Authors: Phil Shoenfelt
Julia was Cissy’s guru, a West London dealer with connections in the worlds of entertainment and business, and to hear Cissy talk of her, you would imagine that she was some kind of saint, rather than a drug pusher. She was older than Cissy, in her thirties now, and very “hip” to everything that was happening behind the scenes of the circles she moved in. Her clients were lawyers, bankers, media whizz-kids and successful designers, people who had money to burn and who liked to free-base cocaine at the weekends. They were a real status-hungry crowd who saw the drug as a vital fashion accessory, essential for proving to the world that as well as being literate, creative, rich and successful, you were also anti-bourgeois and in tune with “the street”. When I was finally allowed into the presence of Julia and her friends, we clashed immediately. I had an instinctive aversion to anyone who made large amounts of money out of drugs — out of other people’s weakness and stupidity in other words — whilst remaining detached and relatively unscathed themselves. Julia would free-base on rare occasions, but to have a habit was considered uncool: she and her friends talked about cocaine the way connoisseurs talk about vintage wine, and their drug snobbery annoyed me. Whenever I dealt drugs myself, or got them for other people, I was never interested in making a huge profit out of the deal, other than what I needed for my own immediate requirements. And, right or wrong, I justified my actions to myself on the grounds that I was more addicted and fucked-up than any of the friends I was selling to or scoring for. As I said, people in the drug world have a curious system of ethics. But as far as I
was concerned, it was a matter of survival, not of profit, and I disliked Julia and her crowd of “sophisticated” friends. Everything was “darling this” and “darling that”, and I couldn’t prevent myself from playing the uncouth street yob, so thoroughly did they annoy me. After this little episode, Cissy wouldn’t talk to me for two or three days, beyond calling me an arsehole and a shithead.
But we were mad for each other, and this argument was soon forgotten as the summer passed in a haze of colours, sounds, concerts, clubs and restaurants. We went out together all the time, and were rarely apart, except during working hours as I endeavoured to keep my job at the T-shirt factory. Cissy herself had moved out of her flat and had taken a job as a barmaid in a local pub, which provided a large and comfortable room for her above the premises. It turned out that the flat had not been hers after all. The lease was in Jed’s name, and since the night of the argument no-one had seen him, or had any knowledge of his whereabouts. Even though we had repaired all the broken windows and bought new furniture the landlord had somehow got wind of what had happened, and was unwilling to continue renting the flat, either to Jed or Cissy, and so it had been necessary for her to find alternative accommodation. The pub job came along at just the right time, and each night after work I would go there for free drinks and food, courtesy of Cissy. I’d stay there until closing time, after which we would go on to a club or an after-hours bar to meet with some friends and continue drinking until the early hours of the morning. I slept mostly in Cissy’s room above the pub, returning to my own place only occasionally for a change of clothes, or to pick up something I needed, and as I wasn’t getting a lot of sleep, I found myself doing more and more speed in order to keep awake whilst driving around London. However, I wasn’t shooting the stuff, only sniffing it, and I still considered myself to be clean and relatively drug-free.
It was during the Reading Music Festival, at the end of the summer, that I realised Cissy had begun to use smack again. She had travelled there alone, on the Thursday, in order to see all the bands, and as I was needed at work to make deliveries before the weekend, I decided to go up on the Saturday, and had agreed to meet her at a pre-arranged spot.
The weather had turned cold and grey, and it was beginning to rain as I entered the grounds of the festival. I’d been stopped and searched by the police as I left the train station in Reading, but luckily they hadn’t found the packet of speed that I’d hidden in one of my socks. Now, I was looking forward to being with Cissy again, and watching the bands together, as even a separation of a day or two drove me crazy. She herself was like a drug for me, and I had a physical hunger to touch and hold her that ate away until she was in my arms once again. She was such a tiny girl, almost doll-like in the perfection of her beauty, but fiercely independent, with a restless, rebellious energy that would not accept any interference in her plans. As possessive as I might feel about her, she would not allow me to stifle her: if I believed that a particular course of action she was taking was stupid, or wrong, she would go off and do it anyway, just to prove that she was right, that she was strong and free enough to look after herself. She could be a pain in the neck at times, but I also admired this stubborn streak in her, this insistence on freedom at whatever the cost. The fact that I could never wholly possess her, or control her, made me want her all the more.
