Debt

A story of youth and the consequences of being naïve.

Now this is before I started selling speed, and I had to rely on Malcolm's uncle for nodges.

There were four of us: Malcolm, Clyde, Stuart, and myself. None of us were leaders; there was no " one really in charge. However, Malc held a kind of undefined authority because it was his uncle after all that supplied us with free nodges. So on days when he decided to feel 'sick', or 'tired' and refused to allocate a particular nodge, his unease would suddenly vanish at the promise of A Day of Lighting Up. And this was important, because toploading the joint was an unspoken but existing thing. We all swore down on our lives that we spread it even, and regular supervision was adhered on a joint to joint basis yet every now and then when nobody was looking each one of us tipped the skins, so slightly, to let the hot heap of cannabis flood to the twist side, like the world's tiniest landslide, and then lick it swiftly before anybody stuck their necks in. We were all pro's at it, and sometimes it was done so brilliantly, so elegantly, that you just had to respect the deed for what it was: sneaky talent.

Anyway, nodges.

Some no bigger than toenails, others jagged with little brown peeks like aborted hedgehogs rolling around in your hand like burnt pebbles. There were some that seemed to have been recycled somehow, as if through some complicated scientific method. A lot of them had cut marks, and we'd often argue about which side of the 9 - bar the current nodge originated from. There was always the disagreement on what the fragmented designs amounted to " what was the stamp? On at least two occasions this resulted in Malcolm having to walk back down to his uncle's house and ask him outright. And then the victor got to light the joints for the day, smugly.

And I know you're probable thinking 'why were we getting free hash? But we only got the castaways, the runts, the mutts of the stash. Although I could never figure out what it was about these discards that made them unsmokable, because we had no f*****g trouble ripping our throats to shreds everyday on them. But then when you're fourteen years old, you pretty much take what you can get. As I said this was before I got into dealing, and free nodges were gold to me, to all of us. So everyday, we'd meet up in the Avenue, the Av, and discuss briefly where the day's smoking session was to be held, and then Malcolm would set off toward his uncles to acquire the substance in question as the rest of us stood in the Av overlooking the back of an old nun's convent with anticipation, often in little squabbles of withdrawal, because even back then it was clear our communal addiction was blossoming, and it was basically all we had to look forward to. For each of us had our own reason to escape.

Malcolm's father emigrated secretly to Malaga after failing to establish a safe source of cocaine for his small but availed nightclub, and only called his son twice in the entire time I hung around with Malcolm. But Malc was graceful, and sometimes when he spoke of his on " the " run da, I'm sure I picked up a whiff of pride, abandoned or not.

Clyde had some problems, but he was a private person, especially after a few smokes, and to this day I don't really know why he perused the addiction. He lived in a reasonably comfortable area, had both his parents who loved and funded him and was even paying in (with the help of his parents) on a nifty little hatchback, but I suppose a stable home and the prospect of a car is not enough for happiness on this cuntish planet.

And then there was Stuart whose father had ran away when he was a child, just like me. This is probably why we got on so well, we both knew what it felt like to hate, to blame yourself, and it was Stuart who I stayed friends with after the disaster happened.

And then there was me: an angry care home veteran with a compulsion to get shitfaced. And a laughing hatred for the human race, that thrives to this day.

We were the group between groups. Not clever enough to be nerds, not strong enough to bully, not attractive enough to be part of the lover's circle, and simply didn’t have the determination to be accomplished scumbags. We were the middle people, the nameless ones without genre, and as a result of this we had constant bombardment from all other troupes roaming the city, especially the dreaded gang of gypsy travellers led by The Undisputed Knacker of the Century, John Joe Mulharn known locally as Pirate, on account of his missing right eye. No patch though, John Joe went commando displaying the vacant socket with pride. I have never met anyone who knows for a fact how he lost that eye but the rumours range from disgruntled bulldogs to knife fights. From time to time, a sub " group would hang around with us, though, for a few days here and there, but mostly we were on our own. And that was exactly what we wanted, free nodges only go so far. And four was the limit.

2

When there were dry- ons we didn't suffer like most people. The little stockpile of rejected hash lumps kept us company, and we went and smoked them in a variety of places from secret rooms behind apartment elevators to the place at the back of the Hyper Market, in the trees behind the railings, but our favourite place was The Truck. And it was simply just a truck that had for some reason been left alone in a sub " section of a decrepit slaughterhouse, that I found out much later, hadn’t been operational since 1973.

We were certain nobody else knew about it, because it had none of the territorial marks that normally cased a smoking spot; no squashed cans of Dutch; no roach corpses; no gusts of empty crisp packets. So we were fairly smug about finding a place all of our own, and were always cautious when talking about it in front of anybody outside our little band. We had even worked out excuses for heading down the cul " de " sac leading to the gate we had to climb over to reach the truck itself, to guarantee undisturbed smokes of the future.

So we were confident of enjoying many leisurely days in there undisturbed. We even had shelter. Not inside the building itself, although we had explored it's gloomy interior on our first day there using only the lights of our phones. So it was obvious that inside was off limits. Except for dares and losing bets. But our spot was actually in the truck. Not the broad container behind it, but in the driving quarters, which was abnormally large now that I think of it, for a standard truck of that size " all four of us fitted in there, and not just fitting but having stretching space aswell! It was also strategically positioned facing away from the entrance wall so if anyone ever decided to scale the wall and pop their heads up, we were mercifully out of sight.

