#53 Social Red-Gear Services?

I bumped into an old associate recently. One that wasn’t quite as fortunate as me, in the fact that she ended up working the streets and really making a bit of a mess of things for a number of years.

Anyway, it was nice to see her and we had a beer for old times sake. She had been clean but had recently come off methadone after 7 years on the stuff. In that time she had raised her Son as a single parent. Her Son’s father had been murdered whilst trying to get off gear and getting in with a nasty crowd who stabbed him to death in an argument over a girl. Now the lad is only 7 and this happened when he was maybe 18 months old so he doesn’t remember his Daddy.

Since then my associate (now friend), had been married to someone else who was also into gear. This was his new Daddy for a time. They pretty much thought what every heroin using couple thinks – that they were stronger than the gear and their love for each other would stop them using in the future. Inevitably it doesn’t and they went down the well trodden path of using together recreationally and then got back into having habits to feed.

My friend was recounting these very personal memories with me as the beer flowed and she had a sounding board who wasn’t judging her.

She was telling me how guilty she felt for what she’d put her son through when he was younger, maybe 3 years old.

She asked me whether I’d had any ‘red gear’. I didn’t even know what it was but she went on to explain that some dealers were cutting their gear with rohypnol a while back and lots of people were being hospitalised due to being completely ko’d for a day or more (which is unusual as the initial ‘gouch’ will always wear off after a few hours and you’re always wakeable – otherwise its time to call the ambulance).

Her partner at the time was due in Court that afternoon and had been to score some gear for them both so that they could pin up prior to his appearance and her attending to show her moral support. Her son was downstairs watching cartoons and they were upstairs in the bedroom. He injected her (or ‘dug’ her) and instead of getting the usual hit of gear, she was absolutely knocked flat on her back and out for the count. He apparently checked her breathing to make sure she was still alive and split between the decision of making sure my friend woke up and seeing to his girlfriends toddler until she did OR attending court and potentially getting sent down ‘rattling’ – he opted for the needle.

He missed his court day and was then sent a warrant out for his arrest and eventually sent down for 6 weeks or so (not that we care for this shmuck). The most obvious bit of detail was that her son was left to roam the house, looking for food, going to find out why his mummy was not waking up – wondering what the paraphenalia was maybe, probably crying, scared and lonely.

At the time she was sharing these memories I was positive and upbeat for her, telling her what she needed to hear. Her Son is fine now, she’s doing so well, not to let it eat her up and inevitably lead her into scoring again, etc.

About 12 hours later at 22.00 that night, she came round at the side of her then partner, who was still out for the count. She checked he was alive and then went downstairs to find her Son. He was laid on the sofa asleep with the cartoon channel still on.

When I got home- I cried my heart out.

#48 The Fratelli’s

Hammond had good reason to look over his shoulder after he’d stolen the money from a dealer. The dealer was not just a dealer in the singular sense. It was a family affair and they were a definte plural.

They shall be known as ‘The Fratelli’s’ after the bad guys in the 80’s film, ‘The Goonies’. The only resemblance they share is that they were a criminal gang made up of the Mother and the two Son’s. There was definitely no involvement with Pirates.

The Fratelli’s were probably known in quite a few City’s. They were notoriously bad and cruel. They ran a lot of the gear back in those days and if they found out that you had been to score elsewhere, then there are stories around of people getting stabbed over it. Their house even had a built in cage that you walked in from the front door, so that all the dealing could be done ‘safely’ (Faulty thinking?) through the cage. It was also a nifty little invention for hindering Police raids. Luckily I never had any involvement with them, other than hearing all the horrific stories, which shall forever be noted in my heroin folklore.

I found out years later that Hammond had somehow stolen some of their money. Perhaps getting quite friendly with them and going around to their house to score a lot and subsequently do drugs with them. A false friendship arose and then Hammond stole a lot of money from them disappearing from their view and revenge for quite a while. Inevitably he accidently bumped into one of the brothers. And these brothers were tall, stocky and rough, forces to be reckoned with. Hammond was small and a chancer. Used to talking his way out of situations. He found that smooth talk doesn’t work with people like the Fratelli’s. He was bundled into a car and taken back to the dreaded house to be presented to the Mum. The head of the family. Rumour had it that her husband had been killed by her Son’s. You don’t ask.

