Always Read the Label Chapter 4 A Life on the Ocean Waves

Johnnie. You haven’t met him yet but it’s about time you did. I know it’s about time I did, it’s been a long week, and he’s the man to make it longer.
Like all good Northern Soul devotees, he's a speed dealer. He introduced me to Northern and speed and still supplies me with both, one on tape and the other in powder form. The first time I went to an all-nighter with him, I got home and wanted to wake my mum up to tell her how good it was, then hoover the whole house. She's away this weekend so I wont be able to tell her how much fun we have at the Hacienda, the ex-yacht showroom and venue of choice, when there's no all-nighter within reach.

It's Friday. Work and Vinny are all thoroughly washed off and an ever-fading grey memory. We’re off to the Hacienda and some colour - Me, Johnnie and Tommo. Usually we catch the train to Victoria, but tonight Johnnie’s driving, so it’s a meet up at my house. Tommo’s already here so we’re just waiting for Mr. Punctual: Johnnie.
He’s only an hour late so were not really bothered yet. This is his normal hours. Another half hour and we hear his Beetle screech to a halt outside. I open the door and it’s like a ball of energy knocking you over. Must have started early.

‘I’ve got some wicked gear, really strong. I’ve just had the biggest rush.’ That explains the driving then. ‘Have you got any magazines, I need to put some wraps together?’
This is all said in about half the time it takes to read it.
‘Alright Tommo, you’ve got to try this. It’s fucking brilliant - can I use this table? Have you got any scissors?’ Before waiting for a reply he clears the table knocking a well used ashtray on the floor and shrugging to say sorry. I go to get a cloth and find a magazine, leaving him talking like he’s on helium to a bemused Tommo.
I come back and he’s still at it, hardly noticing that I’m looking a little shocked at the golf ball sized bag of amphetamines that he’s placed on the table. He started off selling just a few wraps a week, but since he wrote off a bouncer’s car he borrowed (don’t ask) he’s been selling quite a bit more. I just didn’t realise how much more. Or didn’t dare think about it.
‘Here put this tape on, I made it last night.’ He really means early this morning. He doesn’t sleep at night. I asked him how he managed to keep his
inputting job at the Water Board and he told me when he started to nod off he went and had a line in the toilets. I asked him how long these lines were. ‘The length of the cistern by four
o’clock’ was his proud reply.
The tape’s good though, no sleep obviously doesn’t cloud his musical taste, nor his concentration as he cuts the magazine cover into small squares then folds them into triangles, pausing every now and then to glance at the now out of context pictures in the cut-up magazine.
‘I’m not wrapping it all up, just enough for tonight. This is a wicked track. I bought this in Warrington last week, forty quid on the original label. Mint condition. I’ve seen it some places for twice that. lf I weigh it out, you two can fold the wraps up.’

Off to work we go then. Just like any job it’s the reward at the end that makes you do it. He’s already rolling the note for the glistening plump lines that will help get us through the task.
The first few minutes hurt like hell, but everyone knows, no pain no gain. Then it’s just a few
minute’s of sniffing without blowing your nose, swallowing the vile/beautiful powder/catarrh mix
down your throat every time it creeps back out.
‘Right lets go then.’ Tommo, sounding like he has a sore throat. ‘Where we going first?‘
'Briton’s Protection.’ Johnnie, obviously after doing some business.

There’s a stereo in the car so we use the music to rush into the speed and our own little worlds. The music seems to seep into every pore and leave you lost, not in a bad way more like you’ve forgotten the need for directions. Or don’t feel the need to ask for any. I’ve always liked being in a car at night, and combined with drugs and the weekend feeling it takes over me totally, no need for any minor distractions like conversation. Just looking up as we approach the city centre seems perfect, the tall buildings stopping you seeing what’s behind them, so every corner's like a tiny surprise as a new view is revealed, throwing your thoughts about like a ball. Anyway, enough of this bollocks, we’ll be there in a minute so it’s time to re-acclimatise.

‘I’ll park near the canal then we can have another line.’ Johnnie, first one back to earth and totally in command of this ship, which he manages to dock without to much effort.
The lights in the car are turned off and he reaches under his seat for something. It’s a wardrobe mirror.
‘Where’d you get that from?’ Asks Tommo laughing at this boy scout preparation.
‘From my mums wardrobe.’
Of course we should have known. I’m always asking my mum if I can borrow her mirror. Not to take out with me though.

