Howard Marks' Book of Dope Stories

by Howard Marks

  ‘I don’t know, that’s kinda weird, you’re going to give a young boy a bath you’ve only just met tonight, doesn’t something strike you as odd here?’

  ‘Oh God, what are you saying man?’ Varnish got up and left the room, then came back in again a moment later. ‘I hope you’re not saying what I think you’re saying, because if you are saying what I think you’re saying then you’re sicker than I ever thought you could be.’ He stormed out making ‘uck!’ noises and shouting, ‘That’s disgusting.’

  I lay on the bed smoking the joint and listened to the music, turning the volume up with my foot. What the hell was going on in there? Had I spent all this time sharing a flat with a man whose sexual orientations I had no idea of? What evil thing was manifesting itself in front of that poor unsuspecting boy, in the bathroom as we speak? That vile drug beast in the bathroom with the boy was not a man to be trusted, he enjoyed nothing more than freaking unsuspecting members of society while under the security of hard drugs. Perhaps the boy wanted it to happen, maybe he’d planned this all along, well, all except the bash in the head, but how would I know?

  But good tunes at five thirty in the morning; suddenly everything is forgotten in a haze of thick grey-blue smoke and Tom Waits wailing over a king hell honky-tonky band.

  I came around as the boy walked back into the room; I could feel him watching me, even without looking at him. I asked if he was okay. He said his head still hurt.

  ‘Well, you took a pretty heavy bang in the head, I’m surprised you haven’t got concussion.’

  The boy returned to the exact position on the bed as he was before. Varnish came in and sat down.

  We sat listening to calm sounds, smoking and drinking Ribena, thinking the vitamin C would do us some good. The sun shone into the room casting streams of yellow through the smoke-filled room. The boy asked what we were doing. I looked up from the smoking bong.

  ‘We’re smoking hash, what does it look like?’

  ‘Can I have some?’ he asked. ‘It looks good.’

  We pondered this for a while, maybe it would help the pain in his head, maybe it would calm him down. Maybe it would knock him out completely and we’d end up with a young boy in a coma and a big crack in his skull to explain to the police. Then when he woke he would tell the police how these two degenerate-looking men took him to their flat, bathed him and then made him smoke some drug that rendered him helpless. No, this was a bad idea, I thought. He may even just go completely uncontrollable, we’d end up with a near-fit situation, I’ve seen it happen before and it wasn’t nice.

  So we decided the hash painkiller was not a good idea. The boy began complaining that his head really hurt. Then he started to moan and rock backwards and forwards. Varnish and I decided to get him to the hospital quick, our time as Samaritans was over, we’d had enough of this creep. It was around six thirty as we stumbled to the car, my body rebounded from every step I took. I felt rubbery and I had little strength in any of my limbs. I had the boy in front of me, occasionally grabbing his jacket collar and helpfully thrusting him in the direction of the car. Varnish was in front us; he staggered around the car, pulling his keys from his jeans.

  ‘Are you okay to drive?’ I shouted.

  He just about made it to the driver’s door and looked up at me. ‘I’m fine, we’ll make it.’ He looked like his head was about to burst. His face had turned purple and he was struggling with the lock, muttering and swearing for a minute, then we all got in and Varnish started the battered Toyota and turned the car one-eighty out on to the main road, turning left into town. He was driving about seven miles per hour.

  ‘Speed up, man. We’re so goddamned conspicuous,’ I bleated in a panic-stricken voice. I could feel the cops closing in on us right now. There were probably two of them watching us as we left the flat. They weren’t there for us, hell no. Just a couple of good old-fashioned policemen having their breakfast in a quiet part of the neighbourhood after a ball-breaking eight-hour night shift. Then out stumble us two, unable to walk or even to open car doors, clamber into a car that looks like it hasn’t seen an MOT certificate for five years and drive off.

  ‘I’m speeding up now,’ snapped Varnish, ‘you gotta give me time.’

  Something stirred in my stomach, writhing like a giant worm. The boy was still wailing, but it had got louder now.

  ‘Arrr . . . my head, my head . . . arrr!’ He was repeating this at regular intervals.

