At a Harper Collins jamboree a few months back, entries were requested for short passages to be read aloud and criticised in public. I prepared two pieces for the people who decide these things to choose from, taken from my debut novel. They didn’t fancy either, but what do critics know about anything?
I’ve been asked to read a section of my work to a literary society shortly. No big deal. Not the Whitbread Prize, but an interesting venture. So, I dug out my rejected pieces. It’s an old-established and rather genteel gathering – not sure they’ve read my books in detail. Here’s the first ‘possible’ – what do you think? May have them shuffling in their seats.
Snake’s Tale.
The handles of the pliers were coated with orange plastic. “For Christ’s sake,” Snake rasped. “Mister cool, Mister fucking G.Q. designer label suits brings pliers with fucking orange plastic handles.” The irrelevant thought was swept away on a tidal wave of relief as the pliers, cool against his bruised skin snipped the tight wire. Snip, snip, that’s all it took. The fresh agony of returning circulation doubled him up, mouth gaping in a silent scream. Marcus threw him a cloth-covered bundle. “So, Clive’s not talking to anyone? Never goes out? That’s good. I can find you. I can always find you, junkie. You’d better have told me the truth.”
Snake scrabbled to open the bag as his tormentor left. His precious works, his most important possession, no, the only things that really mattered to him. The twisted and blackened spoon, still bearing the crest of a fast food chain, the stem bent at right angles allowing the scoop to remain level. Syringe and needle in a metal cigar case, the same needle used repeatedly, cheap disposable lighter, a grubby cotton wool ball, a small twist of foil and the precious white powder. His torn and bleeding fingers, like filthy blackened claws, remained rock steady, as sure and tender as the hands of a mother with her infant. The act transcended pain, suffering, deprivation, all that mattered was the release and the needle was the key.
Snake scooped pooling water from the floor with the spoon. Boiling would make it sterile. He transferred the powder to the bowl of the spoon, never, ever, spilling a single grain, his cupped hands shielding the precious cargo from a nonexistent wind. Safely accomplished, the bent spoon hooked over a protruding nail, he flicked the lighter, adjusting the flame. The bitter sweet pain as he delayed bringing the flame to the spoon brought a nervous giggle to his cracked lips, sweet agony knowing he finally had the power to end his pain, his longing. No surgeon brought more concentration to his work than this, the pale, greyish mixture bubbling with the heat. He looked at it longingly, the delay now unavoidable, shoot that stuff while it’s still hot, and it would be fucking goodnight.
No gritty residue in the cooling liquid, a good sign. He knew better than most that heroin at street level is cut many times, adulterated with baking powder, cement dust, ground up chalk, even fucking Ajax, whatever was handy. The absence of obvious contaminant was a good sign, but ultimately irrelevant. Snake knew he would take it no matter what it looked like, regardless of the debris that accompanied it. He’d take it all.
He removed the hypodermic from its container, the needle still blackened with scabs of dried blood, pushed the needle into the ball of cotton wool and lowered it carefully into the bowl of the spoon, soaking up the liquid.
The veins in his arms and legs were useless, covered in scabs and ulcers. He had started with the small veins on the soles of his feet, hoping in those innocent early days to avoid the obvious bruising and heavily tracked arms of the addict, but all were useless now, veins receding from the threat of the invasive needle, retreating into flesh. He removed his shoelace and tied it round the stem of his penis, pulling tight, wincing as he slapped the prominent vein to make it stand proud. He muttered to himself, lost in the precision of a familiar routine.
“Make sure you’re in the vein, always check for blood. Miss the vein it’s a fucking waste.” There was no one around to hear, but the sound of his own voice soothed him.
He never felt the needle, but as he pressed the plunger, his eyes widened as the rush began. The kick was instantaneous. Never like this, he thought as the veins behind his eyes burst and he slumped to the floor. His heart seized instantly as the pure grade uncut heroin flooded his blood stream. Snake was dead before his head hit the cement floor, needle still jutting from his penis. One more drug culture victim.
