heroin

Earlier that year, Zach had spent quite a lot of time in Nice with me. He’d come with some other friends, and then he had stayed on after they’d left, while he’d been trying to come off smack.

There were only a few doctors in England who gave out heroin replacement at the time. I think it’s all methadone now, but then, there was a dodgy GP under the Westway in Ladbroke Grove, who gave out pills called DF118s which Zachy said were much better. He didn’t really want to give up – he always justified his addiction by saying the only problem was with the illegality of it.

Heroin wasn’t bad in itself, according to Zach’s reasoning; he found it very helpful when he wanted to be creative and he said if he could have bought it over the counter, uncut, he would have stayed on it forever. So the DF118s were a kind of halfway house for him. Unfortunately, he was too generous with his pills - happy to share them around, mainly with me, so that was how we ended up stuck in France with none left.

They only did cold turkey heroin withdrawal in Nice, and Zach was adamant that wouldn’t be an option for him, which meant we spent a surreal couple of days across the border in Italy – it wasn’t far – wandering around dusty little backstreets trying to find a doctor who could help us.

Zach spoke no Italian and only a few words of French. I spoke French quite well but could only count to ten in Italian and say fuck off you bastard in Calabrian dialect – my friend Maria had taught me.

That was such a weird little trip – we must have interviewed at least a dozen doctors in a mixture of our broken French and their even worse English, with a lot of polite shrugging and hand gestures, but we had no luck, so in the end Zach had to go home, where he eventually gave up the visits to the GP and went back to smack.

Soon after Stephen’s funeral, it was my birthday. Zachy asked if I would spend it with him. I couldn’t think of a nicer person to turn twenty-four with, so I said yes, and it has stayed with me as one of those golden evenings – the kind you keep in a special place for the rest of your life.

I walked over – it wasn’t far. Hetty was just on her way out. She gave me a kiss and smiled as she left. Zach seemed a little preoccupied – he was probably the least practical person I knew, but it was clear he’d spent time and energy on this thing, whatever it was going to be, and he told me I had to do exactly as he said.

He had made a special compilation for the evening, which he put on the stereo. He was legendary at putting music together – it’s one of the things he’s known for now. He always did a mix of unexpected tracks, and they never failed to work beautifully. I am pretty sure this one had Jacques Brel, Francoise Hardy, the Velvet Underground, Lou Reed on his own and The Monkees, - was there Dusty Springfield too? And The Beach Boys? – I wish I could remember them all

It was like a game. I had to sit on the floor, with my eyes closed. I could hear him going into the little kitchen, coming back out again, and then he said ”you can open your eyes now”. I looked, and in front of me there were two boxes – one quite big, one really small. They were hand painted – that bright clear sky blue they use in illuminated medieval manuscripts, mixed with a deeper blue, splashed haphazardly with silver. They were done in oil pastels and silver ink – layers scraped away exposing the different colours to make random patterns.

I looked at him. “The smallest one first” he said. I lifted the lid and took out a small package wrapped in pale blue tissue paper. It was like pass the parcel, only I was the only person playing. After several more layers I got to my prize – a little wrap of brown powder. I knew what it was – I’d seen it a million times before but never tried it.

Zach had a mirror ready, and a razor blade. He made two lines. Then he said “now the big one”. It was heavy. I lifted the lid, opened the tissue paper, and inside I saw fireworks. There was a little garden just outside. I wasn’t allowed to help. I watched from the door as he arranged them.

Then he took me back inside and we did the lines. Zach watched me carefully – “you might feel a bit sick the first time” he said – he was right – I did – but it soon passed, and it was worth it for the rush. It was an amazing feeling – better than any other drug I’d tried. I could see exactly why he didn’t want to give it up.

We sat quietly for a while, listening to the music, then he took my hand, pulled me up gently, and led me into the little garden where we watched the beautiful fireworks streak up into the night sky