Earlier this year I made the first of what was to be two visits to a Book Group in the Cotswolds. Note the title, ‘Book Group’. This was the Cotswolds and ‘Book Clubs’ are for lesser mortals. On that first visit I read two short pieces from my debut novel, Burn, Baby, Burn. A brave decision as the pieces I chose dealt with drug addiction and suicide respectively. Hell, in for penny, in for a pound.
Here’s the section I chose as my first piece. As you’ll perhaps appreciate, my wife disowned me after hearing of my selections and was probably hiding under the table when I stood up to read this.
‘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.’
Okay, where’s he going with this, you may ask? Hang on and I’ll tell you. (That’s proper journalism, there, see? Interjecting a fictional character as a spurious means of adding dramatic impact. Dismal failure, you say? Hey, only one fictional interrogator allowed. Bugger off.)
Where was I? Getting to the point, supposedly. Yeah, right. One of the people at that gathering was interested enough to take my name and email details. Her husband wasn’t present, but she said he’d be interested in me. That’s ‘me’ rather than that tosser Jake Barton. A couple of months ago, he got in touch. He’s quite important, as it turned out.
I chose to write crime thrillers because they sold well. Not the most virtuous reason, but an honest one. ‘Write what you know’ is basic advice for a new writer. I know about ‘dodgy geezers,’ drug addicts, dealers and pushers and every nuance of the sordid underbelly of society. I lived that life, once. I’ve never used drugs, but I’ve met a lot of people who’ve met the same end as the wretched ‘Snake.’ I wasn’t a police officer, but worked undercover on many occasions, mingling with some highly dubious people. I’ve spent time in crack dens, shooting galleries, seen the daily routine of heroin addicts at close quarters. I know that ‘stuff,’
My background helped with the writing; even though every single word, every character, was fictional. Getting back (finally) to the point; the man I’d never met got in touch. His wife had told him about me. Told him about my writing. About my background. He’d bought my books (hurrah!) and wanted to meet me. When I went to London recently for a meeting with a putative Publisher, I also met this man. He’s a consultant for the Home Office, specifically inner city crime and drug-related problems. He’d asked me to prepare a discussion paper on this very subject.
It’s been a while, but I’ve done this before. Hang on, let me rephrase that, it’s been quite a considerable while since I did anything like this. In the time it took me to write this paper I could have written another novel. And people wonder why I didn’t enter NaNoWriMo!
I’d expected to hand my offering in, shake a hand or two and get back to touring the fleshpots of London. Until I got there and found I’d be presenting my paper to a gathering of about fifty people. Yes, I’ve done that before, but again, it’s been a while. They sat there, pens poised over notebooks, iPads on knees, waiting for this bloke who hasn’t had a proper job in twenty years to set out his vision for future strategy. Government strategy, no less.
It went well. Nobody fell asleep. Nobody heckled or walked out. I reclaimed some of that indefinable thing called ‘job satisfaction’ that has only manifested itself in building a reasonably straight brick wall in recent years. Very different.
My paper is now in the mix. Part of future strategic planning? Well, possibly. At least I’ve been promised a cheque in recognition of my efforts.
It hasn’t arrived yet. The Civil Service is a ponderous beast. It’ll get here. Eventually.
I’ve been asked if I’m willing to attend follow-up meetings and become part of a consultation group. I explained about my lifestyle and my complete inability to say where I’ll be at any time in the foreseeable future. That didn’t go down well.
‘He’s a bit of a one-off,’ my mentor explained. They nodded, but didn’t look convinced. We’re leaving things in the air for a while. If this gets anywhere, I’ll be pleased. If not, it won’t bother me. I understand the nature of strategic planning. Last week’s breath of fresh air is nothing more than a stale fart six months down the line. I’ve been there, done that. I know how this works.
So, que sera sera then. Interesting. All of this stemming from a dubious choice of reading material to set before a group of genteel Cotswolds book lovers. You just never know who’s listening, do you?
Suggested subtitle – You Might Feel a Small Prick?
Cheers
Ruby