I finally caught sight of Cissy, not in the place we had agreed to meet, but at a spot towards the back of the crowd where there were few people. She was standing alone, looking dejected and bored, watching the distant band without enthusiasm or apparent enjoyment. The long, black velvet cloak she wore reached almost to the ground, and she was holding herself with folded arms, shivering as if cold. She looked especially
vulnerable, and as I came up from behind I put my arms around her, hoping to give her a surprise.
“Oh, hi babe, what’re you doin’ here so early?”
“What, aren’t you glad to see me? We arranged to meet, don’t you remember?”
“Of course I am, silly — but I thought you were coming later, this evening.”
“Yeah, that was the original plan, but then we decided to meet earlier — you must remember, surely.”
“Oh yeah, that’s right, I forgot. Sorry babe, I’m miles away today. Jesus, it’s freezing.” Cissy was suddenly seized by a spasm of uncontrollable shivering. She seemed detached and distant, not herself at all.
“What, are you ill or something? It’s not that cold. Come here, let me warm you up.” I tried to pull her into my arms, but she resisted, finally pushing me away.
“Oh, don’t get all sloppy on me, I’m not in the mood. Sorry, I’m just not feelin’ very well today, that’s all. It’s nothin’ personal, so don’t go all moody on me.”
I looked into her face, but she avoided my eyes. Suddenly, after being seized by another bout of shivering, she threw up, right there at my feet, on the grass. I felt angry and stupid, and I confronted her right then and there.
“You’ve been using again, haven’t you? C’mon, admit it, you have haven’t you?”
“Yeah, well, so what if I have? It’s my fuckin’ life isn’t it, an’ I’ll do what I want, alright?”
“Oh, that’s just great! What about your plans for the club, an’ everything else? I thought we were both gonna stay clean from now on.”
“Oh, get off my back, will you, you’re like my fuckin’ mother! An’ anyway, it’s only a little chippy I’ve got, I haven’t been mainlining, just skin-poppin’ a bit, that’s all. It’s nothin’ serious, so don’t get your knickers in a twist!”
This last rejoinder was said in such a sarcastic, bitchy tone of voice that I felt like punching her. All my warm feelings towards her suddenly turned to icy hatred and we both stood there sulking, me staring off into the distance, she holding herself with both arms across her stomach and doubling over each time she was seized with a spasm. I felt like an idiot for not having noticed she was getting high again; but she had been clever and cunning, probably scoring during the day while I was at work, then skin-popping in her arse so that I wouldn’t see any track-marks on her arms. By the time I met her in the evening, the effects of the drug would mostly have worn off, and anyway she had brown eyes, so it was very difficult to see from the size of her pupils whether she was high or not. I didn’t know how regularly, or how much, Cissy had been using, but once you have had a habit in your life each subsequent one creeps up on you that much easier. Although you might think you are being careful, before you know it you are back into the gear once again, and I presumed that this was what had happened to Cissy. I started to ask myself, “But why?”, before realising it was a stupid question. I, out of all people, should know the answer to that one, aware as I was of the empty, aching void at the heart of me that only the spreading warm light of heroin could ever truly alleviate.
“C’mon, let’s get out of here — the bands are shit, it’s raining, an’ I’m cold an’ miserable. C’mon, let’s split.”
“But I’ve only just got here!”
“Well, stay if you want, but I’m goin’ home. I’m not havin’ any fun here, so why should I stay?”
Again, I felt like decking her. I wanted to stay and watch the bands, and Cissy’s bitchiness and fucked-up attitude were pissing me off; but I also knew that if she went alone, she would go straight to her dealer’s house to score. I was determined not to let her sink back into daily use of heroin, that I would somehow prevent her from getting a full-blown habit
again. But I also knew how difficult it was, once your body has again had a taste of smack, to think of anything else. Each moment, you will be calculating how long you must wait before it is “safe” for you to take another shot, and once you are thinking this way you are, in truth, already addicted. We walked to the station in silence, and as we sat on the train back to London it seemed obvious to me that the honeymoon period of our relationship was over.