Another very unfortunate situation that was to add to the tragedy hurtling toward us.

For ages, or so it seemed at the time, but was really only about 5 months, not one person ever discovered us. We never even came close. It was like an island at the centre of a city forest. Secluded and discreet, perfect for our needs. And, more importantly, we were hidden from the clutches of Pirate and his angry band of cider " guzzling treasure hunters. We were just grateful to be left alone. However, one day someone broke the rule, and that someone was me.

I did an unthinkable thing: I got a girlfriend.

Don't ask me how, but it may have had something to do with my menial guitar picking. And anyway, when you're a teenager as we both were, it's fairly easy to impress someone who already likes you. And like is the right word, because you can't ever truly love until you've had you're soul munched. But we did like each other, a lot. Although time has worn down most of my memory around this time, I do recall there being lots of wanking, laughing, smoking, and screaming. In conclusion, it was an average relationship between two teenagers. Anyway, she met the lads relatively early on, but despite my protests in private, they unanimously decided they didn't know her well enough to divulge our smoking spot. But that didn't last long, because Emma could skin up faster and better than all four of us put together. And she had a talent for name calling rivalled by no " one. I believe she once informed Malcolm, with complete indifference to the possible consequence, that his mother had a bigger c**k than he did. And that was just one incidence where she annihilated anyone on the spot at the slightest attempt to belittle her. But her wit and skinning ability wasn't all that won them over, it was her hugely wealthy family, and the seemingly endless stream of cash on demand whenever. Basically she soon became our 'sponsor' I suppose you'd have to call it, though I did my best to show her that I liked her not for her money, and not even for the wondrous circus between her legs, but because she was so strong of a person it was impossible not to admire her.

I was in love, or whatever it's called at that age, within about two weeks. And a week before that there were five of us in the truck.

And it was this very week, the week that brought the start of my second best love that I managed to become a drug dealer, accidentally.

And it all began with a long shot.

Malc's uncle was looking for speed, not much, just a couple of grams, and I knew a fella from way before, that told me after I played a small set at an acoustic night, that he could get me E's if I wanted. I had already been through my ecstasy rampage so I said I was grand, but I kept his number anyway, and so I told Malc's to tell his uncle I might be able to get some. The text he received in reply was emphatic with thanks. I text the fella whose number was saved in my phone under 'Fast.'

He got back to me literally within minutes with confirmation that he could indeed supply me with the substance I needed. But before I asked Malc how much his uncle was after I had a brilliant idea. I was going to add a fiver on top of the cost, a kind of finder's fee, so I could buy my own five spot of hash. However, when the message came through stating how much the 2g bag actually came to, I was delighted, because even without adding to the cost, I knew from Malc telling me how much his uncle was willing to pay, that I would make a 15 euro profit. So when Fast explained to me that I could mix the stuff with glucose and double the amount, I was f*****g thrilled to say the least. But I didn't tell Malc this for obvious reasons; I didn't even tell Clyde because he was bound to rat on me. I did, however, inform Stuart, who was as excited as me at the prospect of drug dealing.

Because when you're fourteen years old there's something mystical about dealing. Something romantic, admirable even. The drug dealers in the films always had beautiful girlfriends, and fast cars, and huge houses with outside pools. I had the girlfriend already, so I thought I was already on my way to becoming the Scarface of Waterford. Naive, naïve, naïve........and dangerous.

I met Fast that afternoon in the park at the back of the old keeper's hut, and this signalled the first stage of the misery that was to come.

3

After a brief chat, and some hints and tips, myself and Fast went in opposite directions, and I have to say I felt like some kind of overlord slinking out of the park on a sun drenched day with a grin on my hairless face and just over 2g's of Amphetamine in my pocket. I met up with Stu, who had waited outside the main gates, and then we went to his house to cut it, because his ma was gone off somewhere.

As soon as we stepped into his bedroom, I took out the little pouch of cling film and we both marvelled at it like it was some exotic thing, borne outside of our usual realm. On first sniff, I nearly heaved up " it smelled like stale washing powder, and had the texture of moist snow. However, the smell quickly grew on me, and I don't know why, but even Stu seemed to become accustomed to it as easily as me.

Now that first buy was all about funding our own nodge, and when I say 'our' I mean myself and Stuart. I suppose it was kind of sneaky but I recall plenty of times when Malc was 'too tired' to meet up and get us our daily bread, and then somebody would tell us they saw him and Clyde somewhere in town, smoking!

So we had no qualms in returning the sneak. And as it turned out we didn't have to be sneaky for long, because in no time I was making enough profit to buy and smoke an ounce a week. All thanks to Malc's uncle who I only met for the first time when I insisted on handing over the purchase personally. (I'm positive I wasn't the only one to rack up the price, and by the time it would've got to him he'd literally be paying through the nose).