  ‘I know your fucking head hurts,’ snarled Varnish, ‘we’re going to the hospital, aren’t we, shut up for a fucking minute, will you.’ I could see he was losing control of the situation.

  We made it about two hundred metres along the main road, averaging fifteen to twenty miles per hour. The churning in my stomach erupted up towards my mouth.

  ‘Pull over, I’m going to be sick,’ I shrieked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just do it!’

  Varnish screeched to a halt, I opened the passenger door and threw up into the gutter. The vomit was bright purple. Varnish took one look at my sorry state of affairs and instantly threw up out of the driver’s door. I looked up over the dashboard just in time to see the patrol car glide past. Everything was silent and time itself seemed to slow. I could see the judge, the scowling jury and the grey prison bars flash in front of me. Varnish sat up and closed his door.

  ‘Oh shit,’ I said, it was all I was capable of, apparently this is the most common word people say before they die.

  ‘What?’ asked Varnish.

  ‘Cops, the cops. Oh shit, we’re dead.’

  ‘Oh fuck!’ said Varnish as he saw the police car right in front of us. He dropped down in his seat, cowering and babbling. But the police car kept going and within a minute it was out of our sight. We looked at each other in amazement. How could they have not seen us? A car parked on double yellow lines at six thirty in the morning with two guys throwing up out of each door. It didn’t seem possible but it had indeed happened.

  ‘We better get going before we push our luck any more,’ I said. ‘Are you okay to drive?’

  ‘I think so.’

  He slammed the car into gear and sped off to the roundabout ahead of us, turning right on to the one-way system and then right again at the next roundabout. Then on to the Derbyshire Royal Infirmary Accident and Emergency car park. I was out of the car before Varnish had time to stop. I opened the rear passenger door and hauled out the kid.

  ‘Come on, no time to waste, my lad. Let’s get that head of yours seen to. How is it, your head, I mean?’

  ‘It really hurts, I keep going dizzy.’ He was whining, maybe even faking it a bit, well, that was the impression I got at the time. Varnish made it out of the car and locked it. He looked purple and swollen, ready to throw vomit on some unsuspecting doctor at any moment.

  ‘Let’s get this over with,’ I said.

  ‘Damn straight,’ replied Varnish, without even looking at me; he just headed straight for the accident and emergency sign above the main set of doors in front of us.

  A deathly silence hit us the moment we walked into the waiting room. There were several victims of various night-time rampages. A guy with his arm in a sling, another guy with a home-made bandage around his hand, blood seeping through and dripping on the floor. In the middle of the seating arrangement in the waiting room was an old couple in matching anoraks. They were all looking at us.

  ‘Can I help you?’ said a voice.

  I swung round, trying to find the owner. I couldn’t see anyone, so I improvised, just pretend you have seen them, get your bearings later.

  ‘Err, yes. This man. He needs your help. You see, his head.’ I pointed at the gaping hole in the boy’s head. ‘Yes, he needs your help and he’s in a lot of pain, you know.’

  I spotted where the sleep-deprived voice of a woman was coming from. In the wall right in front of me was a small window with a nurse in the middle, bursting out of a uniform two sizes too small for her.

  ‘Name?’
She yawned.

  ‘Err, mine or the guy with the hole in his head?’

  Varnish took the boy to sit down at the far end of the waiting room, away from any other people.

  ‘The victim, sir,’ she said. There was a severe emphasis on the ‘sir’, like a bad taste in the mouth. We were not liked here. This angered me, we’d spent the evening with this freak, cleaned him and looked after him most of the night, wasted the good clean drugs on taking care of someone who couldn’t even bath himself.

  ‘Look, I don’t know who this guy is, we just found him in town last night with his head split open.’

  ‘What time last night?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What time last night did you find him?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter, we were out skateboarding and we found him.’

  ‘Skateboarding?’

  ‘Yes, skateboarding, why?’ I could feel the sweat now running off my face and down my back. The conversation became more hectic, more questions, she knew I was on something and the moment I sat down she’d be on the phone to the police. Eventually she ceased questioning. I thought I was going to pass out, it felt like 105 degrees in that waiting room. No, not now, I thought, you pass out now and they’re going to find you full of methadone. I could see her looking at me, but the room was rocking from left to right. I had to pull myself together.

