone. Fucking ANYONE."

Jack agreed. Jill went along.

Two weeks before the skunk was due harvest, police entered the couple's little home, seized everything and placed Jack under arrest.  Bailed him prior to appearing in court to answer serious charges.  A bad day turned worse when Jonny and the KMP came to know. They went ballistic, almost literally.

"WHO FUCKING GRASSED?"

These dudes crashed into Jack and Jill's life and rendered it down to fragments, looking for the intel leak. The couple were dragged over coals and questioned in minute, repetitive detail. They both broke down, claimed to know nothing, but the gang were merciless.

"Fuck it, we still want paid. And we want the squealer...you fucking slags."

The KMP were a street search-engine. Mined every corner of the scene, noted details of everything, cross-referenced statements of anyone remotely associated. They said no-one need fear, if innocent - but talk. Or suffer Spanish Inquisition by Russian Roulette. Wicked heavy pistol held at the face. Hammer drops dry but after a few spins, even big boys bubble.

The Posse never 'officially' solved the mystery, but didn't stop persecuting Jack and Jill.  Stress melted Jill's mind and her drug use soared.  Paranoid delusions and a persecution complex led to hospital. Released to re-addiction and a family helpless. Admitted to long-term rehab, then rehoused in a council tower block.  She began working as a street prostitute with other girls from there.  Not for the paltry pay or insipid drugs.  For the company, mostly.  No-one else to be with, nowhere else to go.

Jack got twelve moon, served six in prison. Released, he took up IV heroin, sharing needles in the homeless hostel. He ran up debts though still owed from inside. One day, paramedics used Narcan to revive Jack from overdose on the pavement outside the hostel. He cursed the paramedics, cursed Narcan, cursed the world. Later that night he was found dead behind some wheeled bins near the hostel.

So who informed? Well, it could be speculated that a KMP member traded the skunk op in exchange for unofficial leniency on a class-A possession charge. Not a bad deal, but don't tell anyone. ANYONE.

What about Jonny? He's around. Got another Audi, metallic blue.

Boogie pic

Sister Morphine

Five am; nothing left on TV except ads for phone sex and fake gems.  Another day passed with no drugs taken.  Congratu-fucking-lations.

Although, the family are going away for a few days tomorrow.  I'll be left alone, susceptible to relapse.  Reasoning of the little voice, devil on my shoulder.
 
Why postpone the inevitable?  Right now is as good a time as later.

I assemble the kit.  Still got a ton of morphine tablets; no excuse to score so many.  Definitely no excuse to inject them.  Pure sick indulgence.

Peel and crush three 20mg MST.  Add a water ampoule, stir.  Filtering the sludge always takes awhile; an alprazolam aperitif will help pass time and blunt incipient self-contempt.

Finally get the cloudy solution sucked into a 2-ml barrel.  Intermediate stage, but handling the 2-ml makes me salivate.  Fifteen years ago, that syringe would be half-filled by a golden, viscous speedball mix.

Oh man...but let us be thankful for what we have.  Which, after a clarifying heat and filtration into a new 1-ml tool, is a thick but clear-ish shot of morphine.  Few drops left in spoon; could contribute to the next shot, if there is one.  Quite likely.

Poke it...when it registers crimson, I take it very slow.  Trickling the solution in 10-unit increments.  Between pumps, I gaze at the muted Adult Babestation TV channel, where 'Sexy Amber' writhes coquettishly, tempting premium-rate calls.  Amber is unusually pretty for free porn; her hot outfit charges the fetishistic intensity of the injection process. Thanks, darling.

Settle back, sigh.  That was stupid, all things considered.  Well...relapse in haste, repent at leisure. Or something like that.

David Gillanders pic

Black Stars

The sky is primer-grey grim. The streets and houses, moody darker grey. Some social-housing project, shitty. Never been here but I'm roaming these streets to connect. The vibe is bad but I'm sick to my soul. Got to keep on, but no-one's around to ask for help.

Rubble and trash everywhere. Finally I come across some men, dressed in dark military uniform. One regards me with wry amusement. Maybe an officer, though no badges.