The Fratelli’s all started doing various drugs and playing mind games with Hammond. He was understandably scared and I think by this point he was managing to keep it all together. Until the Mother pulled out a knife, by which point he wet himself. She proceeded to cut into his calf to pay him back. It was all about not losing face you see and they had a big reputation to uphold. After a few hours of bleeding in a corner, the mum started panicking to her Son’s about what she’d done to Hammond and tried to stitch his leg up with cotton and a needle. More drug consuming happened and the level of violence picked up again. They took him to the basement and hung him by his arms and beat him unconscious. He spent the whole night there, fearing for his life and wondering how he could escape. The next day he had more beatings and when he came round he was laid on their bathroom floor. One of the Son’s pushed him into the cold bath and told him to lay there. After more punishment was deemed necessary a hairdryer from the other bedroom was brought in and plugged in the landing socket. The Son started to motion that they should throw the hairdryer in the bath and have done with it all. Hammond was literally saved by the bell. At that point the doorbell was rung and business had to be seen to by the family.

Hammond, fearing for his life, as soon as they’d gone downstairs had opened the bathroom window, dripping wet and squeezed out of the bathroom window and jumped from the first floor, landing badly on his ankle. He was picked up by an undercover police car (they liked to pass the fratelli’s house regularly knowing that they were highly ranked in the criminal underworld) a few metres away from their house. It was later learnt in Court that the patrolling car was on an operation carrying out surveillence on the Fratelli’s and they were about to send some uniform to knock on the door seen as they’d been watching at the moment when Hammond had been bundled out of the boot of their car and frog marched into the house a day previous.Apparently it took a day as they didn’t want to blow their cover and needed to come up with an excuse to go knocking and searching the premises.

 Hammonds testimony along with all the evidence that they’d gathered over the months for drug trafficking, extortion and kidnap meant that they each went away for about 10-11 years.

Now that, if nothing else could be a pretty good detterent to kids in the use of drugs. I can imagine it now, a picture of the Fratelli’s on a billboard, a basement, a knife, a cold bathroom and the hairdryer. It sounds like the makings of a pretty good horror story to me.

#32 A Mothers Love

Mum’s and their Son’s supposedly have a different relationship to Mum’s and Daughter’s. I believe this to be true – and that’s based on me only having a boy and my own relationship with my Mum. I pander to his every whim, try to be authoritative when needs be but ultimately the boy comes to me for loves and cuddles over his Daddy. A Mother’s love is something that can’t be described on paper, without losing the complete essence of it. It’s all encompassing. Constantly worrying. In the early days it’s ‘have they had enough milk?’ ‘Have they eaten enough green veg and had the recommended daily allownance of Iron?’, ‘Do they share their toys enough?’ ‘Do they stand up for themselves without being a bully?’ ‘Have they watched too much TV?’ Then when they get older it’s ‘ Have they done enough to get through their course work?’ ‘Will they be in on Friday night before the pub closes so they avoid the fights?’ and later it turns to ‘Will I get a phone call from the Police today?’ ‘Will I get a phone call from the Hospital today?’ ‘Will my Son come home tonight?’ ‘Will we hear him rustling foil in his bedroom again tonight?’ and ultimately ‘How can I help him…..?.

Take B and his mum for example. They were extremely close. She was his friend as well as just his mum. He held her in such high regard (of course) that she stood on this great big pedestal that no-one even came close to (not even me…… phew! the mother in me say’s).

M was a gorgeous lady. A really special person. Wise, funny and intelligent. She was a Deputy Head (and still is) and was a workaholic. Constantly on the go and doing things- like a busy bee, with a  really strong work ethic and strong family values which, coming from a broken home, I always admired and aspired to.

Due to always wanting the best for her King Bee (My B) she would always pander to his request for money. B, for all his amazing points was very selfish (god – we all were) and used to play his Mum all the time. She regularly gave him (which ultimately became us) £20 a night when times were rough for us due to one of us being out of work or having spent up. He would always say it was for a drink and a few beers or some food of course. However, she quickly learnt that it wasn’t when she came down with a shopping bag full of beer and microwave dinners for us (and a bottle of wine for me…) after B was unusually unappreciative and told her he actually needed the cash just until payday (with a slightly giveaway desperate tone).