His uncle was a weird looking f****r. For a start, his face looked like it had been smashed by asteroids on account of the various craters, and his skin was scattered with little red pulps ready to burst out puss at any moment. An adolescent shepherd’s pie is a fair description. But what he looked like is really irrelevant because he was sound out, (or so I thought, but our later conflict has no bearing on this particular recollection), and he handed over the money before I had even taken out the bag. Which I admit was the logical thing to do since we were standing in the av at half two on a Saturday afternoon directly in the view of a whole street of houses. He stayed around and smoked a joint with us, then gave Malc the latest rock of hash. And this nodge had more meat in it, which I reasoned was an act of gratefulness, and then set off for home to get ready for a night out. And we began our pilgrimage to the holy land of the truck for the day's intoxication.

But that night, three or four in the morning, I think it was, Malc's uncle text my mobile. And when this failed to get a response he called me outright asking for more speed. At first I was going to hang up, but then I remembered how I had upped the price.

When he told me how much he wanted, I leaped from the bed with a smile so huge it barely fit on my face.

Just like that, I was dealing.

I text Fast apprehensively, but he replied straight away, without a hint of anger, with the co " ordinates. I met the uncle down town and if it wasn't for the harshness of drunken Saturday nighters, I would've been ecstatic. There's just something I can't stand about weekend pricks, the bald ones especially with freckly girlfriends and tattoos on their necks. But that night the city didn't have that same hard feeling because I knew I was on my way to money.

I met him in a dodgy alleyway behind a chicken shop notorious for muggings, and had to basically escape away from them as they were all on a speed buzz, but I did manage to leave and the uncle even paid for a taxi, so no long walk in the dark with all that money on me. I did feel a bit guilty then but thankfully I was born with the ability not to give a f**k about anything, and made my merry way out to the estate he had mentioned. It was a brand new neighbourhood which made it impossible to know whether it was dodgy or not. Then I remembered the reason for the journey and knew immediately what the answer was.

Even before he answered the door I could hear rave music blaring from behind the closed curtains of the sitting room window, and understood instantly that there was a session on, which was kind of expected anyway, and when the door came open I saw his orbiting pupils and the party was confirmed.

But I didn't stay long despite being offered various drinks and powders. I could see straight into the sitting room and I knew by their drastically gelled hair and peaked caps they weren't my sort of people anyway. Although I was slightly chuffed at the invitation. I was young and had yet to learn that speed turns monsters into kittens. I did however take him up on the offer of using his glucose to cut my stuff in the kitchen. He watched me the whole time, not intimidatingly, just curiosity, and when I had finished he nodded his head slightly, so I think that meant I had done it correctly.

So I paid for my own taxi back into town with the assertion that my dealer had financed it, and the lads in the ally greeted me like some heroic Pharaoh because of the bag that I carried. I then had to turn down several more invitations before slinking off home with a certain spring in my step knowing that I was sorted for smoke for at least a week.

And f**k did I get stoned. That entire week I was Vietnamese by three o' clock in the afternoon. Myself and Stuart, off on journeys into unknown fields, atop frizzling hidden car parks, and the gardens of abandoned houses. We even stumbled across a Spanish tourist who gratefully paid a tenor for what can only be described as a 50p spot. And with that we got drunk up a tree on Buckfast.

That care free week is what convinced me that dealing was the way to go.

And as if through a co " ordinated venture the uncle text me on the Friday afternoon, could have even been the morning, requesting a fresh bag, this one twice as large as the previous, which disheartened me because that meant he had the same idea as me, to flog it, which would end my monetary endeavour. Thankfully though, I learned it was just some stranger he had met on a night out who happened to get a free line of the stuff, and had since then passed around the collection basket to his crowd for the cause. I was f*****g delighted. Not only was I going to make money, but this could be the beginning, the Gate of The Road.

As it turned out, it was.

And for two weeks it went well. I made close to 100 euro, and I also lost count of how many blowjobs I had received which any man will tell you signals the end of puberty. But my affection for Emma had become totally independent from just sexuality. I suppose I could try and call it love but at that age I don't know what the f**k it was. All I know is that I wanted to be near her a lot. And as far as I could tell she felt the same. It was that spoken affection that encompasses all young love, and it was brilliant, one of the best times in my life.

All was going good.

Subletting the watered down stash to only two customers turned out to be all I needed for comfort. Because I never aspired to really be any sort of main player. I was just happy to have a nearly inexhaustible supply of hash, and enough cash to buy a bottle of Buckfast or two, when the urge hit.

My two customers, the uncle and his new " found buddy, requested a steady load, and I provided each time, without any bothers. And just as I was settling into the role of mediocre dealer, my own dealer called me one day with news I had always dreaded but never thought would happen, or at least so soon anyway.

He was moving back home to Galway, for reasons he never divulged. But he left me a contact, a source.

Two days before the designated meet " up with the uncle I text this new source, knowing him only as 'Jay', to test the waters, and confirm the upcoming drop " off. And Jay seemed sound out, he even cut 20 quid from the price, completely of his own will, and told me he had other stuff there aswell, but I politely declined, and we agreed to meet up the following day.

By a bizarre and terrible coincidence that was the first time I needed to get it 'on the book' as we say in Waterford, to get the stuff on loan for a few days, because the uncle's main customer had failed to pay, and was flogging excuses at him for days on end, and the uncle himself didn't have the money to cover it. But that was okay, my new fella was totally understanding, I thought he was a f*****g legend at the beginning.

Little did I know I was being supplied by one of the most despicable people I have ever known.