"Do you know where you are?"

He's holding the shoulder of a guy wearing a beret tilted back. Grabs the the guy's jacket collar and yanks it down broad shoulders, restricted by cuffed wrists. The officer points to an arc of black stars tattooed across the upper back.

"That means he's an assassin."

I study the killer's face, stoic and blank. But he's staring down a long street...telling me the shit I need is that way.

I walk and walk. Feel worse and worse. This whole place seems abandoned, but I just know stuff's going on. I hear a sudden noise, something landed in the weeds nearby. It moved too fast to see, but now I hear a rattle. A metallic snicker...I turn and run.

Back in my room, head bursting. Wretched and hopeless, so cold now.

Some men enter, carrying cloth sacks which must weigh 20 kilos each. Swarthy and tawny, the men wear robes and hats in the style of the Golden Crescent area. They put the sacks in my wardrobe. The eldest approaches, smiling warmly. He has a white beard and twinkling eyes.

"Cash, we know you are cool. We trust you to store this. Just take what you need for yourself, that is fine. There is plenty."

My heart explodes with gratitude and I trickle tears of pride, a kind of love. Of course I won't betray the old man's faith in me. Soon I'll have relief. Can almost taste it, smell it cooking.

When I awake, I'm actually opening the wardrobe door. There are no sacks. I thought there were sacks and I thought I'd get cured. Of course not...there's only a rack of flight jackets and winter parkas. They can't keep me warm, now.

Homage To A Dealer

Big-Man's pony-tail tickles my nose as I lean forward in the saddle, stuffing wadded money in his pocket.  He shifts a bit, mumbling to a tiny phone, dainty in his chunky paw.  I wriggle too, re-buckling my belt to safely stash an ounce of moon-rock heroin.

Sunlight glitters on Big-Man's thick gold bracelet as he twists the throttle.  The Honda surges to a sprint, crazy easy.  Two wheels, two kliks a minute, too hot for helmets.  The jungle is a thrilling green blur; I grasp Big-Man's solid shoulder and gaze at the horizon haze.  The machine gobbles road so all being well, I'll make it back by sundown, cream for every cat.

First slurp for Top-Cat, tasty bowlful: Big-Man's gear is always boom.  He doesn't use himself, a dues-paid pro.  He does have vices; slowing down so he can live to place another silly bet.  But he's all you could want in a dealer, a total man.  So framed; more real than his shiny bike, his 22-ct gold, the paper pumped in pockets, the birds and beasts inked blue on tawny skin.  The only thing more substantial is his product: heroin rules, eternal.
 
No homo - I don't fancy him or anything.  But his knowing laugh is a drug in itself, or maybe foreplay to a dose.  Usually when I call, he growls in deep affirmative, lighting-up my brain like Xmas.  Seldom he announces empty, a soul-sinking sound.  I know the whole clan, they're all sweet.  His wife is soft for me and his nieces act mad flirty.  I guess these chicks admire me, but I dig respect from dudes: gangster love.  I'd probably enjoy prison, haha.

Might find out soon, I reflect as we merge with city traffic.  Bus station's a place where police may pounce.  Paranoia shielded by Ray-Bans, I hop off the motorcycle.

"Cool, Big-Man.  Same time, same channel?"
"Ha.  Just call!  You know me."

Eyes twinkling, he cocks a mitt for the trade-mark hand-shake.  Slap!  It's like a racquet serve.

I wander un-suspiciously to the bus stands.  Some guy chilling by the taxis wants words.

"That man who dropped you here?  He's a really great guy, a very good person."

I want to praise that pukka poison, but I doubt this dweeb knows those angles.  So I just agree.

"We love him...right?"

Eugene Richards pic

  

Demon City Destiny

Connaught Circle in New Delhi, India.  I was staying in a charming run-down shithole nearby, infamous and verminous, hippie rainbow murals long covered by flaky layers of Asylum Blue.  A wise-guy room-boy presciently recommended a left-behind book titled "Trainspotting".  He assured me I'd like it, smiling at my clueless scepticism.

