Ned

Ned sat in the bath, looking up at the ceiling. Brown patches of mold where the water had seeped through. He washed his hair and marveled at the size of the tub. Not bad for a rooming house. It wasn’t Buckingham palace, but he had definitely lived in worse. Still, there was the occasional feral that could make life hell, that and the fact that the place came with lots of rules: no-one allowed to stay over, no loud music after ten, no pets. The fact that place had cameras throughout it, wasn’t exactly a selling point either.

A loud thumping noise landed on the door, and someone was telling him to ‘get the f**k out’, and so, he stood and drained the bath and toweled himself off, then caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror.

Years of heroin use had taken its toll. Even though he had prided himself on his ability to moderate, his habit had drained him of what could only be described as his life-force. He regretted seeing the sunken features, the eyes with black rings underneath. One day he would beat it, he would be damned if he didn’t.

He cleaned his teeth and got dressed and opened the door and was confronted by an old man with white hair and a moustache: Matt, the old mastiff from upstairs. Stood, looking at him. Said ‘finally c**t’, then pushed his way past.

Ned left him to it and walked the carpet, then made his way back to his bedroom and opened the door with his key.

A thick lump of flesh, lying on the bed, passed out. He walked up to it and lay next to it and lifted up a dress and caressed a huge soft a*s, kissed a neck, but she was all but passed out.

Debbie. How he loved her.  But there was always a catch.

For the very real possibility existed, that she was only using him for her habit. But what did he care? And yet, he did care. He knew, too, that eventually, heroin would drain her of her looks, and everything else, as it had done, him. Would turn her into a whimpering wreck, and eventually something akin to a ghoul.

He pressed himself up against her and tried to rouse her, but it was no good, her body rose and fell in a rhythmic rasp, and so, he turned out the light.

Dreams of life before the junk. But there was none. The sound of a train, sounding from somewhere in his dream, heralding the end of his life, but he couldn’t be sure. A dark night with no clouds, in a dark room, surrounded by a woman that he loved and was terrified of losing.

When he woke, she was gone. He threw the cover off the empty bed and stood on the stained carpet; the room, a mess of clothes, smelt vaguely of soil. He looked out the window and got dressed and made his way out of the house, then up to the seven-eleven where he would get his morning coffee and donut. Then heard someone hollering his name; turned and saw a man wearing a big stupid grin on his face.

‘Hey, Neddy, can you fix me up with a hit? I’ll pay you back tomorrow, honest…Cahn, mate…’

He looked at him. What really irked, was that the guy was lying, and they both knew it. As though, just for being a big c**t he could get away with murder. One day, he really would bash the bloke’s head right in, teach him a lesson. But not today. Today, he had to make up the two hundred, make sure he had a good hit for tonight, for his Debbie, and who knew, maybe she would put out a bit, maybe…

A gust of wind blew up and hit him in the face. He looked up at the sky and saw that a valley of dark clouds had blown in and started to rumble. Not a good day for stalking old debts. He would have to get back quick, before it came pouring down.

He walked through the automatic doors and spotted the seven-eleven guy, giving him a dirty look. One day, he would reform, give the habit away, clean himself up, get a gym membership, find formal employment, but not today.

He walked up to the coffee machine and made the coffee and paid. Outside, it had gotten even colder. He pulled his coat close and walked the pavement. By the time he made it home, the rain was just starting to come in, and had started to tap on the road, then unleashed its downpour.

He opened the bid old door with his fob and walked the hallway, opened the door to his room and found her, sitting there, on one of his chairs, looking up at him. Big milky thighs in short shorts. She said: ‘Where you been, babe? I couldn’t find you. I got in, but you weren’t there.’

He looked at her, knowing what she wanted. It would be what she would always want, from now on, and forever more, forever and ever, amen, and it was all because of him. Truly, he had turned her into a monster. And for that, he would pay penance. Together, they would drown, maybe even die.  