So the mirror's put to good use, though I can’t stop thinking of his mum getting ready to go out in half her usual mirror without wondering where it is, and we’re out of the car and heading to the boozer.
Inside it’s obvious we’re not the only ones (a) going to the hacienda and (b) already adjusted. We go for the mask of pints instead of the admittance of soft drinks and head to the only semi quiet part, the pool room. It’s already full of lads, a little too friendly towards us, not like we're used to used to seeing them. One of them nods ‘alright’. I know him from another bar we sometimes go to.
Jeff. Jeff the Chef. Looks like he never eats any of the food he prepares. Always in dark corners and not always serving just food.
He asks if we’re off to the club, waits for the answer and then asks if we need anything.
l Iook at Tommo and he looks away.
Initiative time. ‘Acid?‘ Thinking a shared tab might be quite funny.
‘No problem. Pete.’
He beckons his mate, whispers to him and without a second glance Pete pulls out a piece of tin foil the about same size as a cigarette packet and hands it to me. I pull back the foil and it’s purple blotting paper with lines scoured on it, forming little squares. A few more than I wanted. Maybe he'll split them for me.
‘There’s forty two tabs there instead of forty five, so you can have it for thirty quid.’
Must have a mouse in his pocket nibbling them. Still an unexpected bargain of an opportunity. I reckon I can sell these for three quid each.
‘Be careful though, I printed them wrong. I did both sides by mistake.’
I take this to be salesman making a dubious overreaching claim for his product, and hand him his thirty quid.
‘You're better off with Ecstasy. It’s a much nicer drug.’
I’m dying to ask him what the difference is, but to afraid to blow my supposed cool, so ask how
much they are.
‘Twelve quid each. Cheaper for quantity.‘
We have just been priced out of the party.
‘Thanks, we’ll just take the blotters. Maybe next time.’
‘Suit yourself', a shrug and ‘be careful with those tabs. Oh and don’t try selling in the club. That’s our department.’
We both nod a little too vigorously and say goodbye.

So where's Johnnie got to? A quick scout about finds him wedged down the side of the fruit machine in the main bar, talking really intensely to a half-caste guy. We wander over.
‘Alright? ‘
‘Yeah, sound. This is Errol, I know him from Warrington.‘
‘Greetings.‘ It’s easy to tell from Errol’s manner that they share more than a love of music.
The way he’s chewing his tongue and fidgeting gives him away. He’s friendly enough though and starts to tell us how he likes the Hacienda, 'but the music, man, there’s no feeling to it, it’s just machines.'
I agree with him. The music leaves me pretty cold at least initially, but the atmosphere is hard to find anywhere else.
‘We’d better get moving soon, or we’ll just end up queuing all-night.’
Good idea Tommo.
Errol’s staying though. He’s on the guest list, as he takes great pleasure in telling us. See you later then, and out the door.

‘Shall we share one of these tabs then?‘ I ask Tommo, thinking I already know the answer.
‘No, lets have one each. We always have half. It’s Friday night. Come on.‘
Maybe it was the speed giving us Dutch, or at least Amsterdam, courage, or maybe it was because we thought we were in with the ‘in-crowd’; well we knew someone who was on the guest list and the local dealers.
‘Alright then. Lets go to the car.’
At the car we tear two tabs off the sheet and put the rest into a cassette box. Johnnie was driving so stuck to just the longest line I’ve ever seen.
We both swallowed the tabs and set off to join the snake of a queue that had already formed, messing about to keep out the cold. As we edge in we see both Errol and Jeff the Chef’s crew walk brazenly to the front, nod to the bouncers and walk in.

