Later. Still. (2/3) By Christopher Skolik

(1/3), (2/3), (3/3).

Viewing what he has to do in a detached, technical way, he moves about the flat. 'Collecting' a grand from some drug dealers, it would wait till afternoon. The radio is on, playing oldies, 'Band of gold' by Freda Payne. Walking the streets off toward Anlaby Road. The drizzle holds fast, the chill blast from the North Sea. The orange glare from the chemist, liquid across the damp pavement. A thin dog lapping up vomit from a bus shelter.

It wasn't late; days like this just felt it. He didn't need to look at the address, but he carried the scrap of paper in his pocket anyhow. He knew exactly where he was going. The front door is open, the lock useless from having been kicked in so many times. The hallway stinks, bits of bikes, piles of bills. The banister loose beneath his hand. The landing dark; the bulb has blown long ago. On the first floor landing Calvin found the door. The concealed crowbar slides down from his jacket sleeve, into his hand and he pushes the flat door, it gives easily. The flat is small, dank, gloomy, a mess of clothes, paper and litter. It smells like a neglected cat.

Methodically he checked the nearest rooms and finding them empty moves to the kitchen, stepping over bin liners, carrier bags. He pushes the door aside and finds a scene that hits him like a fist to the solar plexus. She is small, long dark hair concealing her face which is slumped forward across the table, amongst the piles of dishes and filth stacked high. Her right arm extended, syringe in her left hand.

Calvin can only stare at this scene, human devastation. As though all human pain, self destruction, and loss had been crystallised, and focused down to this single image.

The mountains of filthy plates, the flies. Bottles of milk gone yellow and solid, clothes banked up in stinking mounds. The only clean space was where the spoon, water and heroin are placed on the kitchen table. Priorities. Kicking carrier bags away as he approaches, Calvin shakes her shoulder; she moans partial words, from her stupor she grapples her way back to consciousness. She pushes her self up, moves hair from her face with the back of her hand. She looks 15, but her eyes look ancient, glassy, like those of a Victorian doll.

He did not expect this. Violence he could deal with, but this? She could have been his daughter, and maybe some part of him wished she were. For then his response would be clearer, better defined.

Continued... Next Page (3/3)

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