Tar

When you wanta be my friend

knock on my door

I won’t open it

I know

What you’re for

I know exactly what you’re for

LURKY

I was round at Dev’s place when this friend came round and said, “Your place is being done.”

I went straight there. I couldn’t work out why they were doing it then instead of two o’clock in the morning like they usually do, when they know everyone’ll be there. But there it was, the car flashing blue. It was like a dream. I wasn’t scared. I was relieved. Which was funny. I was surprised about being relieved. What it was, of course, was that at last the whole shitty mess was going to end. Only, of course, it didn’t.

I walked up and down a couple of times. Lily and Rob had moved out into their own place a few months ago when the baby was born. I didn’t know if Gemma was in or not but I thought she probably was. I didn’t know what to do. I mean, if the ambulance was for her, there was nothing I could do but I wanted so bad to find out if it was for her. If she was okay or dead or what…And then if she was okay I’d go in and take the rap quite happily, but if she was out it would be the most stupid thing on earth I could do.

The thing is, we had this friend staying—Col—who used to go out with Sally. He’d been away in Amsterdam for about six months and he’d come back and he was kipping on our settee. It could have been him. I just didn’t know. But in the end I had to find out. I couldn’t do nothing. So I went in.

The police were there in the hall. This big one, really big like an extra-size man, and this ordinary-sized one. I say ordinary, but he was a big bugger as well. They grabbed me, one on each arm, as soon as I walked in the door.

“What do you want, son?”

“Where’s Gemma?”

“Never mind Gemma, what are you doing here?”

“I live here.” They glanced at one another. “Is she all right? Who’s that ambulance for?” And I tried to get free and get through to the living-room door, but they just tightened hold of my arms and lifted me off the ground slightly. I might as well have tried to push my way past King Kong.

Of course they didn’t tell me anything…if she was there, how she was, anything. They dragged me to the back of the hall and searched me. All the time I was saying, “Where’s Gemma, where’s Gemma?”

“Never you mind about Gemma,” they kept saying, like I was a naughty kid.

I said, “Anything you’ve found, it’s mine.”

There was a pause.

“And what might we find, David?” asked the big one.

“I live here, anything here is mine.”

“Do you want to make a statement?”

“Yeah.”

“Arrest him first,” said the other copper.

“Hang on,” said the big one. He went through into the front room. He opened and closed the door quick, so’s I couldn’t see what was going on.

“I just want to know if she’s all right,” I said.

“If who’s all right?” said the copper…as if I hadn’t said Gemma ten times already.

Then the door opened and the big copper came out with a plastic bag. Our stash was in it. Maybe a quarter of an ounce of heroin, plus a little lump of hash.

“Is this yours, David?” he asked.

I had a look, it wasn’t just ours in there. Some of it might have been Col’s, but…

“Yeah, that’s mine, it’s all mine,” I said.

“I arrest you under suspicion of being in possession of Class A drugs, and holding Class A drugs for the purpose of sale to person or persons unknown…I must warn you…”

I was half listening. It was awful. I kept glancing at the door where Gemma might be.

One of the coppers wandered off up the hall to have a gab in his walkie talkie. Then the door opened and two ambulancemen came out. They had Col between them. He was in a state, gauching out as they walked him along. I mean, losing consciousness, then coming round. His head kept falling and lifting up as he came round, then going back down.

“How is he?” asked the policeman standing guard over me.

“He’ll live,” said one of the ambulancemen.

“And what about the other one?” asked the copper. The ambulanceman just looked at him, and then at me, and I thought the worst at once…

“Where’s Gemma, where’s Gemma? Gemma, Gemma!” I yelled, and I was struggling to get through the door. The copper grabbed me and pinned me to the wall, my feet off the ground, but I carried on shouting and pushing. But then I heard her…

“I’m all right, Tar, I’m okay…”

Straight away this woman’s voice said, “Shut your gob!” A really hard woman’s voice, she must have been a real bitch. Gemma shut up but it was done. I knew she was there and I knew she was okay. I could have wept with relief after seeing Col…

The copper was really pissed off. He shoved me against the wall, hard. But it was his own fault. He only asked that stuff about “How’s the other one?” just to wind me up.

“You could have told me she was okay, it wouldn’t have done you any harm,” I said.

“Stupid little toe rag,” sneered the copper.

Then I had an idea and I yelled out at the top of my lungs, “The stuff’s mine, Gems. Okay?”

The copper was furious. He grabbed hold of me and gave me a real shake, and the woman on the other side of the door screamed, “Shut his fucking mouf!”

