As he climbed the two flights of stairs to the second floor, he could smell the Blackhouse thick in the stairwell, a mixture of urine, stale body parts, burnt wood and spilt beer. He made his way along the balcony, to the very end door, and gave a secret knock - that being three short raps, before a pause followed by three more of the same. As he waited for a response he stared out over the balcony. The evening was frosty with a clear mauve sky struck bold way out over and across the city. Jesus eyed the beauty of it with a look of seared tragedy, like the great colours and events of nature now haunted him. He was thinking of something so profound looking out at that that it manifested itself as a great void of nothingness in his mind, as if he was frozen in an expression of grief.
He heard the latch on the door lift and he turned. He was hit by a furnace of corrupt smells which only humans with nothing can make.
A young black woman, hair picky and dusty, in just a nightshirt, bare buttocks displayed was already walking back down the unlit hallway. Jesus followed, closing the door behind him. With an outstretched arm, pointed finger, the young black girl motioned to a room on the left as she turned to the right. Jesus took the left. It had no door.
Jesus looked around the dark, smoke filled room. The only light came from the fire which burned low in the grate and from one or two candles sticking up out of mountains of old wax. The room was surprisingly empty and subdued for an evening, just three figures occupying the dark. Jesus scanned the men hurriedly. For a moment the thought he was out of luck, but then he saw a man sat in the only armchair with his head and shoulders drooped forward and his arms hung low, his knuckles almost grazing the floor. It was Jude. Jesus's fears were allayed immediately. Looking around he caught the next figure. It was sat on the floor, male, bolt upright against the wall just to the left of the fire. His eyes were half open and looking at Jesus, thinking. That was Andy. The third figure, over on the bed which ran along the far wall, was Lloyd the flats legal occupant. He was slumped on his stomach, crashed out with his trousers undone and halfway down his arse. Jesus barely registered him or his condition.
"You after something?" said Andy, sitting up against the wall.
"Huh???" said Jude, coming to in the armchair, straightening up and looking around.
"Not you. Jesus. Jesus is here."
Jude wiped a hand across his, ironing the skin out around his eye. He made a waking noise which made Jesus think of peace.
"A ten bag if you've got it? It's all I'm good for until tomorrow," said Jesus.
Andy nodded. Sure he had a ten bag. He looked at Jude and Jude looked at him.
"A ten bag," he said strangely.
Jude stared and then seemed to understand. Jesus did not spy a thing. He had seen how stoned Jude was so figured there was good smack coming. He crossed the room and picked up an upturned milk crate with a cushion on it and placed it near the low table which was pushed just out of distance from Jude. Jude was kinda half raised, pushed up in the armchair, fingering down for something in the small secret pocket of his jeans. It was a ten deal of heroin, wrapped in the red and white striped plastic of a market bag. He tossed it, like one would cast a dice, across the table to Jesus. Jesus picked it up and examined it. It looked small, but all bags looked small nowadays. Anyhow, his mind was fixed on its bonus being in its quality so Jesus kept ahold of it and gave Jude the ten pounds which he had found. Jude put the cash in his pocket.
"You got any fresh works?" Jesus asked.
Jude pointed to a bag below the table. "Be careful, there's some olds uncapped in there."
Jesus didn't appear to register the statement. There was a time when if he would have heard that he'd not have dared touch the bag. Now, a syringe was a syringe and in going through his own old needles often enough, pulling each spike against the back of his hand to test its sharpness, he had learnt how to handle them, knew he could dip into a bag full of uncapped spikes and grip a handful of them without spiking himself once. Here he only had to open the bag and pinch out one of the new spikes in its packet. There was nothing to it. He had known Jude so long that he couldn't seriously associate this old friend with incurable blood viruses. Jude pulled the bag out from under the table, peered in and pulled out a strip of three syringes. He ripped on off, opened the backing and removed the syringe.
"Who's spoon?" asked Jesus, pointing to a teaspoon on the table, the arm bent downwards so as it could sit balanced with the bowl flat.
"Use it but not the filter," said Jude.
Jesus picked the dried filter out the spoon and put it aside. Jude watched him and where he put the filter. Then Jude picked up the filter and put it in a matchbox he had lined with aluminium foil. Jesus ripped open a sterile swab and wiped out the bowl of the spoon and then put a lighter to it to burn away any alcohol which hadn't yet evaporated. For a brief moment the smell of neat alcohol floated up into the room. Jesus bit the small knot off the bag of smack and wriggled all the powder into the spoon. He had a look over the gear. It was a light colour and powder. He didn't like pure powder, especially powder where you couldn't feel small harder rocks. But over the years he had injected everything and of every colour and he was never surprised now over what did whatµ. He paid no real mind, and seeing as Jude was so low on the heroin down he accepted that fine powder or not this was not bad kit. He was more preoccupied with deciding if he should shoot the lot in one grand injection or save a small injection in a syringe for later that night. Before he made any decision either way he spoke to the two addicts in the dark room:
"Who's gonna set me up a fix for later? I gotta shoot all this. Just a small fix? I'll be around tomorrow and will give you a bag in return?"
