Overdose down at Clinton Smiths Crack &; Smack Den

OVERDOSE AT LEGO-LAND

Clinton Smith's den is on the fifteenth floor of the high rise. I
announced myself over the intercom and was met by the customary
guttural snarl Clinton emits when he's just been awoken or snapped out
of a gouch. Into the foyer and then into the pissy, shitty, vomit
stained lift. I press the keys for the 15th - going up. The door is
locked from the outside, fortunately this means that Cheryl, the
mentally ill prostitute that Clinton pimps out is on the beat. She's
probably blowing some punter for a fiver in an alleyway, or hustling
passers by for money or fags. I have to climb through a broken window
on the next landing to enter, I go into the bedroom room to find
Clinton gouching out, turning to face me he gives me that crocodilian
smile of his. "Hey, Hey Benny boy...what ya sayin'" Clinton's yard is
always a real state. Ashtray's brimming with butts, empty bottles of
cider and used syringes half full with blood litter the place all over.
Like most old time junkie's Clinton has missing teeth and has that
strange smell about him that you find unique to those that prefer to
dig their gear. At twenty-nine he's totally gray and always wears a
cap, so he's not too conspicuous to the law. "What we after then?" "One
of each?" I question him, then changing my mind," No fuck it two light
and a dark." His face lightens.

"Wait here, I'm out to phone My' Out back in ten, bumba clat....... In
a bit!" With that he takes my crumpled dosh, puts on a gross and filthy
looking Hawaiian type shirt, his trademark white baseball cap and
swings out the window cat burglar style.

Clinton was from a large family originating from Newark. His brother
Darryl was inside for stabbing a security guard in the face with a
dirty works, then casually telling him he was positive for Hep C. His
sister Maggie Fisher was also a long-term user, infamous to
Nottingham's drug treatment fraternity for whipping a leading
consultant in the addiction field, with a dog lead after he turned her
Methadone script down. They weren't the type of people you'd usually
invite for tea -nasty pieces of work when they wanted to be. Clinton
and me had a mutual respect going on though. He was a prolific reader,
although certainly not too discerning, most of the time. Give him
credit though, there weren't that many old school smack heads could
have devoured the entire Penguin Modern Classic's collection with such
enthusiasm as he had. Of course this wasn't by design, he nicked it
from Waterstone's for some student to make a raise. When the student
didn't turn up, he spent hours round the pubs on the Green trying to
find a buyer to flog it to. That's how we met. I ended up taking a book
at a time of him and during those endless hours he spent in the frozen
world of the skag-thaw he had some how managed to read the majority of
the titles. We'd sit round his place talking about 70's rock icons,
films, books and tales from his time spent doing 'bird'.

His home life had been tough. The usual story of violent alcoholic
father, battered mother and sibling interfighting had made up what
little of what he could call childhood. Like him, throughout Britain
there is a forgotten class of millions, whose life is full of the
misery and drudgery of poverty, crime, dereliction and desperation. No
wonder the sink estates are awash with heroin and crack, who blames
those who want to escape?

My own deep-seated melancholy and sadness, made me relate to people
like Clinton; I felt a brotherhood, a togetherness and rebellion
against our depressing conformist modern lives whenever I was in his
company.

I'm steaming off the Super's by now but this doesn't stop me cracking
another can. I look out from the window onto the derelict John Player's
factory on Alfreton Road and then to the site where Raleigh used to
make their once famous bicycles. In the past lad's like Clinton would
have found work in the once thriving manufacturing industries I
surmised, or Nottingham's renowned textile base - much like Arthur
Seaton the anti-hero in Sillitoe's, "Saturday Night and Sunday
Morning".

Areas like Radford or St. Anne's had real community spirit once, now
they were just ghetto's for drugs and wasted human potential, very sad
really. There was no hope for the likes of Clinton; prison was a
blessing that saved lives for those in his situation. I walked over to
the opposite window and you could just make out the lavish mansions on
the 'Park' estate, no property there for less than ?250,000 or perhaps
?80,000 for a tiny studio flat, just 10 minutes walk away but a million
miles out from the world of Highcross Court. Now, there was nothing but
soul destroying call-center jobs for under employed graduate's or
underpaid retail positions in the service sector for the lucky few that
could get a job.

I waited for some time, hanging on for the noise of the lift. It was
always at the back of my mind whether he was going to skank me or not,
or have one of his violent turns. He usually inflicted a good few
beatings a week on Cheryl. However, he had not disappointed me yet and
a good twenty-five minutes later he sprang through the window, with an
impish grin on his face.

