10

The wind shimmered in the nearby trees and bushes, a somehow comforting sound that carried away the drone of Princes Street below. From here, Paul could see the entire stretch of the street all the way to the West End, the first of the car lights coming on as street lights began to glow softly. He could see people moving along the crowded pavements, heading home, to the shops, or for a post-work drink.

He wished he could do the same. But no. As they were heading home, closing their doors against the cold and the dark, he was just waking up, another day of sunlight lost to him in a stupor of drink and whatever he could cram up his nose. He was on an addiction counselling programme now, one of the hoops he had to jump through every week to get a benefits payment that barely covered a pint of milk and the electric bill. It was meant to be helping.

If only.

He tucked his hands deeper in his pockets, fingers searching instinctively in the corners for something to take away the steadily rising ache in his muscles and bones. Soon the ache would become sharper, stabbing, an open sore of raw hunger as his body started to protest that his latest hit was overdue.

He would have to see Frankie before that. Frankie would help. Frankie would take the hunger away.

Paul turned his back on Princes Street, eyes scanning the near-deserted car park in front of him. He saw movement in the bushes to the left; a small, squat-looking man in a long jacket moving slowly into the foliage, casting long glances back to him over his shoulder.

He patted the bulge in his jeans pocket – the condoms were still there. He tried to think of Frankie as he followed the man into the bushes, glad that the growing heat in his groin was blotting out the bitter hunger in his veins.