At the door you get the once over. It’s humiliating, but once inside you’re glad you passed the test. Privileged. One of the chosen few thousand.
We head straight for the bar and get two bottles. The speed’s at it’s peak now and I’m thirsty, so down nearly half in one gulp, look around and just grin at the developing communal madness. There’s no talking you can hear, but something is being said, communicated.
Tommo seems to feel this to and we head away from the throng at the bar to stand on the gallery, where Johnnie has met up with Errol again and is trying to talk him to death. Obviously something important cos we only get the briefest of nods in acknowledgement.
From the balcony you can get the best view of people already lost in it, creating their own rhythms from the persistence of the enveloping soundtrack.
Just to our left is the closed off DJ booth that already has the obligatory trickle of punters trying to ask for ‘that track that goes...’ If they like their own choice of music so much why don’t they just stay at home and play it? You see, love and understanding. Tolerance.
‘Can you feel anything yet?’ asks Tommo as he turns from the freakshow.
I shake my head in reply.
‘Lets have a dance then.'
So we head down the stairs to be watched instead of watching. Prey instead of hunters. Where did that thought come from?
It’s easy to get into the music, just close your eyes and sway as something primitive takes over. It’s easy at first, then my legs get heavy and my arms get light.
I open my eyes to look for Tommo. I can't see him, which causes a wave of panic to swamp me from nowhere as I feel myself visibly tense, as if someone is pulling my head from behind. Not as if they're pulling me backwards, more as if they’re squeezing and trying to stretch my head into a longer shape at the back.
Drink. I have to have a drink. Now.
I try to avoid the other dancers, but seem to have a balancing problem. A clumsy balancing problem. Like I'm in an episode of the Krypton Factor for idiots. l make it to the path round the edge of the dance floor with only minor mishaps settled by half a dozen apologies and relax a little, breathing out heavily and try to remember where it is I’m heading in life.
Or is it just where I’m heading now? Anyway I decide on the bar and set off only to feel my arm is trapped. I try to pull it away but it is firmly stuck. I have no option but to investigate, so turn to see what is holding me back, my neck whirring like a motor.
It’s a giggling Tommo holding my arm and not, as I was convinced, a well laid trap from which I had no hope of escape.
‘Where you going?‘ he manages to cough out between laughs.
Just the sight of him laughing infects me and I lighten up and almost giggle (see I told you it was infectious).
‘To the bar’.
‘Can I come?’ almost pleading.
‘Yeah, if you rub hard.’
So we stumble, hampered by our laughter at this old, but for one night only gold, remark.
‘You’ll have to go to the bar,’ and hand him a fiver, 'I can’t handle the crowd.’
‘Good job we’re not in a busy club then.’
Was that a sarcastic reply as he’s swallowed up in the crush?
I lean against the wall at the bottom of the stairs. The dance floor's now full and looks to be bouncing.
Hang on, it’s not bouncing it’s breathing - in time with my own breathing.
If I suck in it goes up, if I blow out it goes down. How the fuck are people staying on their feet? I scratch my head and worry about this. I try to breathe less deeply to limit their potential injuries and feel a cold spot rise from my chest.
‘Here. You look fucked.’
This statement always helps.
It’s Tommo. He’s returned from his task and is pushing a beer into my chest.
That’s the cold spot solved then, but I’m still responsible for the dance floors antics and don’t want the responsibility. But feel obliged to breathe.
‘Lets go and sit down, The Gay Traitor should be empty. Come on .’
How is he holding IT together? Whatever IT is.
I realise he’s not though when he heads up the stairs to the balcony.
I tell him when we reach the top that the bar is downstairs and we head straight back down again, this time on target. The Gay Traitor is quieter than the rest of the club and still has a few empty tables, one of which we try to sit down at in a dignified manner, foiled only by Tommo missing the chair at his first attempt.
We drift into silence as we acclimatise to sitting down.

