northwood

Another squat in another place. Not the middle of London. It had been built with great attention to detail – you could tell. Such a shame – all those lovely houses boarded up and going to waste for long periods until eventually they were demolished and replaced with smaller, uglier ones.

The staircase was imposing. It sat in the middle of the entrance hall; solid oak. You could make such an entrance, sweeping down, like Scarlett O’Hara, to the admiring glances of whoever was waiting for you at the bottom.

Alternatively you could slide – the banisters were made for it – wide and polished lovingly until only a year or so before - but not on mandrax though. Better not to even leave the ground floor. Safer.

I was stuck back home – but it didn’t mean that I was going to stay there. Being hopeless – written off as a dead loss, gave me more leeway, which was nice. So long as I didn’t actually get arrested, I had more freedom to try other new things. If I went to the horrible new school, and eventually back home on weekdays, I could pretty much do as I wanted at the weekends. So I did.

I did mandrax, and tuinals, and black bombers, and I stayed at my boyfriend’s house to do them – a great rambling place, full of aunts and big sisters, and his slightly mad mother. Max’s father was a professor of medicine. He wasn’t there very often, but we knew where he kept the mandies. Max was tall and blonde and he made me laugh. Sex was much more interesting. I was beginning to see the point of it.

At the squat, if you followed your nose once you got through the big front door – the smell of dope would take you right at the staircase, and lead you to the kitchen.

Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young were playing “Our House” on the record player. On the table, the ashtray spit onto the oilcloth. There were scales, spoons, lighters and syringes scattered all over.

“Simon – for fuck’s sake – Mum said there isn’t long”

“Yeah, yeah – I just have to find a vein”

Simon’s eyes were the palest blue I’d ever seen. They were quite beautiful. When his pupils contracted, which they would do as soon as he’d found a vein, they’d be even bluer. His eyelids woud get heavy too, but they wouldn't detract from the blue.

We were sitting round the table, anxiously waiting for him to finish, so we could take him home. He was officially banned, but today it had been temporarily lifted.

The rest of him was as beautiful as his eyes. He was Jonty’s big brother. He wore floaty silk scarves – blues and greens mostly – and a second hand fur coat, and tight jeans. At nineteen he was way older than me. I could appreciate him from a distance, but he was too far gone to think of in any other way.

Jonty was sixteen – still at school with Max. We made an anxious little huddle, hoping the smack would get him back in time.

Simon pulled the tourniquet tighter, slapping his arm to make the vein appear, while Jonty held the lighter under the spoon to hurry things along a bit. Any of us could have done it – we’d seen it often enough.

Finally, he was ready. It was a miracle he’d found one – most of them were used up; collapsed from too many fixes. I watched as he checked the syringe. Air bubbles can kill. He held the end of the tourni in his teeth, to keep it tight, while he put the needle in his arm. Down went the plunger, gently at first, then slowly back up a little – you could see the blood mixing with the smack – then finally all the way in, and he let go of the scarf, and sank back into the chair as the rush hit.

We waited for a while, and then I headed for the door, to open it, as Jonty and Max gently pulled Simon up and led him out. Everyone was quiet. We weren’t sure it would work .

It wasn’t far – just around the corner really. We went slowly. Jonty and Max doing the walking for Nick. He didn’t really know what was going on, but he was upright at least.

Their mother opened the front door. She didn’t say anything. Her eyes looked red, and she was holding a glass. We trooped in, and stood, feeling awkward, in the big entrance hall. She looked at Simon, and then Jonty for a minute.

We followed her as she opened the door into the sitting room. It was huge. There were dark red rugs on the polished wooden floor, and the walls were lined with bookshelves. There was a fire burning in the grate, and on the mantelpiece above, you could see a row of heavily embossed invitations. To one side of the fireplace was a large basket.

She watched as the boys led Nick over. They crouched next to the basket, pulling Simon gently down with them. Simon looked blankly at the old dog, lying there.

I felt embarrassed. I shouldn’t be here. I looked away.

After a minute I heard her heels going across the floor and I looked up again. She was crouching down too, stroking the dog

“Simon darling”

You could hear she still had a faint accent

“”Simon?”

She was peering into Simon’s pale blue eyes, looking intently for any sign of understanding. Jonty put his hand on the dog’s head – she was beautiful – an irish wolfhound. She was dying, She didn’t even wag her tail – she just lay there, with her eyes wide open. He looked at his brother.

“Mum”, he said gently.

She was crying silently as we led Nick back out. We closed the door quietly and took him back to the squat.