4

The uncle was full of excuses, although he would've called them promises, and because of these excuses/promises I was genuinly at ease at the prospect of giving him book. So at the time it was really no big deal. Eeverything seemed straight forward, however I would've felt a lot better If I had had the money to cover it myself but that just happened to be myself and Em's first year anniversary and I had spent over a hundred euro on an outfit she had mentioned enough times it was obviously what she wanted. And I spent another 60 euro on a room in a hotel, so we could make as much noise as we wanted and not have to worry about her big father, or little sister, knocking, calling, complaining, or generally been obstructive. The prospect of moaning externally for the first time since the wanking/fingering incident in the greenhouse at the back of the convent,gave me a raw thrill, and judging by the number of tip " browed smily faces in her texts, I knew she was just as excited as me. My anticipation for that night was rivalled only by the growing uneasiness I felt at the idea of not only meeting a new source, but having to trust Malc's uncle with basically the entire financial introduction. But he had a job, a bank account, parents he could borrow from, and if it came to it, a fairly decent car he could pawn. I just hoped it would'nt have to come to that.

Jay text me the morning we were meeting up with the directions. And I was surprised because it was in town, and relatively close to where our group hung around. And I was glad, because that meant I wouldn't have far to carry the speed. So after I text the uncle, and he confirmed the order, I replied to Jay, and we set a time to meet.

I was more excited that nervous. As I walked down the city street in the glistening sunshine, calculating the guaranteed profit, and subtracting the prices of nodges, I remember thinking 'This is the easiest f*****g thing I've ever done.

Why doesn't everybody do it?

And the reason stood around the corner.

5

He stood there with his back turned overlooking the car park below. And when he turned around my heart leaped with shock. In less than a second my entire body had electrified and then went numb, then back to static, methodically in terror. At first I couldn't believe it. The odds. The luck. But it was definitely him. Wearing a thick gold chain, scratching his guzzly chin with two fingers full of immaculate jewllery stood John Joe 'Pirate' Mulharn. With his right eye smiling, and the other just an abyss, a sunken gap. My instinct was to pretend I took a wrong turn, but as this was a cul " de " sac, I had no choice but to proceed. Besides, he must have registered my fixed glance as I walked as non " chalantly as I could while my brain burned, and my chest melted. A few metres from him, he shined a grey tooth grin that was malicious in appearance but probably meant to be unthreatining, and when he called, his voice was a deep, unforgiving husk.

“Howya, boss.”

I nodded. Because if I had've opened my mouth at that early moment, i'm positive my lips would have quivered. But I somehow managed to snap out of it, and this was only possible because I had made the genius decision not to have a joint before leaving. I basically changed character on the spot, well tried to. But he didn't seem to be really paying attention. A moment later he lifted his arm swiftly, and I flinched. Knowing what I do now, that was very much intentional. He then dug his hand deep into the front of his jeans with his tongue hanging out, and began to rummage around down there with a kind of matter " of " fact expression on his wide face. Then I heard the slight ruffle of plastic and soon he produced 4 ½ g of speed, and held it up to me at eye level. I could see a rogue pube there clinging off the end, and so could he. His eyes were gaunt and beady. I had no choice. I took the bag from beneath without emotion and placed it firmly in my jacket pocket. He then offered a handshake, which I took immediately. And when my hand was in his I looked like a toy doll being gripped by some giant. His hands were the size of salad bowls, and his grip was insanely hard, another thing done on purpose. And as I stood there watching him slink off down the street totally relaxed, smoking a joint, a part of me I didn't even know existed, an optimistic section, told me that his thinly veiled aggression was standard. Every new customer got the same deal. A kind of alpha display. An act of friendly threatening, that would fade as time wore on, and I began to contribute to his profit.

And that is just one incidence that proves just how dangerous optimism really is.

As soon as he was out of sight, I rang Stuart to tell him,and as soon as he heard, the line fell silent. I thought he had hung up, but he was simply speechless. I told him to lean on Malcolm to impress on his uncle how grave this recent sale had become. But Stu informed me that Malc had changed his number and didn't even pass on the new one. As for Clyde, he had finally paid for his first car, and now spent all of his time skirting the back roads. So I said I'd ring the uncle myself.

As soon as I mentioned the name 'Pirate,' I was given a tirade of swears and promises. He sounded frantic, astonished. But then so was I. I just had'nt had the luxury of displaying it openly.

I met him in the Av, but before passing the bag over, I stared him down, really glared at him, and said,

“Will you have the money on Wednesday?”

Without a hint of hesitation, without even a breath or blink, he replied,

“On my life.” He said.

And I believed him.

The entire hotel night had been destroyed. Even though I tried not to show it, myself and Emma had been together for a year, so she knew me enough to notice. But there was no way I was telling her what was actually happening, because she was more anxious by nature. So I just said that I was stoned. Which was half true. And after a few cans of Dutch, with an aimless techno station blaring from the complimentary television, and me hard between her thighs, I managed to forget my problem, however brief it may have been.

Monday and Tuesday were b******s of the lowest order.

