class followed. Soon after the school washed its hands of him, the police came knocking. After a slagging match with his dad turned into a fistfight, he was slung out of his home with just a black bag of clothes (not even full, come to think of it).
It was while dossing with a friend that he discovered a new saviour; Crack. He was penniless, kipping on the floor of a shitty bed-sit and, even though he had heard it was supposed to be highly addictive, he had thought, fuck it . Nobody gave a shit about him, so why should he? Overnight everything changed. He experienced his first whole-body orgasm and nothing in the world mattered after that.
As a state of unwanted consciousness seeped in through his sweaty pores, so did the creepy-crawlies. He shivered as he pulled his bruised and emaciated body out of his bed, scratching at the itchy sensation quivering across his clammy skin. Glancing at the cheap digital clock by the single sagging bunk, he saw with no surprise that it was gone four in the afternoon.
The bed-sit was a two room affair with the pokey main room, serving as bedroom, lounge and kitchen, and a tiny cubicle with a shower, sink and toilet as the second room.
A homemade ‘real thing’ bong held centre stage in the middle of the stained carpet-tiled floor, surrounded by empty lager cans and vodka bottles, sweet wrappers, crisp packets and the occasional used condom. An old moth-eaten blanket had been nailed up to the window to impede the afternoon sunshine from invading the dank, sweaty feet and mould-smelling room.
He staggered naked to the stained toilet that was missing its fold-down seat and lid and urinated while scratching his backside. The upturned crucifix tattoo across his spotty back twitched with the flexing of his somewhat wasted muscles.
Yes, life was pretty good for Jimmy.
After dressing in grass and blood-stained jeans, he managed to find a nearly clean – once black, now charcoal grey – t-shirt then pulled on his black long coat and muddy Nike trainers.
He stood in the doorway, trembling slightly and scratching at his arms. With no gear left, he was desperate for another hit to banish the bugs and lift his mood out of the depths of hell. But he already owed Steve Belmont a hundred quid for the last bag and, pulling some grubby coins out of his coat pocket, he discovered that he had precisely one pound thirty to his name. He was watched like a hawk in the village shops these days and he didn’t have the money to go into Rothbury, so it was time to resort to one of his other professions – poaching from Bryce & Son. There was usually a few chickens, eggs or bags of tatties that he could get his hands on, that one or two of the less fortunate of the village would be happy to pay under the odds for, no questions asked.
Three or four chickens might be enough for a quick hit, with maybe some change for a meat pie from Merlin’s.
He would have to be careful though as that big prick, John Bryce, had nearly caught him last time, and he had publicly threatened to hospitalise anyone caught stealing from his farm. Well, after what that new bastard had done to him, what sort of a threat was that? That Whitman was going to get his – he would make him suffer to his last stinking breath.
Opening the door, he paused a moment and turned to the MFI set of drawers to the side of the door which had two drawer fronts missing. A grey metal lock knife was perched on top, amongst empty cigarette packets and other assorted rubbish. He snatched it up and thrust it into his coat pocket.
CHAPTER 4
Oh Mandy, well you came and you gave without taking.
Whitman sat at the desk with his laptop open and a hot cup of tea steaming beside it. Afternoon sunshine shone through the open curtains which rippled gently from a breeze blowing in through the raised sash window.
For several hours, he had been meticulously trawling through the sound-byte footage from the various bugs. It was mainly comings and
It was while dossing with a friend that he discovered a new saviour; Crack. He was penniless, kipping on the floor of a shitty bed-sit and, even though he had heard it was supposed to be highly addictive, he had thought, fuck it . Nobody gave a shit about him, so why should he? Overnight everything changed. He experienced his first whole-body orgasm and nothing in the world mattered after that.
As a state of unwanted consciousness seeped in through his sweaty pores, so did the creepy-crawlies. He shivered as he pulled his bruised and emaciated body out of his bed, scratching at the itchy sensation quivering across his clammy skin. Glancing at the cheap digital clock by the single sagging bunk, he saw with no surprise that it was gone four in the afternoon.
The bed-sit was a two room affair with the pokey main room, serving as bedroom, lounge and kitchen, and a tiny cubicle with a shower, sink and toilet as the second room.
A homemade ‘real thing’ bong held centre stage in the middle of the stained carpet-tiled floor, surrounded by empty lager cans and vodka bottles, sweet wrappers, crisp packets and the occasional used condom. An old moth-eaten blanket had been nailed up to the window to impede the afternoon sunshine from invading the dank, sweaty feet and mould-smelling room.
He staggered naked to the stained toilet that was missing its fold-down seat and lid and urinated while scratching his backside. The upturned crucifix tattoo across his spotty back twitched with the flexing of his somewhat wasted muscles.
Yes, life was pretty good for Jimmy.
After dressing in grass and blood-stained jeans, he managed to find a nearly clean – once black, now charcoal grey – t-shirt then pulled on his black long coat and muddy Nike trainers.
He stood in the doorway, trembling slightly and scratching at his arms. With no gear left, he was desperate for another hit to banish the bugs and lift his mood out of the depths of hell. But he already owed Steve Belmont a hundred quid for the last bag and, pulling some grubby coins out of his coat pocket, he discovered that he had precisely one pound thirty to his name. He was watched like a hawk in the village shops these days and he didn’t have the money to go into Rothbury, so it was time to resort to one of his other professions – poaching from Bryce & Son. There was usually a few chickens, eggs or bags of tatties that he could get his hands on, that one or two of the less fortunate of the village would be happy to pay under the odds for, no questions asked.
Three or four chickens might be enough for a quick hit, with maybe some change for a meat pie from Merlin’s.
He would have to be careful though as that big prick, John Bryce, had nearly caught him last time, and he had publicly threatened to hospitalise anyone caught stealing from his farm. Well, after what that new bastard had done to him, what sort of a threat was that? That Whitman was going to get his – he would make him suffer to his last stinking breath.
Opening the door, he paused a moment and turned to the MFI set of drawers to the side of the door which had two drawer fronts missing. A grey metal lock knife was perched on top, amongst empty cigarette packets and other assorted rubbish. He snatched it up and thrust it into his coat pocket.
CHAPTER 4
Oh Mandy, well you came and you gave without taking.
Whitman sat at the desk with his laptop open and a hot cup of tea steaming beside it. Afternoon sunshine shone through the open curtains which rippled gently from a breeze blowing in through the raised sash window.
For several hours, he had been meticulously trawling through the sound-byte footage from the various bugs. It was mainly comings and
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