M knew the drill. She’d been here many a time before, nursing him through rattle after rattle. Getting excited for a clean future for him, for it all to be dashed and thrown back in her face when he disappeared with money from the sideboard and came home all pinned eyed and itchy. Or didn’t come home at all.

A Mothers love know’s no bounds and there is one particular story (before I had met B) where she was driving him to score as he’d done a detox and was climbing the walls. He’d talked to his mum and said he couldn’t face doing it and after a good few hours he’d talked her into giving him some money and driving him to meet his dealer. Unfortunately the Police were carrying out survelliance on this exact dealer and saw M’s car drive into the pub car park, saw the transaction take place and pounced on B and his mum. They got B violently on the floor and had their hands around his throat so he couldn’t swallow the gear (swallowing the gear – A common tactic used in the fight against drug busts). Well, his mum jumped out of the car and caused a scene, nearly hitting one officer with her handbag, hysterical at how her baby (who was also a grown man of 19 by this point) was being treated. Needless to say, M got arrested along with her Son and spent time in the Police cells before they eventually let her out with no charges. Trust me, she made her feelings known to the whole of the City Police Station. She was a very proud woman and would never ever tell anyone outside of the family (or even in the family come to that matter) of her Son’s problem but this day she made it loud and clear that the officers had bullied her and her Son just becuase of his addiction. “Fascists!” She cried as B took her screaming from the Police Station when he was eventually released on a possession charge.

Needless to say she took him to score straight away. Assuming that this was the best way forward for him at this moment in time. I’m sure it was too but I’m also sure that the longer it goes on being paid for, the easier it is to stay using gear and the harder it makes it to eventually give it up.

This charade of pretending everything was normal and providing money to B for the pretend beers and food happened for a long while. Possibly on and off for the whole length of our relationship or a large part of it. It’s something I’ve always been ashamed off. I’m sure it went into thousands of pounds, which I usually helped smoke or inject. I’ve vowed that if I ever have a win on the lottery or get my dream job and wage, I’m going to go back up to where they live and post a few thousand through the letter box and walk away with a spring in my step and a little bit of weight off my shoulders.

#27 No shame in crying

Under the house rules, living with the Surgeon (or Head) and his GF we chipped in money for the electricity tokens each week. We were working again by that point – I’d found myself a job working in a small call centre and B was working in a factory doing joinery stuff (which he hated). So we had our weekly / monthly wage (which we’d blown come the Sunday) and would occasionally buy ‘non-essentials’ like electricity when we could.

 All summer we sat in their room, smoking gear and crack with the curtains closed, having a laugh with our friends and doing what we thought was normal.

It was normal to come back and for GF to have been arrested and locked up (but you never knew quite what for). It was normal for the Surgeon to come down with marks all over his body where he’d tried unsuccessfully to dig. It was normal for there to be streaks of blood on the bathroom wall where congealed blood had been plunged out of an unsuccessful needle attempt. It was normal not to eat for 2 days or to go to the kitchen to find every cooking implement and utensil out on the worktop growing mould and festering with dry food on it and unidentified rotten smelling liquids sticking to cups. It was normal to see the Surgeon sat in the basement, with a torch, sussing out the electric meter and going around switching all the plug sockets off and wondering why the 87p left on the meter was still getting used. It was normal not to get out and have some fresh air and see the sunshine, listen to the birds. It was normal to sit gouching on the sofa and to burn a hole in it -or worse, yourself with a roll-up you’d forgotten you were holding.

It was not normal to hear GF cry. She was never a crier. Whereas I use to cry all the fucking time…(“What a mess we’re in”-blub blub blub – smoke / dig gear – aaaaah, everythings lovely again). GF was hard as nails in the emotional stakes. She was the one who used to go out and ‘graft’ between the two of them. She didn’t care by that stage. Just doing what she could and ‘taking care of business’. Her family had cut all ties due to her lifestyle choice and in a way I think she felt as if she had nothing to lose. She was in massive debt and missing all the mortgage repayments-but you still never heard her cry or moan – she just got on with it. She was actually a very proud girl and she’d never tell you how she was feeling-or exactly how she’d got all the money when she’d been out all night.