I was engulfed in panic, but I made the decision not to hound the uncle as he would currently be off his face anyway. There was very little doubt whether he would pay or not, so I wasn't going to bombard a perfectly functional customer with my own selfish insecurities. It didin't help, though, that Emma was back at school after the holidays, so my usual distraction from the various hardships of my current predicament was out of reach. Mount Sion, my school, wouldn't be back for another week, but I couldn't even enjoy my final week of freedom until this problem had been solved. And on tuesday night, despite my intense and solitary stone, I gave in and text him, but not in any frantic or accusing way. I tried to sound as relaxed as I could, and simply sent

12 at the Av?

And the reply:

toam....

By reverse engineering the message I managed to work out that he meant to send 'no bother.'

Thank f**k. Even though it was clear he was in a state, he still had the know to reply with an assurance. And another notion eased me further: if he didn't have the money, or wasn't going to have it the next day, then now would be the time of his admission, because it's instinctive on a speed buzz to generate heart to heart confessions to anybode withing sniffing distance. That there was no mention of any problem regarding payment was like a full body hug, and to my utter elation I lay back on the couch with my eyes closed, and the subtle cackle of Family Guy, or whatever s**t I used to watch back then, faintly playing me to sleep.

And when I woke up my initial feeling was relief. Today it would all be over. I could pay off Pirate and come up with some plausible reason as to why I no longer needed a supplier. No amount of profit was worth the worrisome nature of having to deal with that maniac. So I text the uncle.

Nothing. It was early, though. But I just couldn't wait. I called him. No answer. I really was starting to panic, so I text Stu, but he said he hadn't heard from him either. Without even having my ritual coffees and smokes, I called down to the uncle, and was disheartened to see that his car wasn't in the driveway. That either meant he had been called into work, or worse still, the session was still on. However, I got some fright when he came to the door, looking gloomy.

“Where's your car?” I asked.

His eyes fell to the floor.

6

When I realized no payment was forthcoming regaurdless of threats or arguments, I stormed out of the house, slamming the front door despite his parents being in the sitting room.

For I was fucked in all directions. Not only did he not have the money, but he had even spent the money he got from selling the car on more speed. And because he had already got book from me, he had managed to source it somewhere else. If he had just done that at the start I wouldn't have been in that situation. And I have to say, I was f*****g shitting myself. Rumours were one thing. But the definite facts of Pirate's numerous figts and actions were ten times more terrifying. I knew what I had to do " I had to face it head on. But before I resigned myself to texting him I tried desperately to attain a loan off pretty much everybody unlucky enough to be on my mobile. Including people I barely knew and never got on with. The majority didn't even reply, but those that did had such disinterest in their tone it angered me. There was no way they could know how grave the matter was, but still, they annoyed me anyway. And as the afternoon approached, I lunged at a final solution.

I facebooked Clyde with a simple message saying that I know he had bought Malc's uncle's car, asking him if he had any money left over, and then literally begging him to lend me some. I didn't expect an immediate reply, but when it came it confirmed the day's dismal reality.

'Sorry.'

That was it. Just 'Sorry.' That's all he sent. Three years of friendship, and that was that.

I hung my head, and brought out my phone. I thought about texting Pirate with the news, but then I wanted him to hear the sincerety in my voice, so I reluctanctly placed the call.

“Howya boss?”

“Alright, Jay, look man there's been a problem, the fella who owes is acting the bollox........he doesn't have it.” I waited with crushed nerves. For what seemed like a full minute there was silence, and I had the terrifying idea that he had hung up. But then he replied, indifferently,

“No bother, when will ya have it?”

I had that sensation, the one that's so full of relief you think tears are going to spring from your lids.

“He gets paid on Friday, but I get me dole on Thursday, so I'll cover it.”

“No bother, boss, give me a bell then.”

“No problem, thanks boy,” I said.

“No worry,” he said, and hung up. I couldn't believe it. Surely this couldn't be the same man who had once fractured a twelve year old girl's eye socket with a drunken headbutt. Because the casual albeit hard stoke of his voice seemed peaceful, friendly even. And I stared at the screen of the phone with the feeling that the worst was over. Even if the uncle didn't have the money for any reason, I definitely would, and so either way it was sorted.

Or so I f*****g thought.

I didn't know how devastating things would become so for the next few days I was elated. For me the problem was over, only the residue remained, and all I had to do to make it disappear was get paid. I made a conscious effort at bombarding the uncle with texts, some angry, some pleading guilt, but all I got back were stock apologies and absolute certaintys involving the money on Friday. This was before I found out he had lost his job, and instead of trying to get money to pay me, he had been racking up more debt buying more speed. But even if I had've known that, it wouldn't have affected me too much because I could still pay it out of my own money. And after that, getting back the money from the uncle was just a matter of harassing him until he coughed up. So I returned my focus to what mattered to me at that age: coming and smoking.

I met Emma on her lunch break, and had to endure the snigger and comments of her friends before we could disappear into the back of the convent for whatever was on the sexual menu that day. However, we were engaging in sexual exploits less and less. And not because the novelty was wearing off (at fourteen years old you never get sick of having your chain yanked), but because we were discovering each other's more meaningful parts: our minds and moods and intentions. And that was when things really turned.

