Lemonade and Lies (13 page)

There are different ways of getting heroin into your system. But the quickest, most effective way to get the rush is through intravenous injection. That way, the feeling of euphoria can be reached in less than ten seconds.

Part of heroin’s attraction for the junkie is the speed it crosses the blood-brain barrier. Faster than most other drugs. And if you shoot up between your toes it means you don’t have the tell-tale needle tracks for all to see.

The stuff can also be sniffed, or inhaled by smoking it. That’s called ‘chasing the Purple Dragon’ and takes longer to arrive at the rush. Anything up to fifteen minutes. But all three ways of getting to a high can lead to a bleak, ugly addiction that wrecks lives.

After a while of using, the thrill doesn’t come any more. That happens when the body gets so used to the drug that tolerance sets in. Then an addict needs to take the toxic stuff just to stay normal.
Where’s the rush in that?
It didn’t make me a genius because I knew these things. It just meant I could use a mouse and keyboard.

I couldn’t believe Jamie had joined the sad legion of addicts who have to take the stuff several times a day just to keep the pains of withdrawal at bay. I had to keep reminding myself when I saw the shambling figure who couldn’t string two meaningful sentences together, that it wasn’t his fault.

He was in rehab. The jaws of hell. It was never going to be a picnic, trying to withdraw from one of the most addictive drugs in the junkie’s arsenal. But I believed he was in good hands, amongst people who understood his pain and who seemed to care. They’d been through this many times before and, although you couldn’t always predict the long term results, lives had been saved here. People had been ‘cured’. You couldn’t ask more.

Jamie had a private room that was small and basic, but had a view of the gardens and fountain. These features were now shabby and rundown. Even if they’d been at their best, their finer points would have been lost on Jamie anyway as he carried out his private battle to slay the dragon.

He was on a seven-day-detox which sounded good in theory. But each time I looked at him, I could see that theory and practice weren’t always that close. The cold turkey symptoms of withdrawal were grim. He shivered uncontrollably with intense cold, and at the other end of the scale, suffered hot malarial-type sweats. He also had painful bouts of vomiting.

There were moments of confusion and babbling incoherence. Though the worst part for him must have been the constant craving for the drug that he thought would make him better. Self esteem vanished as he grovelled on the floor pleading for the magical substance that he swore would put an end to his misery.

The detox and rehab programme gave him pain relief, to help his withdrawal symptoms. I shuddered. If Jamie was like this with help from medication, how bad would it be trying to come off his addiction without it?

I felt sick, because that’s what I’d suggested. Take him somewhere and let him sweat it out! I realized now it had been ignorance or naivety talking. Or someone who'd confused fiction with real life.

But it wasn’t my concern anymore. The police force he belonged to took care of their own, and he’d been
sent to the country
to recuperate from his unscheduled swim in the Oslo Fjord. Or so the alternative story went.

I was glad he’d ended up at this rambling old country house on the East Coast of England where he was being looked after twenty-four hours a day. But I couldn’t stay here any longer. I couldn’t watch and do nothing. I’d been here two whole days now, and couldn’t stand another minute. Jamie was in good hands.

I went to see him one final time and he eyed me in a feral way that was frightening.

“You’ll get me what I need, won’t you?”

“You know I can’t do that, Jamie. It’s for your own good.”

A look of cunning rippled across his features and sent a shiver through me.

“What, not even if I tell you a secret?” he said.

“What secret?”

“Promise first.”

“What?”

“That you’ll bring me in the good stuff. They trust you. Everybody trusts you, Jill. You’re nice.”

Nice? What the hell was that? Who wants to be nice? My dotty Aunt Ginny is
nice
but she’s also a pain in the arse.

“I know something you don’t know. I know something you don’t know.” He sang it in a baby, sing-song voice and I wanted to cry for him; for this man who’d once been full of life and in control.

“Shut up!” I put my hands over my ears, but he wouldn’t stop.

“Tell you my secret – if you bring my sweeties.”

“Jesus, Jamie. Stop it. Okay, I promise.”

“Promise that you promise?”

“For God’s sake, yes. Yes! Now what?”

“You’ve got something the Russian man wants.”

“What!”

“What’s his name?”

“You know his name. For Christ’s sake Jamie, stop this. Snap out of it. His name’s Kabak.”

“Nasty man.” He said it like a kid would, but the cunning look was back in his eyes.

“He’ll come to get it. For it’s something that your husband stole from him.”

I slumped back in the chair. There was only one chair in the room that wasn’t covered with plastic sheeting – the visitor’s chair. And a groan escaped my lips. For a second Jamie seemed to recognise what he’d done, and a look of shame flickered across his face. The bastard. He hadn’t told me. He’d known all along why Viktor Kabak had been following me. Why he’d come to our house and frightened my children.

I lunged across the bed and slapped him as hard as I could across the face, and the scream that erupted from him was like a trapped animal. It took two nurses to drag me off him and I can’t remember all the filthy names I called him, for the anger leeched from my pores like toxins. But whatever they were, he deserved every one of them. He had betrayed me and I despised him.

*

A musty, damp smell was the only welcome my house offered when I finally closed the front door behind me. It was winter. It was cold. But paying the gas bill had been the last thing on my mind before I’d left the place.

I felt sorry for myself. I was alone and miserable. But still with enough self control left not to drag others into my misery with me. Otherwise I’d have called Alice or, as a final resort, my mother. It would have been great to talk to the kids, but it was late at night. They would be in bed. A call would only worry them.