November 1994: the Hindu Divali 'lights' festival going full tilt.  I waded in thick, wandering the thronged streets, stunned and dazzled by constant firework detonations.  No idea I would soon meet my guide to the Underworld.

A conversation started with some street guys; a couple named Raj spoke good English.  One of the Rajs opened, cursing the bourgeoisie and their conspicuous waste of money on fireworks.  I wholeheartedly agreed, craven hypocrisy.  As the prosperous wound down, blew off final firecrackers and left in their jeeps, the truth emerged.  Raj, Raj and the ragamuffin gang were engaged in small time dealing, cannabis to tourists.  I was done with cannabis, although back-slipped to cigarettes.

Gradually, Raj baited the hook.  Mentioned the guys had lined up some heroin.  Should arrive shortly...?  I pondered trying some, just to chalk it off the bucket list.  Raj recited the statutory health warning.  Claimed this stuff is the ultimate bitch; I would become a junkie.  Inconceivable.  Raj smiled knowingly.

"I'll turn you on. Why not?"

I always did like getting lit up.  From dentist gas to speed; psilocybin to MDMA, via lots of wine and smoke.  Thought I was all drugged out by 23 and quit the lot, even cigarettes.  Began hiking, hill-climbing and went back to college.  Planned to get a life.  Destiny planned something else.

Later that Divali night, I was offered a line of white powder to snort.  The guys noted my good luck in trying top-quality number 4.  No charge: friendship.  I sat back with a ciggy to wait for another sound and light show.  Instead, everything just...glowed.  Subtle but rich; imbued lustre.  The hubcaps on an old parked car shone like polished heirloom silver.  Raj checked me out.

"Feeling it?  Oh yeah...good line.  Hey, we're going for some food in a while.  Coming?"

I wasn't hungry, but felt so lovely and mellow, up for hanging out.  Certainly...actually, the shadows and spookiness of the City Of Djinn* had receded somehow.  The fact that everything around was grimed and broken and the utter destitution of the fellows was really not an issue now.  Everyone was cool and sweet.  Loaded.

After I vomited up my food we all lay on blankets spread on the pavement, like at the beach.  Basking in the winter night, cosy from the inside out.  Under the arches of Connaught walkway, outside boutiques and banks, no-one gives a rat's arse.  No criticism, man; folk just wander by.  Like, if you want to lie in dust and garbage stoned on heroin, getting a midnight tan with the marginals, go for it.  It's on you, your Fate or whatever.

That's what I was vaguely thinking, while getting a leg massage from a chap called Pandit.  Western males don't usually share such tactile intimacy, but it felt amazing.  When in Rome and all that...hang-ups dropped.  We arose and wandered through wondrous smogs and cracker-smoke.  They introduced me to the night-people who gathered and played on the patchy grass in the Circle center park.  All kinds of cats, bizarre bazaar.  Hustlers, gamblers, schizos.  Shoe-glue, spirits, sleepers.  Exotic in dusty silk blouson and grey-green pin-prick viper-eyes, I was welcomed to the freak-scene.  I felt like the honoured guest at the after-party.  Actually, I felt like the character Max in the children's book "Where The Wild Things Are."  I had traveled far, boldly faced the Wild Things, danced their dance and befriended the monsters, who turned out to be sweet.  Even became their king for a night!  And it was all a dream.

Except.  In the book, Max wakes up.  I didn't.  Going back later to the guys, I hung out.  This time, they accepted my money.  Now, heroin wasn't white but brown.  Not snorted; melted on foil, inhaled by pipe.  Bitter treacle...hold the smoke in, brother.  Raj said I was a quick study.  One day, the powder was red.  Red?

"Yes, we call it Lal Kila.  'Red Fort'.  From the Red Fort area of Old Delhi.  Low grade...what to do."