  ‘Well, is that it?’ I asked, completely in tatters from the barrage of questions she had just hit me with. Had I told her something I shouldn’t have? I couldn’t remember.

  ‘Yes, you can sit in the waiting room now, please.’

  ‘Well, how long is this going to take?’

  ‘You’ll have to wait in line, we’re short-staffed, so you’ll have to wait with the others.’

  I went and sat between Varnish and the boy. Varnish lay back on the chairs, his eyes were closed but I sensed he was still with us. The boy had the insane grin on his face and he had taken to rocking back and forth again. Blood had started to fill the hole in his head again.

  We sat for a while in silence, the boy rocking back and forth, me staring blankly at the wall and Varnish passed out on the chairs. The methadone had calmed down now, but exhaustion was taking control. I felt sick, my stomach burned from the vomit session in the street. My arms and legs felt heavy and weak, I just sat and looked at the apple-white wall wishing I could get up and go for a coffee and cigarette, but Varnish was out of it and I couldn’t leave this deranged, concussed boy on his own. Who knew what this skinny teenager was capable of doing.

  ‘How long do we have to wait?’ said the boy.

  ‘I don’t know, we’re in a queue and all those people over there are before you,’ I said, pointing at the other patients; only the hand victim and the old couple were left. ‘And the doctors are short-staffed, so we may be here a while.’

  ‘But my head hurts.’

  ‘I know your head hurts, but we have to wait.’ I looked at the clock, 7.45. The sun shone bright through the windows of the waiting room, burning on my tired, dilated eyes. The boy began wailing again and rocking. I turned to Varnish.

  ‘I think this guy is losing it.’

  Varnish didn’t respond, he just lay over the four grey plastic chairs. This was it; I was going to have to deal with this lunatic myself. His wailing had got louder; people were starting to look round. A nurse watched from behind a mesh re-enforced window. Oh shit, I thought, he’s drawing attention to us. This looks bad, two drug addicts, one passed out, the other looking like he’s going to burst in a drug-crazed frenzy and a young teenage boy with a ton of blood all over his clothes and a gaping wound in his head. Any minute now the cops would walk in and that would be it.

  ‘Ahh, my head, it really hurts. Ahh . . .’

  ‘I know, but what can I do? Look, you’re gonna have to calm it down, you’re gonna get us in trouble.’

  ‘But it hurts, I feel funny. Ahh, it hurts, it really hurts.’ He was almost in tears by this point.

  ‘I know, fucking shut up, will you.’

  ‘I have a knife, you know.’

  ‘What?’ I looked up to the boy, his face had completely changed, there was no pain in it, no tears, just a look of insane hatred for everything in this world. I turned to Varnish but he was still gone.

  ‘I’ve got a knife . . . here, in my pocket.’

  My heart stopped, this was it, the end in one foul way or another, I had read about these homicidal teenage kids in several magazine articles, hell, now it was right there, sat in front of me.

  ‘Do you? Good. And what do you plan to do with it?’ I could feel my whole body swell from sweat, trying to push through dirty, clogged pores.

  ‘I don’t know. I feel funny. When I feel funny I do things.’

  ‘Err . . . what kind of things?’

  He looked straight at me. ‘I hurt people.’

  Sweat was pouring from my face; I had to keep control of this situation.

  ‘Look, man, I know your fucking head hurts, okay. But we have to wait. Now, if you’re not going to behave then I’m going to leave you with this worthless piece of shit here. Are we straight here, do you understand?’

  He began wailing again, loud enough for everyone in the waiting room to hear.

  ‘My head really hurts and I feel really funny. And when I feel funny, I hurt people.’

  I grabbed Varnish. ‘Wake up, you son of a bitch.’

  ‘I hurt people when I feel funny, and I’m feeling funny right now. I have a knife.’

  ‘Varnish!’ I shouted. He suddenly woke.

  ‘What . . . What is it?’