"Got, stopped by the Babylon didn't I...in the fucking phone box
talking to that man My'Out. Police got tipped off cause some spam
was trying to get the money out, about five minutes before I arrived.
Gave a false name and date of birth, good job they didn't recognize me.
Searched me as well, cunts, good job I didn't have my works on me, eh!
Don't want to be spending my next birthday inside again. It was
tight..."

He then sat down, lit a fag to get some ash and placed the two tightly
wrapped stones on a coffee table, while he took a curvaceous glass
crack-pipe from a small leather bum-bag.

One thing about Clinton that pisses me off is that he always has to be
first on the pipe, no matter how much dough you've spent or how many
rocks you've got. If you've ever smoked crack you'll know why this is
such a bind. After a while you've fried your dopamine receptors and
primed them in anticipation for when the bitter tasting smoke is
absorbed through your membranes and that orgasmic rush fills your head.
Watching someone else burn first is pure torture, you want it and you
want it now, longing for that 30-second rush!

"Mmmmm.... That's hit the spot," states Clinton almost like he doesn't
mean it. I begin to shake as he passes me the pipe over, I raise it to
my mouth, flame it and inhale as the stone slowly deliquesces into
magical white smoke. Woooooosh! We burn a few more pipes, chasing the
ecstasy of that first rush before the flaky rocks are gone. Clinton
then takes the pipe trying to scrape some plasticy recycle to no avail.
He then uses one of the cheesy stock of well-worn phrases that make up
his conversational routines. "Well it soon comes and it soon goes," he
grins.

Smack and crack are the most congenial of bedfellows. Where you find
one, your guaranteed to find the other, these days. It's not like in
the 80's when crack was the preserve of the black community and heroin
most abundant in Glasgow or Edinburgh tenements and slum council
estates of the decaying northern cities. You'll find them everywhere
now, transgressing boundaries of class, money or creed. Whoever thought
of selling 'Light' and 'Dark' together was possessed with divine
ingenuity. A brilliant combination, the ultimate double act - a stroke
of marketing genius. You get high, you go low, up and down, round and
round you could endlessly perpetuate the cycle.

"Sort out the dark then, yoof", I'm dying for a chase of brown to calm
by agitation and craving for more stone. As he sorts out the bag,
there's a noise at the door as Cheryl storms in. Wearing a wig, high
lace up boots, bright red lipstick and a PVC mini, she's surely a most
hideous sight to behold. She's sweating like an ape and sick from
withdrawal. Shattered from her endless marching up and down the
promenades surrounding the Forest recreation ground, scouring for a
punter. Often, she'll talk of the devils and demons that torment her,
telling her to smoke more and more crack. She's in an ongoing cycle
that continually feeds the psychoses that govern her daily
existence.

"Clinton! Clinton where are you?" shouts the bint. He just rolls his
eyes and when she comes into the bedroom asks her how much she's made.
The poor cow, began to stutter, looking nervous as she counted out
about ?7, a fiver and some change. Clinton's eyes flash red with real
hatred and he goes to strike her with a sharp backhanded slap. She
stumbles back, trips onto the bed and squeals, sobbing pathetically.
"What the fuck is this shit, you horrible black whore! That's two day's
now you've made less than a tenner in the afternoon's this week, get
back on that beat and don't come back until you've done something
proper....you black bitch!" "Can I have my hit first, I'm rattling
sweet boyfriend......" Clinton goes to strike her again and I'm feeling
uneasy and wanting to leave. I hate it when they get like this. This
time he smacks her right across the forehead, her head flying back
against the wall with a thud. This seems to soften him, and in shock
Cheryl stops crying. "Alright, alright you horrible, horrible piece of
shit - I'll give you 40ml now, then your back on that beat, but I'll
kill you, fucking murder you unless you come back with a least 40 quid
later.......you know what will happen." "Clinton, please leave it out
you cruel bastard," I stammer. He glares back," Any more from you cunt
and she'll not be the only one getting slapped. Keep out of
it........." He then opens the leather bag, produces a caked spoon,
three unwrapped works and his citric box. He looks over and smiles.
"Ben, there's not enough to go around if you smoke it, so you'll have
to have a dig if you want any. Besides got no more foil.........." He
holds one of the works up to the light and pronounces it clean.