“Clever little git, aren’t you,” hissed the copper, and he had a really nasty glint in his eye. He’d have loved to poke me one. I reckon the only reason he didn’t was because the ambulancemen were outside the front door listening.

Soon after that they led Gemma out into the hall and took both of us into the police car. I saw the woman who spoke to her; she had a face like a white mask, horrible, vicious-looking. They marched us out to the car and, it was strange, guess who I saw watching on the pavement opposite? Skolly—the bloke who first took pity on me and put me in touch with Richard.

I felt so embarrassed. I hadn’t exchanged a word with him, not even to say thanks, since I left the squat three years ago. I nearly did once. We were coming home late at night from this party and we bumped into him and some other bloke. He’d been out on the beer by the look of him, lurching down the path with his hands in his pockets. I recognised him at once. I think he was about to have a go at us for bumping into him, even though it was his fault really, but then he saw Lily in the lamplight. She was wearing her usual party gear—the string vest. It took whatever he was going to say right out of his mouth.

I was about to say hello, but Lily took one look at him and started screaming, “Beer Monster! Beer Monster!” We all ran off as if he was something horrible, screaming, “Beer Monster!” I remember hoping he didn’t recognise me.

Down the nick the police were a lot better. The desk sergeant was quite kind, an older guy. But it didn’t make any difference because I got questioned by these two thugs who arrested me. They were horrible. The big one kept coming in and shouting and snarling at me. I remember getting spit on my face from where he was leaning right over the table and yelling. I wiped it off with my finger and I thought, Cop gob, but I didn’t dare say it.

Then he’d go out and the other one would come in and pretend to be all nice and friendly. He called me David and sat down next to me “for a little chat before my friend comes back from his tea break…” They were trying to find out names and addresses, where we bought the stuff, who from, that sort of thing. I kept my mouth shut, of course.

I knew what they were at—Mutt and Jeff. You’re supposed to be so scared by the nasty one that you tell everything to the nice one. The funny thing was, the nice one was too stupid to make a good job of it. He couldn’t bring himself to be nice. After all it was him who’d called me a toe rag. I kept asking for a fag and he’d say, “In a minute, David, in a minute…” But the fag never came and it soon became clear it wasn’t coming. He couldn’t help it. It was just too hard to do. They’d taught him Mutt and Jeff, but they’d forgotten to teach him how actually to be nice.

But it still worked. Funny, isn’t it? I really had to hold myself back, especially when the nice one was telling me it would go a lot better for Gemma if I told, how the judge would be a lot more lenient if I was co-operative…It was just lies, I knew that, but still…He told me she’d spilt the beans and I might as well too. I almost believed him. Of course, when I got out later I found out it was all lies.

They released Gems that night. I was away for three days. They charged me and put me through the Magistrates’ Court. I was remanded into the care of the Social Services for trial. I never told them anything, not a word.

 

I was out in the grounds the other day. The house itself is a dump, all shiny paint on the walls and stinking of boiled cabbage. But the grounds are beautiful—shrubs and lawns and wild places and big, big trees they must have planted a hundred or two hundred years ago. I came across this bush full of red berries and it was just blazing. And the air smelt of leaves and soil. The colour was so bright it hurt my eyes. I don’t mean like coming down, when bright colours are really unpleasant. I’m clean now. It was just a blaze of red, and I felt I was looking at something for the first time in three years. I thought, All that time the smack has been between me and the world around me, like a fat cushion you can’t see through or hear through or touch through. It’s like three years that never were. Like I put myself in a mental hospital and I’ve been heavily sedated for all that time.

I guess that’s about what happened.

No, it’s not prison. My case doesn’t come up for another three months. This is the detox centre in Weston-Super-Mare. My solicitor says that if I complete the course here in Weston, if I get a good report, if I stay clean, if I’ve settled down with Gemma and I get a job and all the rest of it, I stand a good chance of getting let off with a conditional discharge. We might even get married, Gemma and me. But the solicitor says, maybe that’s going a bit far, at our age.

I’m here, let’s face it, because I’m too scared to go inside. I know people who’ve done time and they all say the same thing: it happens, you just get on with it. But I keep thinking about the screws and how hard everyone is and I couldn’t cope with it, I know I couldn’t cope with it.

Funny thing, it wasn’t like that when I got busted. I was sitting in the cell thinking, Thank God that’s over. It was out of my hands, see? I thought I’d go to a young offender institution straight away, just get put away for a couple of years. No more decisions, no more failures, no more promises and lies. No more heroin. I’d lose everything—all the gear we’d bought, Gemma, my friends, the flat, the lot. And I was pleased about it. I was thinking, What a relief, I don’t have a life any more. Thank God for that.