Because what I found beneath all those afternoon orgasms was a warm, intelligent girl, with vast ambitions and a fantastic outlook. We had been together for over a year, but it seemed we had only scratched the surface of each other. To be honest that year had been filled with f*****g and walking, laughing and haning around with both our entourages. And I think once we breached that first year, we realized how serious we were, and so began to divulge secret, hidden sections of our selves. I was afraid she would find me boring, or worse, repetitve. Because I was only entering my philosophy addiction, and all I talked about was ancient ® . But Emma was different. She had an interest in a range of topics. Some you'd expect like clothes and make up, but some more surprising, like comic books and fencing and videos of bare knuckle boxing. But the clincher that sealed my spectacular love for her was her heady obsession with all things cosmic. I had been fascinated with space my entire life, and had brought it up many times, but Em had never really shown an interest. And then just like that, at the back of the greenhouse, eating spicy wedge rolls, she began a long emphatic speech about Keplar 22b. I was stunned. I was shocked. I was smitten. Hearing her explain with great accuracy, the Drake Equation was more gratifying than a ten hour blowjob marathon. And then out of nowhere she informed me that she was going to be the first Irish person to work on the I.S.S. And this ambition gave me the feeling that I just may have to worship her until the day I died. Because not only was she beautiful, intelligent and sound, but now she was a spacer aswell.

At that time, love filled me like a softly sought virus.

And we made plans to visit the observatory in Dunsink that weekend. I walked her back to the schoolgates encased in a helpless attraction that seemed to grow and grow, and would not stop growing.

On Thursday my mind was filled with the excitement of going to the observatory. So when I text Pirate, it was generally non " chalant. We agreed to meet at the same place, but not before I informed him that my customers were backing off, and so no further supply was needed. He received the news with such understanding I began to believe he was some kind of imposter. However, when I met him down that rain soaked alley, the grim truth of his character soon became apparent.

“Howya boss?”

“Alright Jay.” I handed over the stack of folded notes and he frowned which unsettled me. He counted it and though I knew it was all there, I still had a terrible feeling. And then his following statement was quick and devastating.

“Where's the rest of it?”

I couldn't reply. I clearly saw the six 20 euro notes, which was payment in full. When I did finally talk my voice was a stuttered quiver, “one twenty.” I said.

Pirate eyed me vivaciously with that single demanding pupil.

“That was Tuesday.” He said matter " of -factly, and instantly I knew what he meant. I had heard of doubling the debt plenty of times but that was only in The Sopranos. I thought he was joking. I smiled.

“Something funny?” he said, and for the first time since I had become his customer I saw his real face, unmasked, and calmly violent. His entire demeanor transformed into a dominant, heavy glow. He looked like the kind of person who would headbutt a twelve year old girl. Again, I stammered, “I- I thought....”

“Well ya thought wrong boss.” He stated, smiling aggressively and I realized I was stuck. What could I do? Say 'Sorry Pirate, even though it's well known that you have beaten countless people, all of them bigger than me, nearly to death, you're going to have to sing for your money?'

I was outmatched and we both knew it. There was nothing to do but concede.

“Tomorrow.” I sighed. Pirate widened his own untamed grin, and moved forward. As he passed me he rested his massive hand on my shivering shoulder, squeezed it harshly, forcing me to conceal a whimper, and said, “Here, same time.”

All I could do was nod. Nod, wait for him to disappear and then stab in the uncle's number to inform, to warn him that anything less than payment in full, would quite literally result in physical violence. And not just for me, but him aswell. Because then and there, I decided that if I was to get a beating, I was certainly going to pass it down the line.

His phone was off. I called down and his father said he wasn't there. When I asked what time he was finished work, his father wrinkled his brow and told me he had been fired. I walked away dizzy with fear and anger. I had 30 euro left from my dole, and even though I had yet to buy tobbacco, I was willing to hand that over. I had two or three fiver's in my drawer at home, but all that put together still didn't even cover one third of the cost. I was well and truly bolloxed.

I ran through all the numbrers in my phone again,this time detailing the particulars of my problem in the embarressing hope of employing pity, but this time not one person replied. And I didn't actually blame them. I spent the rest of the day trying to come to terms with the fact that I was less than a day away from a broken face.

I tried to floga five spot for a tennor. No luck. At half seven in the evening I took four Dolmain, and fell into a horrid, nightmare riddled sleep.

And then the morning arrived and I had no choice but to inform him that I didn't have it. This time I didn't have the balls to call, so I text him and then reply was instantanious.

“No worries, boss, :) when will ya have it?”

I was actually taken back. Not because I was surprised by his response, but because I hadn't even thought about when I could actually pay him. If the uncle couldn't get the money he owed me, black eye or not, then it would be another two weeks before I got my dole. And with the rate the debt was increasing, by that time, the price would be so high, it would be impossible to pay.

Feebly, I text: I don't get paid for two weeks boy, and I'll only get 180

I waited for the phone to beep biting my nails, smoking rollies one after another. And then the message came through that simply said, :Not my problem.

And that was that. I knew then that I was in for a beating. There was absolutely no way of getting the money, and by the time I could get it, it wouldn't be enough. The seriousness of my situation began to dawn on me, and I really was terrified.

