CHAPTER 8
In one of Bailey's bed-sits addict dealer Jean-Paul woke up and shook his head, trying to clear the smog misting his mind from the previous night's using.
Pushing himself up on his elbows he surveyed the squalid room. A prime example of Baron Bailey's hospitality, complete with well-worn retro carpet.
The gear he'd scored yesterday had been good, way better than the usual he ended up with. Just a shame it had been a small amount and he'd only realised how good when it was nearly gone.
At least he still had enough for a couple of hits, the quality alone would ensure another day of heroin induced bliss. After years of using the high he searched for eluded him but this stuff had hit the button.
The duvet slipped down Jean-Paul's pencil thin torso and he felt an involuntary shiver.
As usual, freezing.
No matter what time of the year it was the places were always cold, the heating had to be on constantly. It was as if they had to make sure you were as poor as possible.
His eyes stopped on the small cellophane bag sat amidst the rubbish-strewn coffee table, reminded of his good fortune and the scowl turned to a smile.
The previous day had ended up prosperous, usually at this time he'd still have loads to get rid of.
Swinging his legs out of bed he headed over to the door catching a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror fixed to the back.
Things had been better once, he thought staring into the pale blue eyes. Once an asset they now made him look like a freak, the black dot being almost invisible gave him the appearance of a blind man. His once athletic figure was gone, the boyish face now gaunt, the complexion bad, and he was definitely in need of a bath, shave and haircut.
Ruffling his hair into some semblance of a style, he decided he needed to sort himself out.
In a couple of days or something.
Shuffling onto the landing he glanced round for any company before darting to the toilet shared with a couple of other residents.
Locking the door he cursed, same as he did everyday, standing on the freezing, ripped lino. Again he wondered why he left it till he was about to wet himself before getting out of bed, too late to put anything on. All he had to protect him from the chill were his well-worn boxer shorts.
Returning his manhood to the seclusion of his underwear he felt a few stray drops of urine too fast to stop, drip out, enough to send the wet patch sprawling across the nylon/cotton mix.
Cursing he opened the door and stood listening for any sound of life.
Nothing.
Racing down the corridor to the stairs he nearly collided with the plump girl exiting one of the rooms.
Masterfully he arched his back round and passed, leaving her unable to see the splash adorning the front of his shorts. In seconds he was in his room and slamming the door behind him wondering if they'd seen anything. He doubted it, she'd looked pretty shocked and he'd been in his own room quick as a flash.
Just then he heard the sound of giggling on the landing outside, listening he heard a voice.
"See, I've got to get out of here.
Was she on about him?
Looking at the mirror again he shrugged and headed for the coffee table. En-route he scooped up a pair of jeans and top, sticking them on as he looked down at the remaining drugs. Today his phone wouldn't be on for a while.
The spoon lay coated in a brown sticky residue left over from the night before, not that it mattered, it was a bonus.
Tearing off the cellophane wrapping from a syringe with his teeth, Jean-Paul began preparing his first hit of the day.
Ten minutes later, most of it spent locating a vein, he sat dreamlike, watching the television. A special feature on the news was discussing young runaways having to survive on the streets and their future prospects in life. It made J.P think about his own situation.
At the moment things didn't look good but he knew one day he'd make it.
Jean-Paul hadn't grown up on the Riverside though he'd been frequenting the area for over ten years.
Jean-Paul's Dad was a scammer back in his hometown, he'd stayed with his Mum for a few years but eventually he'd disappeared.
His Mother waited, and waited, before eventually started afresh with another bloke.
By then John-Paul was four.
The new fella couldn't get a job at home, so they ended coming to this end of the country. Soon they settled into a new way of life.
Then the kids starting popping out.
At fourteen he had two brothers, a sisters and another on the way. A little trouble at school and he'd become a hindrance, at fifteen he found himself living on the streets. A time he blanked from his memory.
When he hit sixteen he signed into a hostel, the location happened to be the Riverside.
As the months passed he got to know people.
Shortly after he had a small bed-sit.
Dole paid the full whack, by arrangement with the Turk, who was to be the first of many landlords.
In and out of jail, an escalation in crime alongside a spiral into heroin addiction, now he was seen as one of the locals.
Once rated, he was a shadow of his former self.
Kissing arse to the right person, receiving arse kissing from people he'd rather not.
That was his life, his reality.
With that thought the effects of the drug took over and he drifted in and out of consciousness.