‘I was just up at the seven-eleven, getting some coffee. You want some?’

She looked at him, bowing her head.

‘Sure, babe, that’d be nice.’

He poured half of his coffee into a spare paper cup and handed it to her. Then put two pieces of bread in the toaster, buttered it and spread vegemite on top. But it was all a waste of time. Finally, he reached into a set of draws and pulled out the small velvet bag.

‘Here it is, bade. The last of the stash.’

She sat, staring at it, transfixed. He took out the spoon and his lighter and warmed it up. Pulled out the syringe and drained the spoon, looked at her and took out his belt and tied her arm up. Lovingly holding the plump flesh, and then, finding a vein, and soon, disappointingly, her eyes were closing, and she was falling into her stupor, her body slowly unfurling and collapsing on the bed.

He kissed her arm and then kissed his way up her neck and face, then, her lips and she sighed deeply, but he knew that, it wasn’t because of him, it was because of her hit. Now, what he wanted was an impossibility; the heroin had given her all the ecstasy she would ever want. And so, with the last of it, he took the final shot, risking everything.

Dreams, mingling with reality. He looked around the room then back at her. At the exquisite musculature of her legs, at the tanned skin, at her face; all of it, a sculptor’s masterpiece. The room had become a baroque painting, and he wished that he could exist in this moment but saw the black cloud on the horizon and it was ruining everything.

When next he woke, he rolled over and held her, savoring the moment, embracing her big body. And then the cramps came, hitting him in the stomach, first, then spreading throughout his body.

He was going to need another fix to get through it, and so was she, but there was none left. He forced himself up and sat on the bed and was stung by the power of the sunshine.

How well he knew this feeling. It was then, in that moment that he decided that all of this must come to an end. Simply, he had grown too old for all of it, and the very fact of his death finally properly occurred to him with enough force to end the endgame of procrastination. He could only imagine the strain that it was putting on his heart.

This was it; he would take his last fix, on tick, and check himself into rehab.

Sitting there, with the sun coming through the window, the relief was monumental.

He would leave Debbie behind if he had to. Some things had to be cut away, in order to survive. Somewhere, deep down, he knew that he was simply not strong enough to survive it all.

And so, he called up his mate, who thankfully answered, and ordered that last fix. Debbie heard him and sighed, called out, and he held her and told her his plans, to which she was ominously silent.

It wasn’t long until his mate arrived and mercifully served up what he planned would be his final fix. Debbie sat up and happily held out her arm and got her shot but didn’t follow him out into the day.

He looked back at her, for what he knew, could be the last time, but she didn’t look up, and he wondered if he would ever see her again.

Ned took his last look at her, at her large, tanned figure, at her perfect lips and nose. Outside the day was so bright that his eyes stung, and he thanked God for his mate, who handed him a pair of sunglasses, then opened the car door.

He got in and looked back at the old house, and seemingly at his life, and wondered if he would ever see it again, any of it.

His mate looked at him and smiled, started the car, and they drove the short 10-kilometre drive to the rehab centre, where he had been planning to go, all these years. And then, they arrived and he parked the car and they sat looking at each other. Ned looked around, out the window of the car at the big old building where he had been planning to come all these years, big old Doric pillars and a big wooden door. His mate looked at him, a dark glint in his eye, behind the sunglasses.

‘Well, buddy, this is it.’

‘Yeah.’

‘And, well done, by the way.’

He got out of the car and didn’t turn back, opened the big old door that ominously creaked, and stood in a foyer where a woman was looking down, seated behind a desk. It took her a while to notice him.

‘Can I help you?’ she said, looking up from behind a pair of thick heavily magnified glasses.

‘I’m here about the rehab.’

She looked down again, and pulled out a clipboard, handed it to him. He took it and sat down and looked around. White walls with the occasional picture, hung badly. He finished filling out the details and stood and handed the clipboard back to her and she took it and told him to sit back down again which he did.

