Ron Dalmer wasn't your typical junkie. He certainly wasn't hooked. And he wasn't even sure if he liked the stuff. But the buzz of scoring, boasting to his mates and the thrill of doing something illegal was how he got his kicks.
"Did you get any, then?" asked Dazza impatiently.
"Nah - he wasn't home." Dazza looked disappointed.
"What do we do now? D'you know anyone else?"
"Maybe."
Ron had been hanging out with students ever since he left university with a fairly ordinary degree in history of art. Of course, he couldn't get a job with those qualifications, nor did he want to. He had discovered that life had much more to offer than Rembrandt or Moore. Crystal Meth. That was his Mona Lisa. And its smile was far more enigmatic.
Although he graduated nearly ten years ago, he still rented a small flat just off Dartborough road, in Walcombe. He got on well with his landlord, Mr. Singh, because Ron was his 'enforcer'. If any of his tenants were late with their rent, he'd get Ron to go round there and have a word. But Ron wasn't a hardman - he was their ice man - if they didn't pay the rent on time, there'd be no drugs. They would even come out of hiding from behind the sofa when he came round. It made sense to be nice to Ron. So, although Mr. Singh wasn't too sure about the company he kept, the rent was paid and so was the mortgage, and there were no visible signs that the house was slowly being destroyed brick by brick.
"We could try Nico's," said Ron with the right amount of enthusiasm - not enough to give the game away but enough to keep Dazza interested in parting with some of his hard-earned student loan.
"Yeah - Nico's, good idea!"
"Wait... who's Nico?"
"He lives on the other side of the car park with his girlfriend and their baby."
"Uh?"
"You know them. He's got a ponytail and she's got some serious eczema. Only problem is, he's more expensive."
Dazza didn't have a clue who he was talking about and Ron knew that. It was all part of the ploy to make himself seem oh-so-streetwise and in control. But this was to be the last time he was in control, for a while. That night Ron would be completely out of control.
"Do I have to come with you?" whined Dazza.
Ron taunted him, "Wassup? You too scared to go and score? Hah - just leave it to me. If you came along he'd probably charge double anyway, he always hikes up the price for rich students!" Of course, it was Ron who always hiked up the price for students - Nico didn't give a shit who he sold to as long as he had enough money for his Playstation games and his girlfriend's supply of eczema cream.
Right on cue, it started raining. The yellowy light from the old lampposts made the rain look like shards of light stabbing through the night's sky. They were fixed at a thirty-degree angle until the wind blew, turning the shards into a replica of a weather map on breakfast television. Ron flicked his hood up, drew the drawstring tight and strode across the car park. The quicker he got there, the quicker he could score the gear and get out of there, back to the warmth of Dazza's bong.
To get in, Nico had devised a really lame system for potential customers. They were supposed to call an hour before, then come round and knock on the kitchen window. No one rang in advance and Nico soon realised that he couldn't be choosy if he was going to make any money. Ron was about to put knuckle to glass when he realised there was no glass - a small corner of the old kitchen pane had been removed and the wind and rain whistled through. He went to the front door and hammered loudly. No answer. Ron was starting to get pissed off. He was soaked to the skin and it didn't look like he was going to get his money or his gear. Then he heard the baby crying, 'Well if the baby's there then someone else must be too', he thought. He hammered again. Still no answer, but the baby kept screaming.
It didn't occur to Ron that something might be wrong, his only concerns were the drugs and getting out of the rain. He noticed the window was closed but not locked, so he carefully placed his hand through the empty space where the pane had been and unlatched the window. Climbing inside didn't prove too difficult, but landing on the kitchen floor and having slivers of glass penetrate his jeans and knees, was. He scrabbled to his feet, swore and went to the sink - but as he was turning the tap on he noticed a puddle of claret leading through the kitchen door into the living room. But this wasn't an '82 Bordeaux that had been inadvertently spilled on the threadbare grey carpet - it was thicker and even deeper in colour. And sticky. He followed the trail which lead straight to the lifeless body of a young woman lying on the living room floor with various parts of her dress ripped and hanging from her limp corpse.
Ron's knees went first, then his power to speak or think clearly. The claret in his own face had gone south and he would now easily blend in to a tundra background. His lower lip wobbled like a Hollywood actor receiving an Oscar and his only thought was, 'Fuck!' After a few seconds, the pain in his knees brought him back from his brief paralysis and his second thought was, 'Meth!'