"Lovely, got a nice clean needle for you here. Your going to love this,
you won't want to smoke the fucker ever again. Better than sex, they
say......like in that film Trainspottin' innit," he laughs. I swore
that I would never, ever, ever pin-up but something was different
today. I was stressed by the shouting earlier, the Supers were starting
to wear off and I felt scared, depressed, almost suicidal. What's more
I was still wired from the pipes and was longing for the warmth of the
dark to soothe me, wrapping me up in the cloaks of oblivion. I
considered the risk of HIV and other blood borne infections, but these
considerations paled into insignificance for my desire for the
moment.

"It's entirely up to you Ben.......your choice. But, I know you'll love
it. Your a born junky Ben Parker like me - and now's your initiation."
"That works - it's definitely clean, is it?" "Your a healthily living
lad Ben, I'd do nothing to harm you. Besides, I've got nothing horrible
anyway..........trust me. Here hold out your hand." I closed my eyes as
he drew back the dropper and then almost gently caressed my hand,
looking for an injection spot. He told be to pump to get my veins up,
and then close my eyes. I never really felt the prick just the
sensation as he pulled the works out of my hand and the smack course
through my bloodstream. I then felt the rush in my head, a beautiful
wondrous feeling of peace, of euphoria. Like when I first used to
drink. Clinton was observing lovingly as I started to gouch slightly
and then said, "Your a proper Junky now" laughing to himself. "That
works..........it was clean, Clinton?" "How many times.........don't
ask a fuckin' 'gen" He then sorted out Cheryl's hit and kicked her out.
"I've told you once and this is the last time, bint. I want you back
here with some proper dosh.......don't come back here with less that
forty!" He then retreated to the downstairs sitting room to probe for
one of the few veins he had left to use. It normally took him 15-20
minutes before he'd get it and you didn't want to disturb him while he
was on the job.

I was shocked with myself for allowing it to happen so quickly.
Intravenous drug use had been a taboo I'd never thought I'd dare to
cross. It was a low point in regards to my self-respect. Clinton was
right; I was no more than a dirty, filthy junky like him now. This
granted I felt a strange perverse elation at my new found level of
self-abuse, I'd transgressed the final frontier of drug abuse and there
was to be no turning back now.

My mouth was bitter from the citric and rusty metallic taste of the
gear, but I felt so warm and contented. My feelings of disillusionment,
fear and depression subsided, nothing mattered anymore - my situation
at work, nothing whatsoever could break the magic of those opiates and
endorphins blacking out the fear, reassuring me and softly soothing me
into the world of gouch. Smack was to be both my savior and nemesis
combined. For years, I'd been looking for something to replace alcohol
as my drug of choice. I'd been drinking so heavy but never recapturing
the magic of those early days of ethanol intoxication. Booze, didn't
work anymore it was simple, but this was the Holy Grail I'd discovered,
a new era had begun.

Clinton returned up the stairs, beaming. "I knew you'd like it......you
junky cunt!! Ha! Ha!" At this moment I felt a feeling of over whelming
love for the guy, he'd taken me to the promised land after all.
"Respect brethren," I cried as we shook hands, clasping tightly. I
opened a pack of ten Lambert &; Butler and offered Clinton one and
lit up myself, taking a swig from the can of Super I'd still got on the
go. Minutes later I was rushing to the toilet, projectile vomiting
everywhere and feeling very, very sick.

"That's normal Ben, don't worry, doesn't mix with you drinking
see....try not to have a fag for the next few hours either...or you'll
be chucking up all night long." I thanked him and then told him I
wanted to go to the cash point then get some more gear. He readily
agreed although he told me to behave with caution, as I would be still
very sensitive to it. "We, don't want you going over and turning blue,
now Benny," he paternally pointed out. We climbed out the window, with
me almost stumbling of the outside ledge with my co-ordination
temporarily deserting me. Then off down the Green to the cash point,
"To hell with it we'll get a couple of rock's as well," I said in
jubilant smack fueled exuberance. "Nice one, bumba clat"

After scoring I went back to his yard, smoked a few pipes and had
another couple of hits. By 11pm I was shattered, gouching off my head,
slurring and slouching all over the shop. "Come round tomorrow and it
will be my treat Ben, giro day of course....see you 'bout 12pm"
"Respect, Clinton.....in a bit" I walked down to Southey Street and
collapsed into Sam's flat, spewing several times over her drive in the
process. I'd never felt like this before. It was like the feeling when
you lose your virginity; a stark finality had overcome me.

