Seven Days(74)

He licked his lips. Fuck, he was thirsty.

He sat up on his mattress – he’d had a bed but at some point it had gone, probably sold – and got to his feet. There was a bolt of pain in his ankle.

‘Shit,’ he muttered. ‘What the fuck was that?’

He looked down at his feet. His right ankle was swollen, a dark bruise running up the inside of his foot. He tried some weight on it and the pain came again. When had that happened? It must have been last night. He must have fallen and twisted it. He wouldn’t have felt it. Heroin had that effect. It blotted everything out.

Everything.

It made you feel as though you were hovering outside of the world watching what was going on. Nothing was happening to you. You were merely an observer. A happy, blissed-out observer.

But not now. Now his ankle throbbed with pain.

He was still wearing the jeans – grey, loose around his thighs, the crotch stained with God knew what – and hooded top he had worn the night before. He was barefoot, though; maybe he’d stripped off his socks after he’d buggered up his ankle.

He limped into the living room. There was a rich fetid smell and he held his breath. He knew what it was. He’d smelled it often. Davo stayed over most nights, and often he’d shit himself. James thought it smelled worse than it should have, as though Davo was rotting from the inside. It wouldn’t have been a surprise if he was. All he consumed were endless cups of tea and cigarettes, the occasional box of fried chicken, and as much narcotics – opiate pills, heroin, methadone – as he could lay his hands on.

It was a diet he shared with James and Carl.

James hobbled – the pain was getting worse – into the kitchen and poured a glass of water. The flat was cold. They had not paid their gas bill for a few months so there was no heating. He flicked on the kettle. They still had electricity, but it was only a matter of time before that was gone. Davo knew someone who worked at the electric company and had persuaded her to help out, but eventually she would not be able to put off the inevitable.

He grabbed a teabag and a mug and poured in the water. There was no milk, and when he sipped it the hot liquid scalded the top of his mouth. It didn’t matter. It’d hurt for a while but the drugs would take care of it later.

If he could get some. Carl still had a job, washing vans for a friend he used to play football with. He didn’t work much, but his friend didn’t care. If he showed up for a few hours there were always vans to be washed and he could scrape together enough cash to buy what he needed. Davo didn’t work but he left the flat most days and came back with drugs he had got from somewhere – stolen or begged, James never knew which, and never asked.

James though, he only had one source of cash.

He felt in his back pocket and pulled out his phone. He would have sold it long ago but he knew he needed it. He tapped out a message.

Want to meet up later?

His dad replied almost instantly.

Of course. How are you?

OK. Farmers’ Arms in Padgate at 11?

How about a coffee instead? Costa in town? 11 is good.

Whatever. He’d been hoping for a few beers to take the edge off, but coffee it was.

Sure. See you there.





2


His dad was sitting at a table when he arrived, two coffees in front of him. There was a sandwich next to one of them. He was reading something on his phone, and when he saw James he stood up.

He looked him up and down. Took in the dirty jeans. The torn coat.

He held out his arms. ‘Come here,’ he said.

James hugged him. He was aware that he was smaller than his dad, thinner and weaker. He let go, but his dad pulled him close.

‘I miss you, James,’ he said. He leaned back and smiled at him. ‘I could hug you all day. Although the smell might become a little too much.’

‘Shower’s not working.’

‘I could come and fix it.’

James caught his dad’s eye. He was smiling, but there was a mixture of worry and sadness in his expression. He couldn’t bear the thought of his dad seeing the place where he lived, smelling Davo’s shit, looking at the needles and pill packets that littered the countertops and tables.

‘It’s OK,’ he said. ‘Davo said he’ll get to it.’

‘Davo,’ his dad said. ‘Of course.’

‘He’s all right,’ James said. ‘He’s a good bloke.’

‘Maybe.’ His dad gestured at the sandwich. ‘BLT. Eat something.’

James took a bite. It was good, the bacon salty and rich. He swallowed and then put it down. He felt nauseous.

‘I had a big breakfast.’ He could see his dad’s pain at the lie and he felt an overwhelming urge to get up and run and find some drugs to make it all go away. ‘Dad,’ he said. ‘Really. I did.’

‘It’s OK. How are you?’

‘Good. But the shower – it’s not broken. We don’t have heat. They turned the electric off.’

‘Why?’

‘It wasn’t our fault. We missed a payment. By accident. And now we’re behind and – you know how it is.’

‘You need a bit of money?’

James nodded. ‘For the ’leccy. I’ll pay you back.’

I’ll pay you back. He said it every time they had these conversations, a pathetic formula to cover up the fact he was begging his own father for money to buy drugs and his father was giving it to him so he could check his son was still breathing.