Fresh works, a boulder of crack and a heap of heroin lay on the coffee table in front of Shelley. The spoon, the glass of water and the bag of citric were lined up neatly. Everything was ready for her solitary party. Jay had come through with the drugs in the end. When she’d told him what had happened to her yesterday, he’d asked for the address in Ladbroke Grove and offered to help her recover the stolen money. He’d been so concerned that when he’d delivered her medicine, he’d come in and made her a cup of tea – the cup of tea she was still drinking.
The five-hundred pounds worth of heroin and crack that Shelley now had in her possession had cost her a thousand pounds. Her savings, supposed to see her through university, were diminishing at an unsustainable rate. Her client list was shrinking, and she was working infrequently. Somehow, she’d pulled it off with the bandages and had been paid the other night. Although Resident Dicks All the Boxes seemed sympathetic about her skin condition, she wasn’t sure he’d be calling her again.
Earlier in the afternoon, Shelley had called Ajay who’d been the one responsible for the introduction to Len, the thieving connection, but Ajay told her he couldn’t get hold of him. She’d called Len countless times herself during the night, but to no avail. She was about to try again – but first, she needed a fix.
Having got her itch on, she sat back on the sofa, scratching at her face and neck. Later, as the effects lessened, she picked up her phone to call him again. This time he answered.
“I’m the girl you locked in your house, fucker. I want my money back.”
“What are you on about?” he replied. “I never locked you in. I came back and you was gone. You nicked the Blu-Tack off my poster. What the fuck did you do that for?”
“You can have it back. And your two-hundred Bensons and your five-o-ones and your Nikes when I get my motherfucking money.”
“It’s all right, love. You can keep ’em.”
“I don’t want your shit. I want my fucking money back.”
“What about what you done to my back doors? It was like sleeping out in the Antarctica in here last night.”
“It’s your own fucking fault.” Shelley leant forward to prepare her next hit on the coffee table. “I want the money or the drugs today. If you don’t sort it, someone’s gonna be paying you a visit – and believe me, they’re gonna fucking get it.”
“There’s no need to do that. I weren’t up to no skulduggery,” he said, softly. “It’s a misunderstanding, that’s all. Just gimme a few days and I’ll come up good.”
“No. Not a few days. Today.”
“I can’t do it that fast. I need a bit of time.”
Shelley could tell the conversation was going nowhere, so she put down the phone. She thought how desperate he must have been for a fix that he’d steal from someone who knew where he lived.
After a few moments, an idea came to her mind. Whether he came through with the money or the drugs, or he didn’t, it didn’t matter any more. She’d thought of a more useful way he could pay her back.