The crackhead approached me with a look of sheer indifference. “Chelsea mate”. Glaswegian. Cool.
“Whereabouts mate?” broad scouse, just so he knows...
“Lucan Place Po-lice”
I spotted the can of loopy-super-KKK-fighting juice in his bag.
“no drinking in my car, mate sorry”
he fixed me once more with the dead eyes only a junkie could see through...
“listen big man” he began..”i just need tae get tae chelsea so i can sign for my parole conditions, get back in your car, come back to the grove. i know i’ve got a drink, but i’m not going to spill it, i’m going to drink it. i’m not going to pish myself, throw up, or abuse you. in fact, i’ll be the model customer, - chelsea wait and return that’s about £18...here’s twenty, now can we go please?”
I was already driving.
He talked all the way there and back. He was intelligent and funny but damaged. hence the drugs. ‘two whites and a brown’ was what he was going to buy the moment he got out of my car. £15 for a night of pure ecstasy and oblivion. He reckoned it was a bargain and he was probably right. Trouble is the price....
Next job is delivering some quail eggs to a house on Cheyne Walk. Suffice to say it’s 5 storeys and directly facing the river. Oh, - and get this, - there’s ONE bell.