‘Is it working yet?’ I ask him as my focus drifts from infinity to close up.
‘No not at all.’ He says this without looking away from the back wall which he’s using as a screen for projecting puppets with his hands.
‘Are you sure?’
‘No, not really.’ as his attempt at a rabbit gives way to a bird.
‘You know when he said that that acid was double strength, do you believe him?’
‘I’m starting to.’ says Harry H. Corbett, putting his performance on hold and taking a swig on his beer.
I don’t think he’s realised what he’s doing.
In an attempt to look normal and fit in, I copy him and have a swig from my bottle only to find it tastes like shit. Totally foreign to my mouth.
As I’m trying to force this foul liquid down, a shadow is cast across me and in what feels like the minute it takes me to focus, starts to speak.
‘You two look absolutely fucked.’
The voice seems to come from the other side of the room, so I sneak a glance expecting to find a ventriloquist with me as his dummy. Christ it’s turning into Children’s’ TV down here. Bring the adverts on please.
In the commercial break I realise that it’s Johnnie leaning over the table who is speaking. I’ve forgot what he said. Have to rewind then.
‘What? ‘
‘Never mind. How long have you been down here?‘
This is a tough question and I screw up my face trying to think of the answer. I’m impressing him, I can tell.
’Do you want another drink?’
Again this is a difficult question. Yes or No. Hmmm.
‘Yeah, but not lager.’
‘What do you want then.’
World peace. Freedom This acid to stop. Or at least calm down.
‘Something else.’
This impresses him even more and he heads to the bar. How will he know what I want? Has he read my speech bubbles?
Tommo is sat swivelled in his chair trying to get a light for his fag off the next table. l don’t think they understand him until he points at the unlit cigarette.
What a good idea. ‘Can I have one?’ I ask as soon as he turns back to our table. He nods and passes me one from a crumbled box, then the lit cigarette to light my own. l pass him the unlit ciggie and this foxes him. Then he turns back to the other table and goes through the same scenario again. At least I think he does, cos I seem to come back in as he’s turning back with a lit cigarette.
‘Here.’ It’s Johnnie bearing gifts.
I’ve got a bottle of Appletize, the other two beers. That’s much better as it hits my throat. I take a drag on the cigarette, and it’s like a mini
firework, crackling. Those two start talking and I start floating away in a life on the ocean waves.
‘What the fuck are you doing?’ The ventriloquist's back.
‘I’m stopping the bottles from falling off.’ What does he think I’m doing?
‘Sit down. You look a right dick.’
‘It’s better than having smashed glass everywhere.’
The bar, possibly the whole club, has turned into a ship. The waves are rocking it and I’m trying to stop the bottles falling off the table as it tilts. What does he mean, what am I doing?
‘Sit down. The bouncers are watching.’
This forces me to drop anchor and attempt to dock. It also makes me very paranoid. I peep up and see that there is indeed a bouncer near the bar and he looks to be having a great time telling another penguin what he just saw. Which was me. Would he rather I let the glass smash? I don’t think so.
Tommo looks like he’s on a different planet even to me. We're both meant to be on the same wavelength. Well drugs at least.
‘I’ve got to go.’
‘Me too. l'm fucked.‘
I was wrong then. He just doesn’t look how I feel. He feels how I look.
‘Lets go.’
Only one obstacle: Johnnie. He’s had enough speed to fuel a weekend and won’t go without a fight.
‘Come on, there's only half an hour to go. Pull yourself together.’
What does he think I am, a pair of curtains?
‘Alright.’ is all I can manage in resignation to our lingering fate.
He heads off, probably to find someone he can actually converse with. Probably anyone but us two.
‘Lets go upstairs.’ Says Tommo from across the Captains table.
Seems like a good idea, so we head across the tilting bar, past the still snickering bouncer(he’ll throw out on that story for a long time) and slowly up the steps. As we climb, I realise I’m grinding my teeth. Strychnine. Rat Poison. A filler ingredient in cheap acid tabs. Pleasant. Eek.
When we get back to the main part of the club there’s been a change of pace and atmosphere.
It’s not just me, cos other people look nervous.
‘What’s going on then?‘ A strangely coherent me asks a nearby best friend that I don't yet know.
‘There’s just been loads of trouble.’
That’s good because I thought the bouncers were simply following me. Doesn't look like I'm getting any more info, so I push forward till I see Johnnie, who I ask the same question.
‘Someone got stabbed, on the dancefloor.’
‘What for?’
This question earns me a sneer from Errol who is stood at the side of Johnnie.
‘Lets go then, before it kicks off again.’
‘Yeah. Do you want a lift Errol?’
He does, so we head out together, with Errol letting on to whoever he deems cool or important enough.

Outside its freezing, so it’s a rush, in the more traditional sense, to get to the car.
Once in the car the change of music and relief that we’re on our way home to dry land is enough to start to relax me. I put my head back and shut my eyes, only to feel like I’m falling through the back of the car, via the boot, jerking back up just before my head hits the road. No one seems to notice this, or they choose to ignore it. Which I wish I could. Anyway I manage to stay in the car and the further we go, the more I relax. By the time we pull up at Errols place in Whitefield I’ve let go of the seat edge.
Errol climbs out and simply nods at us before adding 'get some sleep.' Johnnie also gets out and pops into his house to return two minutes later clutching a videotape without any cover. Tommo asks him what the video is.
‘Porn. Home-made.’
‘Oh.’ I just prey it’s not Errol in the starring role.
‘Are you hungry?’ Johnnie obviously is.
‘Not really.’ Tommo replies. ‘I could do with some fags though.’