"I'll give you a touch," said Andy, still sat over against the wall to the right of the fire.
"Yeah?" said Jesus, a little surprised at Andy's proposal.
"Yeah, I said so didn't I. Just don't let me down for tomorrow."
Jesus promised he'd not let him down. Jesus also knew it was not altogether in his hands to make such a promise. His score tomorrow would be coming by way of his junk buddy of the last few months Jean-Baptiste. As long as Jean-Baptiste came good on what he owed Jesus then Jesus would come good on what he owed Andy. But Jesus knew it was a risky game borrowing against the promise of another addict, borrowing against the promise of anyone. Still, he did it. He figured that if Andy was willing to forward him a fix it must mean he has a good amount in reserves, enough gear that a day delay from Jesus wouldn't matter. Jesus now felt better knowing that Andy was set to lay him on a shot. Now he could take a proper sedative fix without the dilemma of maybe economising niggling away inside of him or without the burden of knowing that his opening gambit would result in him passing an uncomfortable last part of the night and then a tense, eye searing and sniffling morning waiting on Jean-Baptiste.
So in the semi-darkness, the fire burning and crackling low in the grate, smoke harsh in the air of the room, Jesus now cooked up his fix to candlelight without the slightest inkling that four cunning and wondering junkie eyes were on him, on the gear in the spoon as it let off vapour and scent, waiting to see what would happen. Jesus let the flame of his lighter die beneath the carbonised bottom of the spoon. He carefully laid the spoon down on the table. From his pouch of tobacco he took out a cigarette filter, unwound the paper which bound it together, and tore of an amount of the cotton. He dropped it into the mix in the spoon and uncapped his needle.
"How the fuck do you guys fix up in here?" he asked, "Is there no better light?" No-one replied. Jesus pulled his trouser leg up and felt around his inner and out calf. He rolled his trouser leg right up to his knee and was prodding and pulling around the kneecap for any sign of a vein. For better light he moved his crate over towards the fire. he tried a few pokes in his lower leg, cursed and laid the needle down. Then he removed his shoe and his sock and bent far forward feeling around his foot, bending it around, searching around the ankle. Finally he felt right down the centre of his foot and in-between the bones he could feel the squelch of a large vein that headed into the deep of his forefoot. Jesus took up his needle, pulled back on the plunger, pushed the shot up the barrel until a tiny drop squeezed out the needle. Then he turned the needle facing him, and slid it into the mid of his forefoot, gradually pulling back on the plunger all the while.
"Gotcha!" he said. Jesus relaxed now, knowing he was in the vein and that he would soon have a sheath of tranquillity pull down over his emotions. He held the needle steady and manoeuvred to make the shot. Andy was watching him and Jude had also craned his neck over the armchair to witness Jesus execute the shot. Jesus pushed the plunger, slowly, unloading the shot into his foot and around his system. When the shot was done he remained in the same position, his eyes cast a little to the side concentrating on the feeling, wondering if there was a feeling. He didn't feel or taste anything. Knowing that sometimes leg injections take a moment to circulate and hit the brain, that sometimes they get blocked by a bent knee pinching the vein closed, he stretched his leg out straight. And then he felt it, the itching, going up his thigh and side. His side burned and itched and then he got the first taste in the back of his throat and in his sinuses.
"How's it feeling?" asked Andy. He looked at Jude. Jude nodded his head indicating to look at Jesus. Jesus was there with a pained expression across his face, his eyes scrunched up and a hand raised with the fingers curled and paralysed as if experiencing some great pain. He made a sound and looked like his hand was trying to raise and hold his head where a great pressure was building. Simultaneously Jesus could feel his heart rushing, like he'd shot amphetamine only it was thumping, really thumping and the pressure building in his head all the while. He was conscious, panicked, but was frozen in the pain of what the shot was doing to him, his actions dictated by a natural response to the strange feeling going through him. This was not heroin he had shot. This was not the substance that had hd Jude bent over double in the armchair. Now Jesus felt like his head was going to explode. The pressure was expanding in his brain and he was frozen in fear of the consequences if this didn't stop in the next few seconds. But it did stop. everything stopped. Jesus felt like his brow had carbuncled and was a ledge over his eyes. His hearing went first and then his vision. He knew he was near the fire, a great fire, and that was the last he knew of this mortal life. Jesus slumped forward, his hands still gripped in fear, an ugly expression plastered across his face that could have been the face of his times. For a man so contorted in pain he collapsed over so eloquently, like an illusionist disappearing and leaving just a pile of clothes behind. It was just gone midnight.The needle was still in the centre of Jesus's foot. Jesus ascended to great celebrations, to Roman rockets and champagne sparks in the sky. The flames chased along the river and for a moment that was the end of that.
Word count (approx): 2190
(notes: rewrite ending paragraph. fix timeline so as the death can coincides with the countdown to the new year. make some references to the outside celebrations filtering into the blackhouse.)
No comments:
Post a Comment