He heard footsteps from deep inside the building and then a hushed conversation. After a while the nurse looked up and said, ‘The doctor will see you now.’ And then, a man about his age opened the door and looked at him, a big smile on his face, a closely cropped beard, wore a white coat.

‘And you must be Ned.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Well, come this way, and follow me, if you please.’

The doctor turned and opened another big door and they had entered a hallway with more white walls and badly hung pictures. Their feet padded on the linoleum floor and they kept walking for what seemed a long time then came to another door, which the doctor opened, which led out onto a kitchen and a lounge where a television set stood. Ned could feel himself beginning to sweat, his last fix beginning to wear off, the nausea creeping up, the hot and cold flushes beginning. The doctor smiled at him, the smile looking more like a grin, as though he was somehow amused at his predicament.

‘I’m sorry, do you mind if I sit down. ‘

‘Be my guest.’

The doctor looked at him.

‘Now, I expect that you’ll need something to take the edge off, right?’

Ned looked back at the doctor, unsure of what to say, could feel his head starting to throb. In the next instant the doctor held two oversized pills in his hand as if from nowhere and handed them to him, gave him a glass of water.

‘You can take these,’ said the doctor, ‘and when you do, you’ll feel sleepy. After that, you can do as you please, sit down and watch tv if you want, make yourself tea or coffee, and best of all, you’ll notice that the cravings should pass, at least to some extent.’

The doctor looked at him more closely this time, a big goofy grin on his face.

‘Oh, and here’s your key. It’s room number ten, written on the key, in case you forget.’

He looked at Ned, one more time, up close, said, ‘nighty, night’, then turned and left the room, leaving a strange silence in his wake.

Ned looked around at the room and wondered what he had gotten himself into. It was self-contained and completely walled off. There was no way in or out, except, presumably with a master-key.

Normally, he hated confined spaces, and being locked up anywhere, but it was too late for that. Whatever it was, that the doctor had given him, was starting to take effect, and he gratefully felt the tiredness coming over him, happy to have once again, avoided the DT’s and the horror of the heroin withdrawal, the world, once again wrapped in cotton wool, and yet, it wasn’t as good as heroin: there was no euphoria. He wasn’t floating on a cloud, but he was taking steps to a world without it, and then his mind fled back to Debbie. Her long brown hair and her plump brown skin. Where was she? And what was she going through? And then, suddenly, he realized what a fool he was; that he should have taken her with him, in here, saved both of their lives together, and probably even the relationship. But what happened? Why hadn’t he thought of it, the obvious solution? Probably, he had panicked, but in doing so, he had left her completely in the lurch, and now it was going to lost him the relationship. And, what a fool he was.

He looked around at the room; a brown leather couch and a lazy-boy chair, sitting in the middle of it, walked over to it and sat down, feeling tiredness overtake him, thoughts of Debbie consuming him.

Maybe, he could do for her, what his mate had done for him. Bring her in and get her dried out. Who knew? Maybe, where there was a will there was a way.  He found a remote sitting on a coffee table, turned the tv on, and fell asleep in front of it, bracing himself for what he had done. How he would be able to bare losing her, he had no idea.

Dreams of his life before he had no life, before heroin and Debbie and rooming-house madness. Once upon a time, he had wanted to be something, only, he couldn’t remember what. But then Debbie came, and there was nothing else in the world, and he recognized that that was a problem in itself.

Recognizing what a monster he was, for getting her hooked, on heroin. He had signed her death warrant, all because he was too insecure to pull her and keep her, without it. And now, he was only left with the bitter memory, and the possibility that he had lost her. Worse, he had cursed her and tethered her to him, and without him, she may not even make it. Worse, he had abandoned her in her darkness hour, to save his own, and for that, he should be condemned to hell, probably would be.

The sunshine on the green grass where she walked. Black paint and leather shoes in black stockings. Looking at her, at her face, and then taking her hand. Long lazy days, basking in the sun together, in the glow of each other, and the heroin. And then days of going without. Lying in bed together with aching bones.