Besides, according to their postcard, they were doing great. Grandpappy was teaching them to fish.
Jesus!
I recognised the stirrings of jealousy and tried to dampen them down. They were only kids. They didn’t know that the man was a manipulating bastard and was only doing that to get back at me.

I slumped down in a chair, my coat still on. I’d bought another one in Oslo; the old one was probably still making its way along the fjord. The new coat was a proper Helly Hanson ski jacket, stuffed full of real down. It was the closest I’d come to skiing. Maybe the closest I’d ever get, I told myself, wallowing in self-pity.

It was a natural extension, going for the brandy. The shreds of optimism I’d been clinging to finally deserted me and alcohol seemed like the next best thing. There was no emergency wine in the fridge, only the mouldy remnants of some own-brand cheddar that, even in its heyday, hadn’t been impressive and a half tub of humus that had grown a skin as hard as concrete on top.

I sloshed a generous measure of the brandy into a tumbler, and the memory of Jamie doing the same thing floated back, to remind me of the man I was now determined to hate. And I couldn’t keep it up. Not when I thought about the way he’d made me laugh. The bed we’d shared together. His bloody silly over-the-top language when he’d tried to impress me. My eyes were the colour of malachite, whatever that was.

I tossed back half the glass of brandy and managed an alcohol-fuelled smile. Went over to the sideboard and searched for my ancient dictionary; new editions were never the same. They left out so many words. Language evolves; it’s what keeps it alive. But all the same, I still have a hankering for the archaic.

“Malachite . . . malachite.” I thumbed through the book.

“Typical. Half-cut with your nose stuck in a fucking book.”

I hadn’t heard a thing, but then maybe brandy does that for you. I wouldn’t know. It was only the second time I’d ever drunk it.

“How’d you get into my house?” I asked.

“
Your
house, is it?” Bill Murdock’s voice held a quiet menace and the green eyes that I’d once fallen for, that could draw you in with their smouldering sexual tension, were now smouldering with something different, the slow burn of anger. It was a dangerous combination and even through the brandy, I sensed I was in trouble.

I didn’t answer. A reaction that was meant to defuse the situation, but had the opposite effect. It escalated the anger in the man hovering over me. He picked me up and pushed me back towards the wall.

“Not so mouthy now, eh? Cat got your tongue?”

The small ripple of a shake started in my calves and began to work its way through me. I had to clamp my teeth tightly shut to stop my jaw trembling. I didn’t want the bastard to see how frightened I was of him.

Could this be the man I’d been so willing to share my life with? The father of my children, I reminded myself, as I heard Judith Murdock’s whining voice in my head. I recalled the look of shock on the faces of both my parents when I told them I was going to marry him. The opinion of my stepfather - that Bill Murdock was a user - had been enough to fling me into the guy’s arms.

With sudden insight, I realised that others around me had seen the real Bill that my infatuation had hidden from me.

He was so close now that I could feel his warm, garlic breath on my face; see the blemishes in his skin that hadn’t been there before. The tan was gone, replaced by a sallow, unhealthy look. And the movie star face that had once been a magnet for gullible women (chalk me up as one) had become fleshy, the well defined jaw-line developed into a double chin.

He pushed me hard against the wall, his hand jabbing painfully at my chest.

“You’ve got something I want.”

The fear made its way to my throat, settled there like a rock. But even so, the contrariness in me wouldn’t let him see it, came to my rescue. “Get it somewhere else,” I spat.

“Don’t flatter yourself. If I wanted
that
, I’d take it. And from someone who didn’t look like a stick insect on a diet.”

Final ignominy. I wasn’t even desirable enough for him to force himself on me. I should be relieved, shouldn’t I? Not upset that he didn’t find me attractive anymore. Shit. This head stuff can really screw you up. But in a way it was good for me. It made the fury rise from the pit of my stomach, clawing at my insides, an angry animal eager to be freed.

“Sod off or I’ll call the police,” I shouted.

“What? Your new friend from the Met? I’m afraid he won’t be around for some time. Still, he was useful. Took the heat off me with some of my associates.”

“I’m sure the local cops will be interested in what you’re up to.”

“Parked on a double-yellow, have I? That’s about their style.” His grin turned into something more sinister. “Right, where is it?”

“What?”

“Don’t play the innocent with me. Just go get it.”

“I’ve no idea what you’re on about. And even if I did, I wouldn’t help you. You’re a bloody crook and you put my kids in danger.”

I didn’t see it coming. And the ferocity of his fist knocked my head back against the wall. I could feel the blood trickling down my nose, running into my mouth. The shock made me slump to the floor.

“The new boyfriend might not find you so attractive now, eh? Not that he’ll be much to look at himself, not once Viktor gets through with him. Now go get it for me.”

“What?” I still hadn’t a clue what he was after. What the people who’d burgled my house had been searching for. If I had, right then I’d have given it to him. My courage had seeped away, maybe that’s what happens when you’re in pain. Now I just wanted him out of my house, out of my life, on another continent, as far away from my children as possible.

“You really don’t know, do you? Which means that bastard McDonald didn’t either.” He smirked. It wasn’t attractive. It sent another shiver of fear through me and I hoped to God I could find whatever he was looking for.

“The present I brought you from Norway. Where is it?”

“The present?”

“Don’t pretend you’re stupid, woman. For as you so often tried to remind me – you’re cleverer than me.”

“I never once said that!”

He hit me again. Only this time with the flat of his hand and my cheek stung with the ferocity of it. Despite my determination not to, I cried.

“Stop that bloody racket and go get the wooden Norwegian crap I brought you back. The mangle board with the horse’s head on it.”

Got it. Call me retarded, but I finally got it. But the thing was I hadn’t. Got it, that was.