Chapter 27
Leo
Under my bridge I fan out the wad of cash.
Nearly one hundred.
But that woman...
Shit.
I type into Google:
Muswell Hill news
old woman dead
old woman falls dead Muswell Hill Broadway
Nothing. Thank fuck. Jesus.
The anxiety. That fucking dark witch is coming.
I need them all tonight. G, Tina, Charlie and Molly.
All of them dancing together in my brain.
Big blackout party in the synapses. But I’m not going near Mo.
The shit he’s making me do these days is psychopathic.
The other night he made me eat a goldfish while he jacked off in the corner of the room.
He told me to lick its eyeballs first. Fucking mental.
Who walked away with the money, though?
Me.
But tonight, I don’t need that. I need release. I need oblivion.
I open Grindr.
Thirteen messages.
The usual suspects chomping at the bit. The fucking creeps live on this thing. I dunno how they have the time for jobs. Some of them are teachers and doctors and shit. Bored out their minds. Want a little thrill in their shitty lives. I am their fantasy.
I won’t lie. I do like that.
Shane43
Hey sxy, seen you about
KingStallion
Heard you’re up for a good time – is this Leo?
PNP 2NIGHT BB!
Leo there’s a party tnite get your cute ass down
FREE NOW?
Fancy givin a blowie mate?
you’re the best out there
as long as ur not talking
which you won’t be
lol
PS not paying tho XXX
I’m Grindr famous.
Fuck my life.
There are starred ones, at the top of the chat list. Those are the ones that have the good drugs. Tommy’s messaged – Tommy is nice. He’s a dealer who makes his mint on Grindr. Not even a bender. He’s got a wife and kids and just makes his money here. Pretty clever if you ask me.
*
TOMMYTIME
Leo
just to let you know lad –
When you get something in your pocket
I’ve got the good stuff
Hope ur alive ;)
The good stuff means coke that sends you to the gods. It’s not too spenny either.
Got some pocket mate
What else you got
Where you at
He lives in Camden too. Big old town house.
Can’t nick shit from Tommy though. He has connections and I ain’t fucking with that.
When I asked him what he does he said he works in ‘business’.
That’s all he said, but I got the impression it’s not a job in the city.
But what do I know. I met his wife once.
She was friendly, but her face looked a bit like it had been pinned back at her ears, and her lips came out two inches further than they should, so she looked like an angry duck.
Free now
Meet u at the corner
How much you got
100
Yeah got a nice night for you mate
;)
I drag myself out from my little corner that I’ve made under the bridge. It’s quite snug, if I do say so myself. I got some nice wooden crates from out the back of the Sainsbury’s to use as a mattress and nicked a quilt from the Oxfam. Pretty fresh.
I do feel bad about the woman by the way.
The woman I took the purse from.
I feel fucking awful.
Coming now mate
Shit. I don’t have a change of clothes. And I need to get into his car, but I fucking stink.
I make my way through the market and swipe what I can.
A tie-dye T-shirt, some joggers and a woolly hat, cos to be fair, I’m fucking freezing.
Can’t find any shoes. Fuck it – Tommy will have to deal with these.
I pull the new clothes on behind a wall and dump the rest – probably for some other fucker to pick up and wear.
When I get to the corner, his BMW is waiting.
I tap three times on the side window, hear the doors unlock, and open the passenger door.
‘Hold on, back seat, mate.’
I do as he says.
When I’m in, I feel like I’m in a movie. I wanna shout: Driver! Take me to the airport! Got a flight to Barcelona leaving and I can’t be late!
Instead, I say, ‘Sorry my feet stink, Tommy.’
He says, ‘Jesus, Leo. Keep them away from the seats.’
He drives around the roads for a bit, then pulls in behind a row of industrial-sized bins. He turns and holds out the baggie.
‘What’s in it?’ I say.
‘Heaven,’ he says.
‘All at once?’
‘Yep.’
I hand him the cash. He has one of those pens that checks it’s real. ‘All good, mate,’ he says.
‘How’s Deb?’ I ask.
‘Fucking wonderful.’
I open the door and get out.
I can’t wait long enough. The itch is too intense.
And I can’t stop thinking about that woman’s face. The one I nicked money from.
I open one of the bin lids, see it’s mostly empty (except for some bags of dead vegetables stuck to the bottom) and hop inside.
Close myself in.
Get my phone torch on.
Nice. Nice.
I crush the contents of the baggie and eat it in one.
I dunno when it hits.
I dunno.
But it does.
Everything goes pale. And soft at the edges.
I watch the inside of the bin for hours.
But I feel something inside me.
Fucking gnawing at me.
You can face it.
Mallory Maddox in her weird fucking gloves. What’s she up to?
I just... I want to help you.
I just... I want to help you.
I just... I want to help you.
Her voice on loop, filling the bin.
Fuck it.
Hey Mandy – I’m sorry
Please can we meet again
I stare at the screen, waiting for her reply.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Promise I’ll keep it chill
I want help
I do.
I fucking scared her off, haven’t I?
I lie back and get up my Instagram account to drown out the noise. It’s a piece of shit phone, but I got some guy to pay the contract for me if I see him once a week. The screen reflects me back to myself, using a bag of old potatoes as a pillow. It’ll do. I navigate to my profile page.
@Alias22.
Got four thousand followers, me. Never shown my face on it.
Just my little poems. Lol.
I write this stuff when I’m high and people love it. Chav poetry.
That’s what people comment underneath.
This shit is the real deal.
True life on here!
Be grateful everyone! This lad got the truth.
I quickly type something in my notes app, then screen shot it and post it to the grid. It’s harder to do than it sounds because my phone currently looks like an anime cartoon. Pressing the bits I need to seems to take forever, like I’m moving through marshmallow.
I then watch the likes rack up and up – each one, each little heart, an injection of dopamine into my already dopamined brain. But it’s not enough. Never is.
Even with the spelling mistakes, it gets over 2,000 hits.
My hand vibrating with each one. It feels fucking fantastic.
I AM A POTATO
Head is black Like a dead potato.
Those little holes they get
Are all over me
Going deeper than they look
Rotting the inside
Of my brain
My stomach
My soul
Heading to the core
But
They don’t reach it
The core stays intact
where no one looks
It remains
Pure, untouched potato.
@Alias22