I'm still trying to reply as we head for the all-night garage, that familiar last port of call. I’m sure whoever works there tries to make them look like they’re closed, hoping to deter custom. As we arrive at this one my theory proves true. It’s dark and deserted. We pull up next to the kiosk and kill the engine. The tape automatically ejects and some inane song takes over. We sit there mesmerised by the words, ‘hanging on a heartbeat’, repeated again and again. And again. The guy in the kiosk must be getting nervous as he’s made himself visible through the window. Without warning the the song finally comes to an end. It must’ve been the easiest song in the world to write - just 4 words. And that must have been the twelve inch. Or the two feet. Anyway out to window shop.
‘Can I have twenty Benson’s please, and a packet of blue Rizlas. Oh, and three Crunchies.’ Tommo should have known this was asking for trouble.
‘Crunchies are shit. Kit Kat are miles better, get me one of them.’ barks Johnnie. ‘And I want a Bounty, it’s the taste of paradise. And some pop. Get me some pop.’
This confuses the dimly lit assistant, but eventually using the latest computer technology he interprets the request and slides over a chocolate covered coconut bar and a tin of dandelion and burdock.
‘Have you got a toilet, mate?’ Asks Johnnie.
‘No.’ Comes the reply, distorting through the gap.
‘Where’d you go then? In a cup?‘
This brings a less audible reply through the glass and a tut from our man this side. He’ll just have to wait till we get home. It’s not as if we’re going to make psssss noises like a running tap all the way back. He should have gone earlier as my grandma used to say.
We get back in the car and quickly put the tape back on. Just in case that song is still playing or ever gets played again. We set off, waving at the bemused assistant as he tries to to pretend he’s counting the cigarettes on the shelf.
‘You’ve got twenty less than before.’ l say, thinking everyone is on the same wavelength. The looks that I get from the other two show I’m mistaken. Oh dear, the acid is making a last humiliating stand,
‘That acid is still working. Is yours Tommo?‘
'A little bit. It's like little waves now.’
We're agreed the tide is receding then. How did we end up with a nautical theme?
‘At least you don’t look like you’re dead anymore.’
Thanks Johnnie. That’s what friends are for. I don’t reply by saying anything, just go pssssss until I get told to shut it.
‘I want a kebab. I haven’t eaten since Thursday. Fancy one?’
We both deny any knowledge of our bellies, but we’re heading towards the kebab house anyway. The amount of speed he’s had, I’m surprise he could consider anything larger than a pea.
Pssss. Followed by a more agitated 'shut it'.

You might as well put a sign outside all kebab houses that reads ‘Unofficial Boxing Ring. Step This Way. Your Last Chance Before The Taxi. They’re just a magnet for violence. We’re lucky tonight though cos we’ve missed the all important 2-3am qualifying bouts and knock-out rounds, we’re just left with the veterans. Hopefully they’ll have already paired off. Or fucked off. To fight the wife.
There’s no one about, just the knackered looking staff, distant relatives of the long suffering petrol station attendant. We troop into the too bright whitewashed shop and Johnnie goes for the health food option, surprising the staff by intorducing a new word.
‘Large Donner, loads of Chilli sauce, please.’ It’s the please that throws them. Seems to work though as they give him what looks like a skateboard topped with meat then drowned in sauce. Oh, and salad. I told you he went for the health food. All wrapped in a sheet of white paper that soon starts to turn pink. Quick, convenient and guaranteed to cause heartburn, stink the car out and stain your clothes. Maybe scrap the convenient. Tastes good though, at the right time.

We set off for home, the kebab now claiming the front seat. Boy, am I glad to be home.
‘Make the tea, Tom.‘ Johnnies parting words as he remembers his bladder. ‘Here put this vid on.'
These are my instructions. Aye aye captain.
I turn on the telly to be greeted by Pete Fucking Waterman pretending he’s young, at a club that looks nothing like the one we've just come back from. For a start there's no ships table. I got told when the Hitman and Her did the Hacienda, you didn’t see his sidekick Michaela after half an hour because someone spiked her. It wouldn’t surprise me. Anyway here comes the film.