"Did you get any, then?" asked Dazza impatiently.
"Nah - he wasn't home." Dazza looked disappointed.
"What do we do now? D'you know anyone else?"
"Maybe."
Ron had been hanging out with students ever since he left university with a fairly ordinary degree in history of art. Of course, he couldn't get a job with those qualifications, nor did he want to. He had discovered that life had much more to offer than Rembrandt or Moore. Crystal Meth. That was his Mona Lisa. And its smile was far more enigmatic.
Although he graduated nearly ten years ago, he still rented a small flat just off Dartborough road, in Walcombe. He got on well with his landlord, Mr. Singh, because Ron was his 'enforcer'. If any of his tenants were late with their rent, he'd get Ron to go round there and have a word. But Ron wasn't a hardman - he was their ice man - if they didn't pay the rent on time, there'd be no drugs. They would even come out of hiding from behind the sofa when he came round. It made sense to be nice to Ron. So, although Mr. Singh wasn't too sure about the company he kept, the rent was paid and so was the mortgage, and there were no visible signs that the house was slowly being destroyed brick by brick.
"We could try Nico's," said Ron with the right amount of enthusiasm - not enough to give the game away but enough to keep Dazza interested in parting with some of his hard-earned student loan.
"Yeah - Nico's, good idea!"
"Wait... who's Nico?"
"He lives on the other side of the car park with his girlfriend and their baby."
"Uh?"
"You know them. He's got a ponytail and she's got some serious eczema. Only problem is, he's more expensive."
Dazza didn't have a clue who he was talking about and Ron knew that. It was all part of the ploy to make himself seem oh-so-streetwise and in control. But this was to be the last time he was in control, for a while. That night Ron would be completely out of control.
"Do I have to come with you?" whined Dazza.
Ron taunted him, "Wassup? You too scared to go and score? Hah - just leave it to me. If you came along he'd probably charge double anyway, he always hikes up the price for rich students!" Of course, it was Ron who always hiked up the price for students - Nico didn't give a shit who he sold to as long as he had enough money for his Playstation games and his girlfriend's supply of eczema cream.
Right on cue, it started raining. The yellowy light from the old lampposts made the rain look like shards of light stabbing through the night's sky. They were fixed at a thirty-degree angle until the wind blew, turning the shards into a replica of a weather map on breakfast television. Ron flicked his hood up, drew the drawstring tight and strode across the car park. The quicker he got there, the quicker he could score the gear and get out of there, back to the warmth of Dazza's bong.
To get in, Nico had devised a really lame system for potential customers. They were supposed to call an hour before, then come round and knock on the kitchen window. No one rang in advance and Nico soon realised that he couldn't be choosy if he was going to make any money. Ron was about to put knuckle to glass when he realised there was no glass - a small corner of the old kitchen pane had been removed and the wind and rain whistled through. He went to the front door and hammered loudly. No answer. Ron was starting to get pissed off. He was soaked to the skin and it didn't look like he was going to get his money or his gear. Then he heard the baby crying, 'Well if the baby's there then someone else must be too', he thought. He hammered again. Still no answer, but the baby kept screaming.
It didn't occur to Ron that something might be wrong, his only concerns were the drugs and getting out of the rain. He noticed the window was closed but not locked, so he carefully placed his hand through the empty space where the pane had been and unlatched the window. Climbing inside didn't prove too difficult, but landing on the kitchen floor and having slivers of glass penetrate his jeans and knees, was. He scrabbled to his feet, swore and went to the sink - but as he was turning the tap on he noticed a puddle of claret leading through the kitchen door into the living room. But this wasn't an '82 Bordeaux that had been inadvertently spilled on the threadbare grey carpet - it was thicker and even deeper in colour. And sticky. He followed the trail which lead straight to the lifeless body of a young woman lying on the living room floor with various parts of her dress ripped and hanging from her limp corpse.
Ron's knees went first, then his power to speak or think clearly. The claret in his own face had gone south and he would now easily blend in to a tundra background. His lower lip wobbled like a Hollywood actor receiving an Oscar and his only thought was, 'Fuck!' After a few seconds, the pain in his knees brought him back from his brief paralysis and his second thought was, 'Meth!'
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