And then the bastards let me go.

And then, of course, once I was out I started getting scared about it. The choices started up. So when the solicitor said there was a chance, I jumped at it. And it’s better this way. I’m in here because I want to come off. I want to be clean. I want to take control of my life, not leaving it up to the police. Christ—the cops as therapists—who needs that?

Of all the things I’ve realised since I came in here, the fact that I do love Gemma is the most important to me. Imagine—I’d forgotten I was in love!

I write to her every day. I draw a little yellow dandelion on every letter. We always sign our letters, “Dandelion, I love you.”

A lot of people here tell me I should split up with her. We drag one another down. I’m weak. I know that. That’s the first thing they teach you in here. You have to remember, you’re weak and you’ll always be weak. Every addict is. Gemma’s weak. There’s no such thing as a strong addict. So we drag each other down, I can see that. But I can’t give her up. She’s all I’ve got.

A month ago I could have done it, but not now. A month ago I didn’t love her. I didn’t care about anyone—my parents or my friends or Gemma; I didn’t feel anything any more. I thought it was me being on top of things. I thought not feeling anything was being better. It was junk. The feelings are there, all right. I was just so smacked out I couldn’t feel the feelings.

Gemma’s sworn she’ll be clean while I’m inside. We were both off it for nearly two weeks before I came in here—well, nearly off—cut down. We want to have babies and they’re going to be clean babies. Lily was still jacking up when she was pregnant. She always used to go on about being a good mother and so did everyone around her. But how can you be a good mother on smack? And jacking up when she was breast feeding. I’ve seen her. All the veins in her arms and behind her knees have gone where she’s poked around with the needle so much, so she injects into the veins between her breasts. I’ve seen her sitting with the baby on the breast poking about to find a vein.

“Nice fat veins when your tits are big and milky,” she said. And no one said a word.

That’s junk. You think, if you don’t say the truth, the truth somehow doesn’t exist. You fool yourself. If anyone suggested to Lily she was doing a bad thing to her baby she’d go mad. But she knows.

Smack makes it all distant. It doesn’t matter, it’s not real any more.

But it is.

Gemma says that if we can’t give it up together this time, we’ll have to split up. She’d do it, too. That’s why it’s so important that I succeed this time.

Gemma’s been so strong. She’s given up the parlour, she’s given up heroin. That’s really hard because I’ve had a hell of a job in here, but she’s still out there with Lily and Rob and Sal and the rest of them. She writes me twice a week. Actually, she’s honest about it, she cracks up every now and then. I can understand that. I value the honesty more than anything else. When I come out we’re going to move away from Bristol, get our own place. I’ll have been clean for a month, she’ll have only been taking a little. I know she can do it because she doesn’t tell lies, like I did. I always made out I was taking practically nothing. I even believed it, even when I was doing it two, three, four times a day for weeks and weeks.

The first thing that happened when I came in here, they got all the new intake together and told us what was what. There were about ten of us sitting around in armchairs waiting, and this lanky-looking bloke—I thought he was one of us at first—suddenly started talking.

“No one’s keeping you here. Any time you feel you’ve had enough, there’s the door.” He nodded at the large green exit sign in the corner. “But while you do stay here, no drugs of any kind are allowed. Not even aspirin.”

We all laughed nervously. He smiled.

“Not even hash,” he added, as if that was the ultimate in mildness. “I like a smoke and if I have to go without it, so can you.”

Everyone shifted around in their seats and laughed more easily.

“If anyone is caught with drugs of any kind, you’re out. No questions, no arguments—the door. That goes for me too. So. Anyone who doesn’t feel that they can do it, you’d be better to go now. Really. Go now and you can come back another time. Wait until you get caught—you’ve blown it forever. If you get caught taking drugs here, you’ll never come back again.”

And a couple of people actually got up and walked out. I was tempted myself but—it was a choice between that and a young offender institution.

Then came the bad bit—withdrawal, cold turkey. I never had it so bad. I suppose the truth is I always had a little bit here and there to help me through, or methadone, or something. It was awful. I nearly cracked. I would have done, if I was on my own. I was sitting in my chair moaning, I felt so bad, and everyone was saying, “Come on, Tar, you can do it, just another few days and you’ll be clean.” But all I wanted was smack. In the end I told them I couldn’t go through with it and I asked them to fetch one of the counsellors to tell them I wanted to leave.