• • •
But Cissy had a talent for always bouncing back, and within three or four days she was over the chippy she had developed. She didn’t score again, and life continued in much the same way, a seemingly endless round of pubs, clubs, restaurants and parties. I was beginning to have problems holding down my job with this lifestyle, but the boss liked me, and as long as I wasn’t ridiculously late in the mornings, he turned a blind eye to my lack of punctuality.
Jed, the biker, finally reappeared, and Cissy met up with him to explain the situation. Much to my surprise, he accepted that their relationship was now over, and instead of coming looking for me, as I’d half expected, he just took off again, keeping his feelings to himself and not flying into a violent rage.
Cissy could be warm, direct and honest, often generous to a fault, and because of these qualities she always had a large circle of friends who would do anything for her. But she could also be underhand and devious, with a streak of greed in her that could lead to ill-considered business ventures and endeavours, and as the months passed I began to see more of this side of her. Just before Christmas, she spent all the money she had saved from the pub on a quarter ounce of cocaine. The idea was to sell half of it in small deals (first adding a little cut), make her money back and have a few grammes for personal use over
the holidays, so that she could spend time with Julia in Kensington without having to ponce off her, as she said. However, as soon as she had scored, she started to dip into the coke, and within four days almost half of it had gone. Instead of just stopping and selling the rest as she had originally intended, she took half of the remainder for herself, and cut the rest so badly that nobody would buy it. Then, depressed at this state of affairs, she finished off the remaining uncut two grammes in a vain attempt to cheer herself up. By the time Christmas came, she had no cocaine and no money, and was so down about the situation that she refused to go out and celebrate. Instead, she stayed in her room the whole time, reading magazines and sulking. All of this would have been laughable if it hadn’t been so tragic, and another big row followed.
“I told you not to buy that shit — it’s always the same, gone before you know it, an’ it’s a total con anyway. I mean, if you wanna freeze your nose just buy some novocaine, for fuck’s sake!”
“Oh, an’ you’re Mr. Perfect, I suppose, like you never make mistakes, or waste money on drugs. C’mon, you’re just as big a junkie as I am, so stop makin’ out you’re some kind of saint! Just take a look at yourself for a change!”
We were walking back from the station, through one of the enclosed alleyways around King’s Cross, and so busy arguing that at first we didn’t notice the lone figure sat huddled on a darkened doorstep with his head between his knees. As we came closer, I saw that it was Jimmy, a junkie friend of Cissy’s who lived in a damp basement flat in one of the crumbling old tenement buildings further up the street. His shoulders were shaking and I could see that he was quietly sobbing, and Cissy immediately forgot about the argument and went over to him.
“Jimmy, what’s the matter, what’s happened? why are you sat outside here like this? C’mon, it’s freezing, let’s go inside.”
Jimmy didn’t answer, but just kept on sobbing and moaning
to himself. His lank, greasy hair covered his face, his jeans were torn at the knee, and even from a couple of yards away you could smell the malodorous reek that came off his clothes. Cissy sat down next to him on the step, putting her arm around his shoulder, then she asked him once again what was the matter.
“It’s ’Rene — she tried to top herself by jumpin’ under a tube train, for Christ’s sake. Only she didn’t do it properly, the train stopped in time, or pushed her along, or something … but anyway, it went over her leg an’ they’ve had to amputate it — she’s in
UCH
now, still unconscious, I’ve just come from there. Oh shit, what am I gonna do, what about the kid …?”
This was so heavy — so over-the-top — that I had to stifle an impulse to laugh; but Cissy had gone deathly pale, and neither of us knew what to say. Irene was Jimmy’s common-law wife, fresh over from Ireland when they met, a well-brought-up country girl who always seemed totally out of her depth and perpetually bemused whenever you spoke to her. She was no match for Jimmy with his underhand junkie ways, and was always trying to get him to stop taking drugs, probably praying for his poor, abandoned soul each Sunday in church. Although he’d made something of an effort to stay clean since the baby had been born, basically he was incorrigible and always found ways to get money for a hit, even if the flat was without food or electricity. In spite of this, his weakness and selfishness, he truly doted on Irene and his baby daughter with the kind of helpless, hopeless love that I saw time and again in junkie relationships — a love born out of emptiness and desperation that could break your heart if you thought about it for any length of time at all.