When next he woke, he looked around and saw that he was in a room that was mostly painted white, a window, revealing a blue sky and trees, outside. There was no-one else in it, and he marveled at that, the fact that the state would support his recovery. Who knew, perhaps there was hope for him after all? The squeaking sound of a door-knob turning. A bald man with a white coat entered the room and walked over to him, stood over the bed.
‘How are you feeling today…’ The man picked up a chart and read form it.’…Mr.…Spencer?’

‘It’s Ned.’

‘Right, Ned.’

‘A bit better thanks.’

‘That’s good. Still, you’re not over the worst of it…You’ll need more of these…’

He opened his hand, and produced two blue pills, handed him a glass of water and watched him swallow them down.

‘Now, you are free to do as you wish, a few of you have elected to go outside and enjoy the sun, have fun.’

With that, he turned and left the room, closing the door behind him.

Ned got out of the bed and looked around. Presumably, this was going to be his room for however long he would stay, however long that was. The delirium he could feel in the distance, somewhere deep in his system, kept at bay. He marveled at the new drugs, but something told him that he was not out of the woods, that the damage that he had done to himself was deep, and possibly life-threatening, would take years of healing and recovery. He sat and looked around. Even despite the drugs that they had given him, he felt weak and ginger, and his bones did ache, something like the flu. He stood up, and suddenly realized that he had done the right thing in coming here, and by some sort of miracle. That the very real possibility existed that if he hadn’t, that he might actually have died, that the heart simply may not have taken it, that the pain of withdrawal, may have actually been too much for his system. And then his mind raced back to Debbie again, and he was suddenly horrified that she would end it with him by the time that he got out. Ned stood and felt pain wrack his body, then sat back down again, and fell back to sleep, wondering where she was, hoping, praying that she was ok.

The next day, he left the room and took his breakfast in the kitchen. Little by little, the pain was subsiding, the cramps, the muscular pain, and the craving. The kitchen table was filled with others; hairy, unshaven men. They ate in silence, then dispersed, most walked out into the yard, and he followed.

Ned stepped out into the bright sunshine. He stepped onto the grass and looked up at the sky, and swore that he would do better, swore that he would make it up to her, do whatever was needed, anything, just to be free from his addiction. And then, he realized, with a shock, what he was doing: he was praying. He looked around at the grassy noel. Others were wondering around, looking as if they too, were doing the same: bargaining with God for their lives. He sat on a seat and found a crushed packet of cigarettes in his pocket and a lighter and lit up. It too, would have to go, another insidious habit that was destroying him, moment by moment, and he wondered, how it was, that he had missed these things: the obvious truths. He looked around at the others, then made his way back into the building and his room, and wondered how long it would be until he would be allowed to leave.

Days and afternoons drifted by. Sometimes, he would have to attend meetings. He would sit in a room with the others and they would talk about their addictions, and it was always illuminating. A group of aged, hairy men, searching for answers, or truth, or something to cling to, and usually, more often than not, they would find it.

Eventually, one bright, sunny day, he was discharged. Ned, standing there, in the clothes that he brought himself in with. With nothing else but his wallet and a full packet of cigarettes; standing in the sunshine, terrified of what he might do to himself within the hour.  

He walked the short walk back to the house and built up a sweat. All the while, his thoughts on Debbie, and he suddenly wondered, if she, too, was one of his addictions. A car drove past and tooted its horn. He looked up and saw a bloke give him the finger, and he wondered who in the hell it was. At least, nothing akin to a cop. He walked into the garden and opened the big old door with his fob, wondering, hoping against hope, that he would find her in his bed, but it wasn’t to be.