  ‘Wake yourself up, this bastard is freaking out on me and I want nothing more to do with this. i’m going. I never wanted to help him in the first place. He’s your refugee, you deal with him.’

  ‘Did he say he had a knife?’ asked a guy who had walked in ten minutes before with a bandaged leg.

  ‘No,’ I replied. ‘No, he didn’t. He said nothing, nothing at all. Ignore him, he’s backward.’

  Varnish sat up. ‘What the fuck is going on?’

  A doctor suddenly appeared from a blue two-tone door and called the name of the boy. Thank God, I thought, we can finally get out of here.

  The boy went through the blue door but left his coat after Varnish had convinced him he wouldn’t need it. Varnish searched his coat for the knife, but nothing was there.

  ‘Right, he’s no danger to these people, so let’s go,’ I said.

  ‘You want to leave him here?’

  ‘Damn straight, let’s get the hell out of here before he causes us more trouble.’

  ‘We can’t leave him here. You go. I’m taking him home. I can’t believe you can be so heartless, man. God, what is it with you?’

  And before I could explain what had just happened he had disappeared through the blue door. I stood in the middle of the waiting room with the boy’s jacket in my hand not sure whether what had just happened had really happened. Had the boy freaked out or had I imagined the whole thing in some hallucinated state. People were looking at me. Time to move I thought, but I couldn’t convince myself to leave this possible psycho with Varnish so I too headed through the blue door.

  Inside I found the boy and Varnish in the second cubicle. A nurse walked in with a tube of something in her hand.

  ‘Oh, are you here again?’ she said to the boy.

  He grinned and said yes. The deranged mutant that had emerged earlier was nowhere to be seen, just a shy, smiling teenage boy.

  ‘Does he come in here often?’ asked Varnish.

  ‘Oh yes, we get this one in every six weeks or so. You’re not the first to bring him in.’ The tube in her hand was glue. She began squirting it into his wound then squeezed the flaps of skin together telling the boy that it would sting for a minute. The boy winced.

  ‘Where do you live?’ asked Varnish. ‘We’ll take you home.’

  He said he lived somewhere in Chaddesden, so we bundled him into the Toyota and headed at high sp
eed up the A52 to Chaddesden and dropped him on a main street in that end of town.

  ‘Stay out of trouble, man,’ said Varnish as he left the car.

  ‘Oh, I will. I’ll be real careful from now on.’ And with that he was gone.

  We headed home as the warm morning sun rose over the grey Derby skyline. It was going to be a good day, I thought, shame I’m going to be spending most of it in bed.

  Things between Varnish and myself deteriorated from then on. Perhaps it was that event, or the vast amounts of drugs we were caning at the time sending us into hopeless avenues of argument, or the fact that Varnish didn’t have as many apprehensions to the lifestyle we were leading as I did. Or maybe I believed that what we were doing should be kept as quiet as possible. My belief was the bigger you got the more of a threat you were to the opposition. And the opposition was nasty. So I didn’t want to rock the boat, we’d just slip in there and take enough to live and no more. But Varnish always wanted more. And he got it too. He flew high for a while, but the competition must have had enough of him.

  One night, two large black gentlemen gained entry to Varnish’s flat with the aid of an old mutual friend’s brother. The two intruders stole Varnish’s entire stash, roughed up his girlfriend and punched another friend in the face for only having a blim’s worth of gear on him.

  It’s now seven years later and night covers London’s south-west. Warren Zevon is blasting from the stereo and riots from Prague are on the television. It is suspected that Milosovic has fled and now two fat, grey suits sit debating the matter with Jeremy Paxman.

  I look back now and can see plainly the reasons why things got as bad as they did, back then, and I wonder what happened to Varnish, was he still a nightwatch security guard, on an industrial estate somewhere in the heart of Derby. This thought fills me with two feelings, firstly immense sadness that such a great mind and a fine artist is wasting his life when he could be doing so much. And secondly that an original freak is still out there on the night shifts, drug-fuelled and ready. A one of a kind chemical monster that inadvertently keeps the world rolling while the rest of us sleep. A true wonder of nature.