7

For the next few days, I could do nothing but worry. I even came up with an excuse as to why I couldn't go to the observatory. I felt trapped, and the worse thing was that I was trapped. I was stuck in a snare without any hope or chance. At the end of the first week, I had located the uncle, but he had no consoling news: he would not have the money for at least three weeks, because that's when he got his severance pay. I thought about knocking him out, but realized I'd never get paid then, so I settled for an agreement. And I made him swear on everything he held dear to not only pay me what he owed, but to loan me the rest I needed to square the debt with Pirate once and for all. After working out the numbers, the price came to just under 300 euro. I knew he probabley wouldn't give me all of that, but as long as he gave me the 120 he owed me, I'd be alright, because I had two paydays in the meantime and had opted to put most of it away.

I let Pirate know. He was understanding as expected. Why wouldn't he be when he was raping me through the nose. But everything seemed to die down then. Once I knew I had a solution, however unfair, my mind began to relax.

Until it all happened.

Pirate began requesting small installments. I had no objection to this because I thought they were being subtracted from the sum. But I learned through a series of disheartening texts that this wasn't the case. He kept 'forgetting' how much I had given him. Yet the very next message, he'd be asking for more. I didn't know what to do. I needed a plan. And the choice I was to make would ruin someone's life forever.

I turned my phone off.

Now this may seem radical but I had what I thought was a reasonable solution. Because the chances were that he was going to kick the s**t out of me anyway, but if I pretended I had lost my phone, then at least I'd only owe him the one figure. This, I thought, was a flash of genius. And I also came to the brave conclusion that if he added yet more debt onto it I was finally going to refuse, and endure whatever violent consequence awaited me.

But I severely underestimated Pirate's capacity for being offended.

Two days before the uncle got his cheque myself, emma, Stuart, and his new girlfriend Katie were on our way from the Truck to Stu's house for a munch when Stu asked about the condition of the recently built 5 skinner. I rummaged my pockets, and it wasn't there. Further searches proved I had left it back at the truck. I groaned, turned, and went to set off, but then Katie decided to head home there and then, and as the Truck was on the way to her house, Em said she'd walk her back and pick the spliff up along the way.

We watched our girlfriends slink off down the street, linked and laughing.

Back at Stu's house we were both in a trance playing crash bandicoot, when I paused the game suddenly, realizing it had been over a half hour since Em had went back. That was more than enough time, to walk Katie home, stop for a quick chat, dip into the Truck, and make it back. I called her. The phone was off, and a pang of panic ran through me.

“Just the battery,” said Stu, impatiently wanting to get back to the game. I agreed, and we went on playing for another twenty minutes.But then I really did begin to worry, and even Stu became concerned. So I told him I'd go and see where she was, but he lazily refused to walk down the way with me.

The sun was falling behind a cluster of new clouds. The sky promised rainfall. The day was morphing into evening, and there were few people around. I paced fairly leisurely toward the Truck smoking a rollie, and hopped over the gate, with a sigh of exertion.

“Em?”

I heard a faint whimper. It grew as I walked along the side of the truck, and when I reached the front, the sight nearly floored me. Emma was sitiing on the concrete with her knees up to her chin, and her head in her lap.

“What's wrong?” I asked.

Only then did I see it out of the corner of my eye. In a drainage sewer, among the mush lay Emma's silk underwear, the ones I bought her two months ago, ripped and bloody. My skin went cold in sudden disbelief. An alien sansation rose within me. I bent down, and put my hand on her shoulder, and she flinched. When she did this, the hair that had been blocking her face, parted briefly,m and I saw the bruises on her face. I tried to speaqk firmly but could barely whisper,

“W....What happened?”

And in response she slowly opened her knees slightly, to show me the blood caked on her inner thighs. I glanced at the concrete surrounding her, and saw what I had first thought was spit, but now knew by the stringy heaps, exactly what it was.

I froze. I wanted to scream but at that moment I was utterly unimportant. Emma was all that mattered. I needed to get help. But when I talked of phoning the police she let out of cry. I should have insisted, or at least tried to persuade her that the law had to be informed. And then a tirade of grim images flung through my brain. I kneeled down to face her though she still had her head buried in her lap. I could hear the little choked sobs, and her attempts to catch breath, and presently, my own selfish tears begant to stream. As if it would do any good, I tried to console her, but it was obvious she didn't want to be touched. So I sat down beside her, listening to those horrible broken sounds, waiting for her to somewhow calm down, and then I intended on phoning the police, whether she wanted to or not.

In the meantime I rolled a rollie, passed it over, and she lit it with her face streaked with thick lines of mascarra, slouching awkwardly.

She took a long, long drag, blew it out, sighed inexorabley, turned to me, and said with an expression of absolute contempt.

“He told me to tell you, the debt's paid.”

8

The entire journey to her house, I put aside the disabling guilt, and tried vehemently to persuade her that calling the guards was essential, but she seemed completely unaware of my presence. She just stared dimly at the concrete, with one hand tugging down her skirt from the gustling wind. She didn't say one word the whole way back, and eventually I gave up and just walked alongside her trying my best not to break into either a crying frenzy or a screaming riot, or both. And when we reached her house, she didn't turn ,or say anything, just left without a word, and the next time I'd see her, I'd be 33 years of age.