The room was the same old mess of clothes. The bed, as per usual, unmade. He stepped inside and closed the door and sat on the bed and looked around. An empty soft drink on the floor. Was it hers? He couldn’t be sure. He took out his phone and thought of calling her, but it seemed so bold. There was nothing else for it, and so, he dialed the number, but it went straight to voicemail. And then, he started to really worry. It wasn’t like her. Normally, she would answer when he called. But, then again, it had been three weeks, since they had spoken, since mobile phones were not allowed in the rehab. Sitting there, on the bed, waiting, hoping that she would suddenly show up, but nothing happened.

The next day the same, and the same again the day after that. In the end, out of desperation, he went to the one place where he knew she would have to be, where he would find her: her parents’ house.

He didn’t bother calling, because he knew that they would hang up on him, so he simply went out there. It took a while for the woman to answer the door. She opened it a bit wider, and he was faced with the beady yellow eyes of old.

‘You! What the hell are you doing here? And, where’s my daughter?’

Ned went to say something, but, as always, with Debbie’s mother, there was nothing to say, and she looked back at him one final time, let out a deep sigh, then slammed the door on him, like she always had, and he turned, and took a big sigh, himself. Where was she? The night was drawing in, and he sat on the street then got on the tram, looked out the window, thanked God that the cravings had passed, that he was now able to live his life without heroin. But it brought him no closer to Debbie.

It came to his stop and he got off and walked into the night, made it back to the house, opened the door and stepped inside. The long corridor lit by ceiling light, everything, mercifully quiet. He opened his room and found it, as he had left it, now, spotless and clean. He had found a skirt and tank top under his bed, and now lovingly put it on his dresser.

The next day, he walked around the neighbourhood, looking for her, but she was nowhere to be found. He thought about going to the police and filing a missing person’s report, but felt too embarrassed, considering their history of drug use. He scoured social media, but even there, there was no sign. Almost as though she had never existed. Out of desperation and for something to do, he made paintings of her, from his memories, stuck them around the house. Eventually, got a band together, and they started playing Friday nights, in the house.

More and more people started showing up, until one night the house was nearly full. He was amazed at what he had done: gotten himself sober, gotten a band together, but, as always, Debbie was in his thoughts.

They had gotten better and better, and he knew that, if he could get it to reach a critical mass, word would reach her, wherever she was, and he would drag her back into his net. But every time they played, there was no sign. One night, they set up, and played their first track on the set-list, and he looked up, and saw a sea of faces, waiting expectantly, some calling out songs that they had played and released to friends. And he suddenly realized that he had done something, really done something, after all these years.

And then, he looked around at the crowd and saw her, the shock of blonde hair, the short well-built body that he would know anywhere. She was talking to another girl, who was standing next to her, and fishing something out of her handbag, a smoke in her mouth, and he dropped the guitar and the band fell apart and people were looking at him, and she looked up at him and their eyes met, and his heart sank as he saw the scowl come across her face. And then the scowl became a grin. She said, ‘well, if it isn’t Mr. big time. And now, he’s got a band.’ He was lost for words, and then like that, she turned her back on him, and started making conversation with her friend, as though he was suddenly dismissed, which he was. Shocked, it took a moment to gather himself, and when he put his hand on her shoulder, she turned around and slapped him hard on the face, said: ‘that’s for leaving me, jerk,’ and walked off.

Ned stood, looked around at the house, at all the people, at the band, who were looking back at him, perplexed, then knew, deep down, in that moment, that nothing would be the same for him, and possibly, ever again.

He followed her out of the house, but she was gone; the night outside, cold in the street. Heartbroken, he walked back inside, and pushed his way against the louts who had come to watch him play, found his way to the stage and grabbed the microphone and told everyone to ‘f**k off out of his house’, before making his way to his room and then his bed.

He finished his beer and turned the lights off, and lay there, wondering if there was a way to get her back, hearing the rabble smash what they could before leaving. The sound of car tires screeching, beer bottles being smashed. A woman’s laughter. Still, he had beaten heroin, and that was no small thing. He kept wondering about Debbie. Maybe, she had done a rehab, herself. Who knew? Who knew anything.