There’s a guy sat in his front room, pouring a tin of Lager (immediately identified by the king of cheap lagers' Tommo as Rapier, 4 cans for a pound at KwikSave) into a pint pot he’s obviously pinched from his local. He’s doing this on the left hand arm of his armchair, while on the right arm sits his twenty Benson’s and a disposable lighter. (Three for a pound, most markets.)
I’m starting to suspect that this could be Tommo. Only posher, older and with a trimmed beard.
‘Wait for us.’ says a worried Johnnie, now relieved.
I hit pause. The tea arrives and so does the kebab, with it’s smell and owner, who settles in the second most popular porn-viewing position, on the floor, on his stomach. Tommo takes up the pole position, cross legged on the settee with nearby cushion. The classic. Now we’re settled we can proceed.
On the screen the guy takes a sip of his lager and the doorbell rings, ‘Ding Dong.’
‘Wonder who this could be?' he asks the camera as he goes to find out. ‘Oh, it’s you is it?’ as the person holding the camera hurriedly walks backwards to brings a girl into view in the frosted glass door.‘I know what you're here for again’. This must be a sequel. Hope I can follow the plot. ’How’s your vagina?’
This is classy. And its a serious question. I can’t stop laughing thinking about how she might answer. Until a ‘shh’ from Johnnie shuts me up. Probably scared he’ll miss the plot too. Or some new chat up lines.
‘Sore‘ says the girl, to which the guy offers the girl some beer from his stolen glass. ‘Shall we go upstairs then?’
So like real life. If real life had to be squeezed onto a tape before the batteries fail. And we all had a shit script.
The girl nods and the camera shakily follows the loving couple up the narrow stairway.
The bedroom they enter is just like everybodies: dull sheets, an open wardrobe and untidy. They both undress separately with the camera mainly on the girl and her unmatched underwear.
There’s a slurping noise, and I turn to see Johnnie, unable to take his eyes off the screen, dragging his kebab on the paper along the floor towards him. He even snorts kebabs.
On the screen the bloke is all over the girl, making very similar noises to Johnnie.
Then he starts shagging her. I’m sorry but in this sort of film he’s hardly making love, is he? There’s some great camera work if you like seeing a local bloke’s hairy arse. In close up.
Then he turns to the camera and asks, ‘Do you want a go Chris?‘
To which the camera actually nods in reply, before being pointed at the floor. It’s picked up again to the sight of Chris, still wearing his lovely off-white socks, getting straight into the action, without any time consuming foreplay or introduction, to the soundtrack of his co-star shouting encouragingly 'Go on, Go on!'
The girl, who’s looked completely uninterested throughout, suddenly casts Pete aside, gets up and slaps his still hard bit, saying, ‘it’s hurting now.‘
Which classy lines bring us to the end of the film.
‘Errol said the guys who made it got sent down. The girl was only fifteen.’ offers Johnnie as some kind of explanation. Perhaps for the poor plot.
'But she looked miles older.’ replies Tommo.
I bet that’s what they said. In Court.

The sleep-shy Johnnie has now fallen asleep, after finishing every last part of his kebab without using his hands. So we both drag him onto the settee like the good mates we are. Then we put an alarm clock on his head, set to go off at 4 am, which is in about ten minutes and retire to the safety of the kitchen to avoid the fall-out from this rude awakening.
‘Tonight was mad wasn’t it?’ I say to Tommo as I start the tea making process again.
‘Yeah. I thought you were gonna leave the planet at one point. I don’t think he was telling lies about the acid do you?’
'Not now I don’t.
'We’ve still got forty of them left as well.'
'I’d forgot about that, they’re still in the car.'
I can hear the alarm going off in the front room, so decide not to go and get the keys at the moment. I make the tea instead.
There’s light coming through the sky and we’re stood here drinking tea, like it’s the middle
of the afternoon. That’s the thing with drugs. It could be. You reach the point at the end of the night / start of the morning where you’re out of sync. They look the same at certain points, only there’s usually less people about at night. If I can stay up a few more hours I can go and cash my Giro when the Post Office opens. That means I can buy dinner all next week.
The alarm's still going off and starting to get louder, so I wonder into the front room to take it off his head.
‘Just five more minutes mum. Please,’ he murmurs as I turn it off. He must be like this every morning for work. I get his keys off the table and go out to the car, grab the cassette box of drugs and go back inside.
With some scissors I cut them into not very neat little squares, put them in a little tin, then wash my hands, just to be sure. Never again. Until next time at least. I feel myself giving in and needing the relief of sleep.