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 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 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 them 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, 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 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.  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, 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