The World According to Bob

Titch wasn’t a man to miss an opportunity.

‘So would you mind looking after her again if I’m in the lurch?’ he asked, munching on his toast.

‘Why not?’ I said.

Chapter 5. The Ghost on the Stairs

The rain had been relentless for days, transforming the streets of London into miniature paddling pools. Bob and I were regularly returning home soaked to the skin, so today I’d given up and headed home early.

I arrived back at the flats around mid-afternoon desperate to get out of my wet clothes and let Bob warm himself by the radiator.

The lift in my building was erratic at the best of times. After a few minutes repeatedly pressing the button for it to come down from the fifth floor, I realised it was out of order once more.

‘Brilliant,’ I muttered to myself. ‘It’s the long walk up again I’m afraid Bob.’

He looked at me forlornly.

‘Come on then,’ I said, dipping my shoulder down so that he could climb on board.

We were just beginning the final couple of flights of stairs, from the fourth to the fifth floor, when I noticed a figure in the shadows on the landing above us.

‘Hold on here for a second, Bob,’ I said, placing him down on the steps and heading up on my own.

Moving in closer I could see that it was a man and he was leaning against the wall. He was hunched over with his trousers partially dropped down and there was something metallic in his hand. I knew instantly what he was doing.

In the past, the flats had been notorious as a haunt for drug users and dealers. Addicts would find their way in and use the staircase and hallways to smoke crack and marijuana or inject themselves with heroin like this guy was doing. In the years since I’d moved in, the police had improved the situation dramatically, but we’d still occasionally see young kids dealing in the stairwell on the ground floor. It was nowhere near as bad as a previous sheltered housing project I’d lived in, over in Dalston, which was over-run with crack addicts. But it was still distressing, especially for the families who lived in the flats. No one wants their children arriving home from school to find a junkie shooting up on the staircase outside their home.

For me, of course, it was a reminder of the past I was desperate to put behind me. I continued to struggle with my addiction; I always would. That, unfortunately, was the nature of the beast. But, since teaming up with Bob, I’d made the breakthrough and was on the way to complete recovery. After weaning myself off heroin and then methadone, I’d been prescribed a drug called subutex, a milder medication that was slowly but surely reducing my drug dependency. The counsellor at my drug dependency unit had likened this final part of my recovery to landing an aeroplane: I would slowly drop back down to earth. I’d been on subutex for several months now. The landing gear was down and I could see the lights of the runway in front of me. The descent was going according to plan, I was almost back on solid ground.

I could do without seeing this, I said to myself.

I saw that the guy was in his mid-forties with a short, crew-cut hairstyle. He was wearing a black coat, t-shirt and jeans and a pair of scruffy trainers. Fortunately he wasn’t aggressive. In fact he was quite the opposite. He was really apologetic, which was pretty unusual. Selflessness isn’t really a strong suit in heroin addicts.

‘Sorry, mate, I’ll get out of your way,’ he said in a thick East End accent, taking his ‘works’ out of his leg and pulling up his trousers. I could tell that he’d finished injecting. His eyes had that tell-tale glazed look.

I decided to let him go first. I knew better than to completely trust an addict. I wanted to keep him ahead of me where I could see him.

He was pretty unsteady on his feet and stumbled up the short flight of stairs to the landing on the fifth floor, through the doors and into the hallway heading for the lift.

Bob had trotted up the final flight of stairs behind me on the end of his lead. I just wanted to get him inside to safety so headed for the door of our flat. I had just put the key in the door and let Bob in when I heard a loud groan. I turned round and saw the guy collapse. He just suddenly went down like a sack of potatoes, hitting the ground with a smack.

‘Mate, are you all right?’ I said, running over to him. He clearly wasn’t.

I could see immediately that he was in a really bad way. He didn’t seem to be breathing.

‘Oh God, he’s OD’d!’ I said to myself, recognising the symptoms of an overdose.

Fortunately, I had my cheap Nokia mobile on me. I called 999 and asked for an emergency ambulance. The lady on the other end of the line took my address but then told me it was going to take at least ten minutes.

‘Can you describe his condition to me?’ she asked, her voice calm and professional.

‘He’s unconscious and he’s not breathing,’ I said. ‘And his skin is changing colour.’