It was the lanky guy—Steve. He sat and watched me for a bit; and then he said, “Do you want something to help you?”

“What do you mean?”

“I can’t give you heroin, but I have some methadone for severe cases. I can get you a prescription.” He held out a key. “This is the key to the medicine cabinet. You can have it in two minutes if you like.”

Methadone is the heroin substitute they give addicts to wean them off. Actually, it’s worse than smack in some ways. The withdrawal symptoms are worse and it’s more addictive. But heroin is illegal and methadone isn’t. So…I was gasping. I said, “Please, yeah, anything.”

“Okay, I’ll go and get it. You pack your bag.”

“What?”

“Pack your bag. If you want some you can have it, but you have to leave.” He held out the key. “Two minutes, Tar.”

I stared at that key, and I stared at him and he smiled. “Just…fuck off,” I told him.

It was a near thing.

I was furious at the time but they know what they’re doing. They’re ever so supportive but they make you fight every step of the way. They know it’s not easy. I discovered later that Steve had been an addict for fifteen years. Fifteen years, and then he got off.

So it is possible.

There’s one of the counsellors here who used to be an alcoholic, a really bad one. He used to eat his own sick in the morning, so’s not to waste the booze. He used to wake up, and he’d always make sure he had a bit of booze right by him so he could have a drink as soon as he woke up. So he’d drink it and his stomach would reject it at once—vomit it up. But he couldn’t have that because that was all the booze he had. So he’d catch it in his hands and drink it back down…

You wouldn’t guess to look at him now; he’s a perfectly ordinary-looking bloke. Anyway, he gave up for ten years, ten whole years. And then one night he decided he was past it, he could relax a little bit. So he had a drink.

“That was it—skid row. I woke up the next morning in the gutter. I knew there was only one thing would ever make me feel better again. So I did it. And I was on the booze again for four years…”

I remember Dev and his girlfriend once deciding to give it up and they booked this holiday to the Canary Islands. And you know what? They actually met a guy on the plane who was a dealer and had some on him.

That’s one of the things they teach you. You can never touch the stuff ever again, whatever it is, fags, booze, smack. No matter what happens to me, no matter what I do or don’t do, I can never touch heroin again. Not once. Because I’m not strong enough. Because it’s stronger than me. That’s the important thing I always have to remember…

They teach you things like that but most of the work here is therapy. We all sit talking to one another, about one another. You have to show everything. People listen. They don’t judge you. They’re not full of the bullshit you normally get from people who’ve never had the problem. And the other thing is—perhaps the main thing is, unlike all the addicts I know—they all really want you to get off.

We have all sorts here—speed addicts, heroin junkies, people on barbiturates, people on Valium. There’s a woman here about the same age as my mum and she’s been on Valium for thirty years. Imagine, stoned on Valium all that time. Her name is Nancy. Her doctor has a lot to answer for. There’s a lot of women like that apparently. Actually it makes me think better of my mum. At least she found a drug that was more interesting than Valium.

Nancy has a son about my age she doesn’t often see. They took him off her when he was eight. And, of course, I have a mum I don’t often see. So we have something in common. We go for walks around the grounds, and she asks me what it’s like being the son of an addict, and I ask her about what it’s like being a mum. Actually she doesn’t much remind me of Mum but it makes me feel good because I think it helps her. If her son hadn’t been taken away, he might have ended up like me, you see. So somehow, I’m useful to her just by being useless, if you see what I mean.

Nancy sticks up for me. Sometimes the other people pick on me because of Gemma. I’ve told everyone our story, so they know that she more or less ran away because of me. She’d never have gone if I hadn’t been there, so in a sense it’s my fault she’s a junkie. A lot of people say I ought to leave her. There’s this thing about junkies supporting one another’s addiction and making it harder to give up. Even Steve says couples nearly always have to separate.

But we love each other…that can’t be a bad thing, can it? How can love be bad?

Nancy says, “If you love her, stick with her, Tar.” She split up with her husband over her addiction, and it didn’t do her any good. She’s in as big a mess as ever.

The point about therapy isn’t that what everyone says is necessarily true. It makes you think, that’s the point. It makes you challenge yourself. All that stuff about Gemma has made me really think about me and her, and the more I think about it, the more I know I love her.

There’s this bloke there, Ron. He’s Scottish and he’s been through everything. Sometimes he gets aggressive but he’s actually a very warm sort of bloke. He’s been on booze, on heroin—he’s even been on cough mixture. That’s the first cough mixture addict I’ve ever met. It’s funny because…I mean, he’s a weak person. We all are, that’s why we’re here. But he’s helped a lot of people see things about themselves. He’s so perceptive. And yet when people say things about him, he just can’t handle it.