"What kind of state's do you get yourself into Mr. Parker, eh?" she
first coolly bollocked me, Then she noticed I'd gone a funny greenish
colour and knew that it wasn't just alcohol I'd been taking. I slumped
into bed I told her about the injections. "You stupid fucking bastard.
Was it a clean syringe?" "You really have a death wish, it's bad enough
with you and the booze. Now injecting smack! ....A death wish you
stupid - prat........" I sighed and then drifted of although I woke up
during the night several times, being sick and feeling really ill. Work
would be out the question tomorrow, all the better to go round
Clinton's. I told myself I wasn't ever injecting again.....like I used
to tell myself the same about drink. I drifted back off, dreaming of
dirty needles, infected blood and retroviruses in some maniacal
nightmare.

Next day, I got up at about eleven, slipped out the door for a quick
Super and made my way up Alfreton Road to crack land. When I got round
to the den, it was buzzing with the vitality that it only had on Giro
day. Beggar-type weasel man was there, his girlfriend Jess, Clint and
Cheryl. They were all preparing to cook up and had already scored.
Cheryl glares at me as I make my way up the stairs. "Clinton, Clinton!
What's he doing here.............he's not coming in on our pay day!"
Before she can say another word she's met with a lightening slap in the
eye from Clinton. "Ben...don't listen to the slag. Your always welcome
round here. I don't get many visitors these days because of that
thing," pointing at Cheryl and raising his hand again, "I told you last
night it would be my treat, matey. Ignore the rarse bitch" He passes me
a fat-pipe and I smoke it, feeling quite sick and tingly afterwards.
"Great gear, of f My'Out today....not too bi-carby," says Beggar-type,
his cheeks puffing out as he sucks on the pipe like some greedy
hamster. "Nice," I agreed. Clinton in the mean time goes to great
lengths to ensure that I see him opening a packet of brand new works,
deliberating as he rips the syringes from the packaging. He draws up
the liquefied brown into the dropper and hands over a 15ml washout. He
asks Beggar-type if he can do me as he's going into the bathroom to
sort his own out. Beggar-type grabs my arm with his blackened hands and
jealously admires my veins. In no time at all I'm gouching with the
rest of them, slumping into soporific bliss. Later, Beggar-type asks me
if I'll go and carry a stolen video and TV from his pad up to the
'Generous Britain' to sell, I agree and we set of for Braidwood Court,
the most notorious of the high rises in the city. Beggar-type weasel
you won't be surprised to know is a street beggar. In fact he's one of
the most skilled at his profession in these parts. You'll see him
weaving in and out of the car park at Asda's poncing, thieving,
scrounging - he's a master at all these trades. On a good day he can
score a one-er with ease, the least he makes is thirty. He was up and
till recently just known as 'Beggar Steve' to Clinton and his little
posse. When I first met him though, the first thing I thought of was a
weasel though. He's nasal weaseling whine, shabby brown duffel coat and
long matted dark hair gives you the impression of something furry that
lives in a forest. Like most beggar types, he sports that long
cat-whiskery style of facial hair, which seems to be the essential
fashion for rough sleepers these days. One day round my yard Clinton
and me were waiting for him to come back with gear. He took ages. Fed
up, I eventually let out, "Where is that little weasel-faced bastard!"
We were both in stitches, falling about laughing. Since then it's
stuck, but Beggar-type doesn't mind at all. I think being called a
weasel gets you extra street cred in his business! Mostly, he is never
with out that most essential begging accessory, his canine companion
Manic. Manic, is the most filthy, mangy mongrel you could imagine and
is the most convincing evidence for the adage about dogs looking like
their owners you could dream of. The resemblance is more than striking!
His best of all blag is sitting on a bin in town. In preparation he
types in red marker on the front, 'Kill Me' in bold letters. Sympathy
works wonders when you're a beggar. I spent the next few day's round
the den after that - Rocking, piping, digging and gouching. Clinton had
sorted me out a filthy bed downstairs, with rank smelling sheets, but
it was a comfort anyway. On Sunday I went round to Sam's. She'd cooked
a delicious roast dinner for me; I devoured it along with some San
Miguel and a few whiskeys from her cabinet. I was restless, pissed-up
and started to annoy her. "Fuck it," I said, "I'm off where I'm
appreciated." Staggering out the door I stumbled and began an ambling
walk up to Lego land, I wanted a score. On the way I bought a couple of
cans of cider and some Charms, small cheapo Indian cigs from a grocery
on Birkin Avenue. I was rocking, rolling, steaming; my thoughts were
incoherent and disjointed. Into Highcross and the stinking lift, in no
time I'd swung into Clinton's yard and he greeted me with a desperate
look about him. "I'm roastin' Benny, proper..........Ain't had no gear
since you left....got any money?....come on Ben, you work, I've seen
how much you earn, sort us out, bumba!" Apparently Cheryl hadn't been
back last night and had spent all the money rockin' and pipin' round
Long'ise - one of the yardie posse who hated Clinton with a passion, or
any white bloke that was brave, or foolish enough to pimp a black girl
out for that matter. He was really rattling. Sweat was coursing from
his temples, pupils overly dilated and that manic negative energy from
the roast had taken hold of him. He was a loose canon now, anything
could happen at all. I swiftly handed him a twenty over and after
patting me on the back with real gratitude, he made his way off to the
phone box to score. I sat down on Clinton's chair, carefully removing