I got ill.  Whether it was Red Fort, mosquitoes, pollution or what, I was brought down, hard.  So sick; fever, vomiting.  Aches, scary-feeble coughs.  Bad sign.  I crawled to a free clinic.  Didn't think to spend money on healthcare.  That would be bourgeois, or some scam.  The clinic diagnosed septicemia and pneumonitis, the cloudy chest X-ray told it true.  I could die.  Still, I didn't check in for treatment.  Just learned to pray, ride it through.  A word from the wise: leave Delhi.  Go somewhere clean, a nice beach.  Slowly I recovered; luckily I was young and fit.  Felt stronger for having suffered.  Things had got real for a minute.  But I made it home...that time.

What lessons were learned?  Heroin was delicious, as advertised.  Harmful, so stay lucky.  I went back to Delhi, many times.  Turned out heroin was here at home, too.  Cheap and good back then.  Friends and family were spooked and worried.  Protests were white noise to me.  New friends were made, and some old friends were into trying smack too.

How does this end?  It doesn't, really.  Just goes on.  I spent a lot of dough.  Became an IV poly-drug user, liar and criminal.  Desperate schemer, veins collapsed, lungs scarred.  Busted in my city, then busted abroad.  Looking at mandatory life.  I skated away but lost my reason briefly.  Paranoia and despair; a gallows drop on infinite rope.  A Djinni had got me.

_________________________

*Djinn (or Jinn AKA Genies in the West) are a race of sidereal entities usually invisible to humans but may assume shape-shifting forms (especially animals).  They can be good or evil and it is believed they can affect humans, benignly protect or malignly possess.  Djinn can be roughly regarded as a type of demon or imp although their children are seen more as fairies, gnomes etc.  Delhi has been termed "City of Djinn."

Jumped

The curry wasn't too hot and the view was great. My hostess pointed over rooftops at a quartet of tower blocks. Is that the notorious housing estate? No, it's the other one. I was attacked there, late 90s. Those were the days! Ripping another piece of coriander naan, I recalled a day from dark times.

Seventh floor, returning with a couple cats from copping eighths off their hook. A figure came out a stairwell door and head-butted me. Hey, if you're gonna cop heroin in North Glasgow, you gotta get Kissed*. Goes with the territory, man.

My nose bridge crunched some, then dude grappled me. He gripped a small blade-thing so I grasped that wrist to restrain a stab. My free hand, fisted round an eighth, braced his collarbone. I saw my scoring connects enter their flat looking sad. The guy was their estranged cousin. Me and he twirled a mad reel round the landing before I thrust him away.

Entering the flat, I weaved through floppy nodders to the window, picturing escape. The view was a desolate plaza, where Twix wrappers fluttered in eddies like senescent butterflies. The mad cousin was banished from the trap but I should've known he would pursue me. He didn't give a fuck and nobody made him.

There was a stout plank used to brace the door against raids, a New York Latch. Wielding this, the nutter advanced with a face from grotesque Japanese theatre. He made as if to smash me.

"Hear you're saying I ripped you off?"

I shrugged but didn't flinch.

"Well, I fucking did."

He had taken £300 and left me in a tenement hallway. Usually he returned with a quarter. A couple days ago, he hadn't.

What to do but suck it up and carry on? The burn-artist's cousins were okay guys but weak. They berated me for switching biz from them to him. They all worked for a family mob; I couldn't know the rankings and dynamics. This fuckhead took over my account and no-one pulled my coat. I should've twigged; don't traffic with a hater. A despised pariah, cast out to juggle trade in stairwells and halls, pissing where he stood and cursing the residents right back.

Whatever. Long as there was daily bread, stop the monkey howling. But all things random come in time, sooner or later. After the loss, a slow walk home, looking up wishing you were even a seagull.

The crazy clown quit the act and spat himself an eighth, crouching to the task of taxing a new fool's weight. Our audience murmured, I shouldn't leave without my drugs. But no, I had them still. This wasn't about drugs, just twisted ego shit.

Precarious got normal plus a sort of happy ending. Or silver lining. A female hanger-out listened to the crew discuss the attack. She quoted them saying I handled myself not bad. Some flattery which heard well sound. Worth it all, the cash and chaos.

Naturally. Like I don't have shit to prove?

* Glasgow Kiss = head-butt

David Gillanders pic