The day it all happened, after she had gone into her house, I literally sprinted to my house, went against her wishes, and phoned the Guards. I told them everything. In order to convey the motive I first had to admit to the dealing. Butn I didn't care. My life was of no importance. When the women on the line asked me about 'the victim.' I tolf her that she didn't want to press charges at themoment, but that was just shock. Thankfully, the woman agreed, and advised me to stay where I was, as they sent officers to me, and also to the scene of the crime.

They arrested John Joe Mulharn that night.

Emma never did press charges. However, I had inadvertantly informed on Pirate through my instinctive call to the guards. And when they went to question him, they happened to show up just as he was stocking up. They got him, two of his customers, his dealer, and thirty plants of cannabis in the attic. Even though I had been condemned to a beating, or worse, I didn't care, because even if Emma didn't make a statement, Pirate, f*****g prick, was still going to do time.

But that was a long time ago now. And though Pirate was stabbed in the throat on his second year inside, I still got a number of beatings anytime I was stupid enough to go the shop. But I knew I deserved it, and there were many times where I actively sought travellers knowing what I was in for. Because you never stop blaming yourself for something like that.

When Clyde,and Malc found out what had happened, they never talked to me again. I used to see them spinning around in the uncle's old car, and I knew they saw me, but I deserved to be ignored. That year him and his uncle, headed to Costa Del a Sol and now probably live in a villa somewhere, drinking San Miguels.

Clyde moved to Wexford, where he got a job in a call centre. He was promoted six times in two years and now drives a Range Rover.

Stuart tried to be understanding in the days immediately after the event, but I knew him too well for him to hide his hatred. We met up less and less, and even when we did, we didn't talk, just skinned up, smoked, and left. Until I saw him in a nightclub on one of my rare outings, and he was hammered, and he cried, and screamed,and swung for me. I never spoke to him again, but I hear he's engaged with three stepchildren and one of his own on the way.

Things were bad. Things were terrible. Thaings are terrible, because what happened afterwards is just as demoralizing to think of. If she had recovered, or had somehow managed to deal with the sinster reality of it, then it wouldn't all be so black. Because Emma did not go to work on the International Space Station. She went back to school at first, then was absent more and more, until she finally stopped going altogether. I got told by the only two girls in her class that would speak to me that she never left the house, hadn't actually been seen for over 3 months.

The beatings I received gave no closure, I wanted to feel pain, to feel judgement. But I knew there was no atonement. I had come to terms with the fact that I would have to live with this for the rest of my life. And as the years went on, the feeling never left, but it dissipated very, very slightly. It was constantly on the edge of my mind, like a little sullen nudge any time I dared to feel anything but sadness. But as the years went on, I began to allow tiny instances of contentedness through. piece by piece, a part of my former self began to claw its way toward the front. Don't misunderstand me. I have never had a single second of happiness since that day, but every now and then a minute feeling of ease would form inside. And for awhile, I began to believe that a life of some peace may just be possible.

And when I moved to England the mixture of strangers and unfamilliar land further encouraged the idea of a slightly stable life.

Until last week when I gave in and set up a facebook account, and was scrawling through the 'people I might know' and there she was, Emma ….. . She looked happy! She looked at ease, and I sank back into the chair with the first warm feeling I had for as long as I could remember. I had no intention of daring to make contact. My communication would just make it worse. But I was intrigued as to her profile, even if it was just to make sure she was living a decent and fulfilled life. So I clicked, and came to her homepage.

In big letters with hearts fluttering all around,

 R.I.P.

And box after box of condolences and declarations of love from family and friends. My heart sank rapidly, as I burst open another window and typed 'Emma Gleeson, Waterford' into the search bar.

When I saw the list of pages that came up, they all had the same basic information.

'Prostitute Found Dead In Alley.'

I couldn't believe it. I mean that signalled the end of everything. Any sense of normallity evaporated as I read through several newspapre articles explaining that the woman, Emma Gleeson was known to the police as a local prostitute with a history of arrests for heroin possession. One reporter via an unnamed source at the Guarda Processing Centre even divulged exactly how much heroin was found in her system. 'Too much for it to be accidental' he wrote,then added, 'though police are not treating the death as suspicious.'

I stared vacantly at the screen until it failed and brought up the generic floating window of thescreensaver. I knew I was done. There was no way now, no place to go and be redeemed. There was no act of supreme kindness, or ultimate favour I could give Emma now. Any hint of stabillity had gone. The only thing that mattered was that I was responsible for a horrible thing happening to her, and that horrible thing led her down a dangerous and eventually fatal path.

Often at night, my wife will ask me why I go silent for long periods of time, or blank out when Stacy asks one of her childishly relevant questions, or why, at times do I always manage to annoy men much bigger and angrier than me. And I just don't know what to say.

How do you tell someone you are trying to pay off a ghost?

END.

(c) Kealan Coady 2014

Reviews

[Coyote Poetry]

A well-written and entertaining story. You create strong characters and I like each situation you set-up. The story took the reader to many places and thoughts. Made the reader feel like they were part of the story. I like the tale of love and the strong ending. Thank you for sharing the excellent story.
Coyote

[Blossom]

Hello and thanks for the friend request. Happy to see familiar faces gathering here. :-)
I just started reading this story, because the intro intrigued me. I give you fair warning though, that my eyes move at a glacial speed, so it would be ages by the time I'm done with it!
P.S. I'm quite impressed with your one-liner introduction for each piece.