any of the spikes that were left lying around beforehand. I then
slouched drunkenly for a few moments, feeling weary from all the booze
and stuffing myself silly at lunchtime. The flat was surely a most
depressing place. Graffiti and rather uncertain stains laced the walls,
clothes thrown together in heaps without order, a few festering KFC
cartons and condom packets by the bed. I could be down Sam's watching
videos, helping her with her legal assignments or reading the Observer.
Beth Wright, blonde bombshell and office sack-queen had invited me to
West Bridgford rowing club for aperitif's and quiche at a company fund
raising auction. This saddened me somewhat, I'd wanted to bone her for
ages and this was an opportunity not to be missed. But, alas I was here
in this dingy, dark, flat through my own choice, no one else's. This is
where I wanted to be though, with my people, the 'underclass' if you
like, call them what you want. They knew all about hardship, pain and
desolation - not like the smart-suited office crew at work, with their
new convertibles, their nice new clothes and Sunday shopping trips to
Morison's. They knew nothing about this, real life. Life - the daily
routine of raising, scoring, scrounging and stealing the next fix, with
all the complex social interactions involved. That's what it's all
about for the forgotten thousands in this city. Clint bombs back
through the window. His eye's gleaming with anticipation of the next
hit. Hurriedly he cooks up and sorts me a larger than expected 40ml.
"Clint, will I be OK with that?" He ignores me, still roasting -
trapped by the rattle. "Quick hold out you're arm. Pump up........No
harder....that's better....I've got the vein." He fixes me and I relax,
feel like I'm floating. With haste he's sorted his works out and is off
downstairs to jack up. Heroin is a funny old drug. Of course it's the
cr?me de la cr?me of substances of abuse, the caviar of intoxicants,
but sometimes you don't know how it's going to affect you, or what's
going to happen. I stood up and took my customary glance out of the
window; the red brick streets seemed to have a beauty about them a
mystical glow. Suddenly I started to feel weak and lied down on the
bed. Brown pixels fused and danced before my eyes, my mind felt like it
was melting. Around the room shapes and shadows danced in front of me
on the walls, like some LSD induced experience. It was without the
intensity of a trip though, no fear, only beauty and peace filled me.
Gradually the brown dots became more and more prominent, multiplying
and moving to and fro like some amoebic entity had infiltrated my
sight. Soon there was nothing but a brown haze............feeling
sleepy.......gouching out...........blackness, peace. I awoke to find
myself fully clothed in a freezing cold bath, Clinton shouting,
punching, spitting at me - he was crying, crying his eyes out about
something. "Bumba, Bumba, you've alive........ That's the fourth time
you've come round now, I've heard of three times but never four, don't
pass out again as you won't come back. Wake up...don't close your eye's
again. I've been trying to get you back for 40 minutes now. Please
don't go over again." I stumbled up out of the bath, drenched, cold and
hurting. I opened my mouth took a deep breath and then a brown-red
liquid poured out from my mouth and through my nose onto the tiles.
Christ, I'd never felt so ill. I tried to speak back, but all I got as
far as was a mumbled monosyllabic drawl. My legs and co-ordination had
gone jellified; I was walking like an MS victim, or spastic child. "I
think you better have a look at yoursen, matey," he ordered me and
ushered me over to the mirror. My eyes were blackened and face cut from
where he'd been slapping and then punching me to bring me round. My
lips were blue and so were the whites of my eyes. I looked like I'd
done ten rounds with Tyson. "Sorry Ben, about you face. I had to do it
to get you round. I've saved your life you should be grateful. You're
never having gear around my yard ever again. Four times it took to get
you back....for fucksake you've alive!" He started crying again and
hugged me. No doubt that Clinton was genuinely distressed of course, he
was in bits. That to be honest though was more to do with the possible
repercussions that he would have faced if I had met my maker round the
den. Apparently he'd heard a noise from downstairs, I must have stood
up and then fallen over him alerting him to the danger. We he found me
he said that my face was completely purple fingernails tinged with a
hue of bluish-green and that I'd completely stopped breathing. He'd
tried everything, resuscitation techniques, the kiss of life, before he
finally managed to drag me into the icy bath. During all this time and
the ensuing panic he lost his hit. "Thank god you've come back Ben. All
kinds of things were going through my mind - how I was going to dispose
of the body, was I to dump you in a vat of acid or chop you into little
pieces, I was that scared. Most likely I'd have just cranked up 120ml
and joined you up at the pearly gates a few moments later. Well, that's
said I can't really see either me or you going there - we'd have been
going down blood clat, down!" It had been close this time; I suppose I
was lucky to be alive. Perhaps David Howe's prayers had been answered,
after all! I felt quite indifferent about this at this time though it
would have been so easy, I wouldn't have felt a thing. Anyway I know
that a heroin, alcohol combined overdose is probably the most efficient
method of suicide you could ever employ - you go out with the blissful
bang of the skag-hit and into the loving embrace of death - it's simple
and sweet. Clint's dragging me off to the hole in the wall now to
withdraw money and so I can replace his hit. I'm not really in a fit
state to protest. He tells me like he's some authority that I need some
crack to sort me out.