I’ll never forget the sound of her crying that night in the next bedroom. It was a really guttural cry. The Surgeon was trying to comfort her from the muffled noises we heard from our bed in the next room. It didn’t work – she cried and cried and cried all night long, until – I reckon, she must have been dried up, just like a prune.

The prune got up the next day and was out at the same time 5 o’clock, taking care of business in just the same way. You learn it’s probably best not to ask questions in those cases.

#10 Who cares?

Now, you’re probably wondering where my parents are in this – who was there to help me and stop me going further? Well, by this point, I was living with D (still at his parents house) and working full time in the next town. I’d always had a turbulent relationship with my mum and never got on with her boyfriend so, I’d often get thrown out (back to my dad’s house in the City) for coming back late or just been a real bitch to my mums boyfriend. I think they’d had enough of it from me. In a way I suppose I was emotionally abandoned. Not neglected or anything like that but just left to do what I wanted. I was too much trouble to have around, bad reports from school, getting into fights and then in the later years, going out and getting drunk and returning back in a  state. This was okay whilst I lived with my dad, as he was always out at his girlfriends but at mum’s, it was never my home. It was their home and I didn’t feel a part of it. As much as they did try but at that point I was a hormonal, raging teenager. So, when D’s mum asked me to move in, I said yes.

That’s right it was D’s mum who asked me to move in. I think they thought I was a calming influence on D and that he’d given up his bad old ways. They were glad he’d found a nice girlfriend in the same village who seemed okay. Unfortunately they were completely ignorant of what was going on under their roof or they were kidding themselves and didn’t want to admit that the problem had returned. They obviously knew all about their Son’s ‘previous’ addiction and imprisonment in Her Majesty’s finest accommodation.

I continued working and just avoided seeing family from what I remember. My mum knew- I just completely denied anything she said to me. I think by us not seeing each other, we both didn’t have to face up to the fact that we knew their was a problem.

By this point me and D had a good routine of scoring and ‘pinning’ before work. Then, as I didn’t inject myself I would take it on foil to smoke at lunchtime. Which never does the same but was the best I was going to do because I could never bring myself round to inject myself. It’s probably one of the saving graces that I never could get my head around doing it to myself.

After I’d come home from work depending on who had returned from work (D’s parents) I would “go get changed” (to the parents) and we would have a dig before continuing the norms of the family life by going downstairs and all having dinner at the table before going to watch tv together or going upstairs to do what we liked (which was usually to gouch). By this point – I had to force dinner’s down because my appetite was completely gone and I was so aware of being under their roof and making sure everything looked normal. As dinner was served at 19.00 on the dot, quite often I’d have started rattling (or clucking like a turkey / going cold turkey) because of A, Not yet having had chance to get some money together to score or B, Dealer not having turned up (the excuses we’ll visit later) or C, not being able to find a vein whilst upstairs, being used as a dartboard.

Me and mum pretty much avoided each other for the above reason. However, after one time I’d called round, it must have been obvious by then that I was well into gear (especially when I was asking to borrow money here and there). I remember her asking to look at my eyes and asking me why they were the size of pin pricks. I thought – pin pricks, thank god you’ve not seen my hands (ala dartboard). Until I was leaving and she noticed the swollen marks on my hand and the bruises. She was livid and I quickly left, promising her not to get involved, I was fine and I’d be fine.

That next night when I returned from work, D’s parents were sat gravely in the room, waiting for us both to get back. “We’ve had a phone call from your mum” followed by “show me your arms”

My stomach dropped. I rolled my sleeves up and showed them the one arm I didn’t use that much and miraculously they looked on the wrong side of the arm and I managed to hide the thin black lines and bruises.

I burst into tears at the shock of it all (and I was rattling) and managed to excuse my mum’s behaviour on her knowing all about D’s past and getting way too paranoid.

I walked back up the stairs and into my head popped “We are the self preservation society” whilst D and I looked at each other with a ‘phew”

They watched us like hawks for about a month. I made sure that I was down for dinner at 19.00pm with a  smile on my face come rain or shine. Or should I say come heroin or no heroin.