Birthdays for the dead

CLOSED FOR REFURBISHMENT, BUT DON T WORRY, WE LL BE BACK SOON!!!

Moving sent burning needles tearing up my right leg. I gritted my teeth. Tried to ride it out. But it wasn t working.

Ah, Jesus

Then someone started pounding a hammer into my foot: thump, thump, thump, in time with the blood in my ears.

Tramadol and Diclofenac: I popped three of each out of their blister packs and dry-swallowed them.

Come on, come on, work. Work.

The breath hissed out of my mouth, taking a shower of spittle with it.

Fuck

I slammed a punch into my leg.

WORK!

Banged my head back against the seat.

Not going away

God.

Hauled in another breath.

The pills weren t working

I fumbled Eugene s junky starter kit out of my coat pocket and unzipped the shiny plastic with trembling fingers. It looked like an exchange pack the kind that chemists gave away free, trying to keep intravenous drug users from infecting themselves or anyone else. The only bits that looked as if they hadn t come from Boots were the three tinfoil wrappers, the cheap plastic lighter, and the instruction sheet. A step-by-step how-to guide to forever fucking your life up.

I followed it to the letter.

Only a half-dose this time. That d be safe, wouldn t it? Enough to take the pain away and not leave me a dribbling wreck.

Nothing. Nothing And there it was the same rushing warmth from last night, forcing down the stabbing, throbbing ache. I sagged back into the seat as if my joints were made of jelly. Brain all muggy. The sound of distant church bells. Melting

Maybe Dawson s mum was telling the truth? Maybe there wasn t rat poison and caustic soda scouring its way through my veins, killing me from the inside out. Just the heroin.

Get up you lazy bastard. The Birthday Boy s got Katie.

I blinked at my watch, squinting to get it into focus. Nearly half-six in the morning.

Get up

I knocked back a couple of Dawson s little white pills, then lay back and waited for them to work their magic. Heroin and amphetamines for breakfast. Most important meal of the day.

There was a slightly gamey smell in the car, as if something in the fridge was on the turn. Not rancid, but heading that

Oh God My stomach rolled and boiled. Lurched.

I scrambled out into the morning, fell on my knees, and heaved.

A swirl of sour steam wafted up from the puddle of vomit. I spat, wiped the string of spittle from my chin with my sleeve.

Foot felt a lot better now. No more throbbing.

I limped across the car park, past the dark and silent lorries, to the garage at the end. Its forecourt and pumps were all lit up like Las Vegas. Even had a wee shop attached where you could pay for your petrol.

I wobbled in, bought six bottles of water, a couple of Ginsters pasties, and a packet of extra-strong mints. The guy behind the counter looked at me as if I was about to bite him.

I paid in cash. Turned. And stopped. Frowned. There were dark-red streaks on the grey terrazzo floor, as if someone had dragged a chunk of fresh roadkill across it. Didn t notice them on the way in. Too focused on getting something to drink.

Cheeky bastard: staring at me like I was some sort of freak, when he was the one with the filthy bloody floor.

More streaks on the faded tarmac outside.

Place was a pigsty.

I limped back towards the car.

The water was ice cold; I gulped down a whole bottle, scrunched up the plastic and dumped it in a forecourt bin. Then tore open the ham-and-cheese pastry. Wasn t really hungry, but heroin and amphetamines probably weren t a great idea on an empty stomach. I drained the second bottle and started in on the cheese-and-onion slice, getting flakes of pale gold all down the front of my shirt.

I brushed them away. Frowned again. My shirt was all stained with something reddish-brown. That wasn t right Oh, sodding hell: Big Ed s fist in my face. My tongue found the gap at the side where those two loose teeth used to be, jagged stumps sticking out of the gum.

You d think it would hurt more.

Ash?

Must be the drugs.

Oh, Ash, what happened to you?

Raising my head was like dragging an anchor through mud. Getting her in focus was even harder. Dr McDonald?

It was: it was her. She was standing beside the Renault, wearing a big thick parka jacket, both arms wrapped around herself. No glasses, but lots of black eye makeup, lipstick so dark it was almost black, straight black hair, just like Katie She looked beautiful.

She rushed over and threw her arms around me, buried her head against my chest.

I dropped my shopping and hugged her back.

My little girl.

Ash? Ash, there s another sign for the hospital The morning was dark as a funeral. A heavy lid of grey hung over the three lanes of motorway, tiny flakes of delicate white sacrificing themselves against the Renault s windscreen, holding on for a moment before they melted, or the wiper scraped their corpses to one side.

Ash?