"You see, you've just taken a dangerously high dose of an opiate, a
downer. What you need to get inside you is an upper, some coke. It will
pick you up and make you feel much better??..init Blood" I mumble,
incomprehensibly and he guides me along the street, my co-ordination
still badly impaired. We're soon done and back at the flat. I sleep for
a couple of hours downstairs and am awoken by shouting from the
bedroom. All I can hear is growled Jamaican slang and Cheryl's
screaming. Long'ise has come round and is threatening Clinton with an
8inch blade. Clinton's brandishing a wooden plank with nails on the
end. I walk in and Long'ise back off, Cheryl see's my face she's
gobsmaked. Long'ise turns and looks back in horror, the bruises I'd
received in the bath were swelling glowing with tinges of yellow and
purple now. "What man did this? This man?" Long'ise enquires looking at
Clinton. Clinton explains and I back his story up. The situation seems
to have calmed down; Long'ise even offers me and Clinton a pipe, sits
down for a cup of tea and chats with us quite pleasantly before going.
Clinton then asks Cheryl if she knows who Nelson Mandela is. She
obviously doesn't have a clue and makes herself look really ridiculous
with Long'ise being there. "How about Marcus Garvey then, or Malcolm X
you hoe!" he probes further. She just gives of a perplexed look of
stupidity. "Now then Long'ise. Do you see what I have to live with? Eh!
The silly bint doesn't even know fuck all about her culture, she's
delirious. She thinks she's livin' in the ghetto with hip hop stars and
everything. Crazy! So don't come round here sayin' I'm beatin' her for
no good reason. It's for her own good. I look after her, she'd die with
out me Get sliced up, like when she last went out with that man,
Jade." Long'ise shortly goes and Clinton gives Cheryl a few slaps for
good measure, but his heart isn't in it today after all the commotion
earlier. I neck a few DF118's for the pain and swill a Special Brew.
Clinton and Cheryl silently sit on the bed, both exhausted, drugs have
gone now. Got to wait till tomorrow and so their hell can start all
over again. "Why do people die when they take drugs, Clinton?" Cheryl
asks innocently, "I thought drugs were meant to be fun. Jade died and
now Ben's almost died." Clinton looks at me and rolls his eyes. I slump
back, aching all over, feeling so weak and so sick now. The three of us
sit around and watch Beadle, or some other crap TV show. Faces drawn,
hungry and hopeless, aimless until tomorrow. Whoever told Cheryl that
taking drugs is meant to be fun, I laughed to myself, wincing as my
face muscles twitch with the pain of the beating.

Steve Thomas - May 2001, St Anns, Nottingham