Anyway, it was last week. We were in therapy; it was my turn on the spot. We were talking about my mum. We often end up talking about my mum. It’s the obvious thing because she’s an addict same as me, and because she’s a victim same as me, getting knocked around by my dad. Then suddenly Ron sat up and said, “All right, we’ve been talking about your mum and how she’s a victim and how she’s made you a victim and all the things you have in common with your mum. Right. What about your dad? What have you got in common with your dad? What about a bit of sympathy for the old man?”

That really threw it up in the air. There was a real argument that day. I just sat there and listened to start off with. Some of the women were really offended.

“We’re talking about a man that beats women, we’re talking about a man that beats his own wife and son.”

“Aye, but what did she do to him? She was a dab hand at the old guilt, I bet…I bet she knew how to wrap him round her little finger, because I’ll tell you, I’ve met women like that before and, I tell you, they’re not helpless. In fact, I’m willing to bet she was the one who wore the trousers in that house.”

“It’s not the same thing!” shouted this woman. She was getting really angry. The guide kept trying to bring it back to me, but I just couldn’t answer. It was true. I’d never thought about it but my mum was the boss. He used to knock me around and she used to live in fear of him coming home. But she was the boss, all right. She used to wrap me round one little finger, and she used to wrap him round the other one.

“How about it, David?” said Ron, leaning across and grinning at me. “How would you like to go back there and give the old woman a good kicking…just like your da? Eh? Perhaps he had the right idea…eh?”

You should have heard the screech when he said that!

“That’s no way to solve his problems.”

“I didn’t say it was. I didn’t say he ought to do it. I just asked him how he’d like to do it…Right, listen…I’ve hit women before now and I may even do it again.”

“Are you threatening me? Are you threatening me?”

“No, listen…no, I’m not…I’m saying…” It was getting really loud, people shouting and roaring. “No, look, I expect sympathy, so why not Tar’s dad? Why shouldn’t he have a bit of sympathy? I mean, it’s worth a question, is it not? I mean you don’t stop being a human being if you hit a woman, do you? Or am I not allowed to ask questions? I understood it was a free therapy session…”

This woman, her name was Sue, was getting really upset. She’d been beaten up over and over again by her husband. I felt sorry for her because she was just learning to stand up for herself and here was Ron coming out with all this.

He said I ought to ring up my dad and find out how he was and how he felt.

It completely blew my mind.

“All right, he’s got the muscles, he loses it every now and then and lashes out, but why? How is he being abused? Hey…here’s a thought. Maybe she wanted him to hit her. Maybe it suited her…”

It really upset some people. Including me. I was sitting next to Nancy and I looked at her to see what she thought but she just shook her head. Afterwards she said that she thought Ron was just stirring things up but I don’t know. I don’t know if what he said is true but it showed me one thing: I never really thought about me and Dad before. One day when all this is over I’ll ring him up, go and visit him…maybe. And my mum. But not now. It’s all there. It’ll wait. At the moment I need all my strength for Gemma.

 

I don’t believe in anything any more. I don’t believe in me, I don’t believe in my friends, I don’t believe in Gemma. But I don’t mean that in a cynical way. The thing I have to remember is that I’m weak and that they’re weak. I can’t do it alone. If you have an addictive personality, you have to have help from outside yourself. Not a person, or an organisation necessarily. Something deeper than that. Some force outside you and stronger than you, that you can turn to when you feel weak.

I don’t know what they mean when they say that, but maybe I’m getting some kind of an idea about it. That thing outside yourself is different for everyone. I know that I can’t trust myself ever again. I know I can’t trust Gemma either. She’s stronger than me but she’s still weak. But what about love?

I was looking at a letter she wrote to me the other day and those words on the bottom she writes—“Dandelion, I love you…” And I thought that was magic. Loving someone. It’s not you and it’s not them. It’s not in you, it’s between you. It’s bigger and stronger than you are.

That’s what I have. That’s all I have, when you think about it. My personality almost disappeared when I was on heroin. I’m off it now but I still don’t know who I am. I only know that I’m weak, and Gemma’s weak, and that I love Gemma. And I know that she loves me.

Dandelion, dandelion. That’s what I believe in. It’s the only thing can help me now.

 

Steve said to me, “When you go home you’ll know in the first day whether you’re going to get through the week.”

“I will,” I said.

I’ve said that before. This time I know I’ve got nothing to be confident about.