The Rat
By Joseph J. Dowling. Published on March 26, 2023.
Next time you pass that group of misfits and winos, sitting around a bench smoking charred roll-ups, and swigging from black cans in the midday sun while most good folk are hard at work, I want you to stop and look at their faces. I mean, really fucking look. You probably think we’re all the same—lowlife street bums—but we’re not. Some of us are juicers or junkies, others are utterly sideways mad, and I’ve met a few who are smarter than you’d ever think possible.
People assume I’m called the Rat because I wear rattails in my hair, but I earned the name. I’m a survivor. I’ve been stabbed, shot, run over, strung out, destitute, prostituted and beaten. Don’t feel sorry for me, though—I earned my scars, too.
In a past life, I called a place called Camberwell home. It’s in south-east London, not such a bad part of town. Sure, I’ve lived in far worse. I miss it sometimes, not that I’d ever show my face after what happened. Let me tell you about it.
***
That summer was hot, like the way eternal childhood summers were. The park we hung out in—and sometimes slept, fucked, shat or did anything else humans do in—usually burst with violent green and life-raft flashes of brown and yellow. But that year it had turned the colour of sand. The kids kicked up clouds of dust as they played football on earth as hard as poured concrete. The shrivelled shrubs screamed for moisture and only weeds flourished. You might say I’m a weed, and I’ve always loved hot weather. People leave their windows open, and overcooked brains make mistakes. Mistakes lead to opportunity.
I used to hang with a girl called Macy. We weren’t lovers, but we were strung out on the same gear. Number one always comes first, but we ran schemes and watched out for each other. Neither of us knew anyone more reliable. Like celestial bodies lost in an otherwise vast and empty universe, we gravitated towards one another.
“Hey, you seen Marlon recently?” said Macy, after an indeterminable silence, as we lay on our backs and stared at candyfloss clouds hanging in the listless ocean above. Relaxed and slightly high, I considered the question, unaware of the irrevocable change it would bring hurtling towards me.
“Yeah, but he’s been dry the last few days.”
“So that means he’ll be re-upping, right?” I nodded while my chemically altered brain tried to understand which direction this conversation was heading. “Well, usually he only runs dry after the last weekend of the month.”
“Yeah, and?”
“He always picks up late on Thursday, right? If he’s holding a month’s worth, he must score big.”
I pulled my unfocused gaze from the sky and snapped my head towards hers. “What are you suggesting here?”
“Hear me out, Rat. I bet his woman won’t have all that junk in the house. Dunno where he cuts it, but he always be payin’ his old lady a visit before bedtime.”
“And?” My eyebrows rose.
Macy heaved a great breath and held it before continuing. “I know where he keeps his spare car key. I bet his window’s wide open, like every other fucker in this weather. All we gotta do is get inside, take the key and jack the gear out the goddamn car.”
“Sounds so simple now you phrase it like that,” I said, sighing and sitting up. My shades slipped off my face and I peered deep into her hollow, sunken eyes. Against her brown skin, dark rims stood out, almost like she’d been suckered by the old treacle-telescope trick from the comics I read a thousand lifetimes ago. “Are you fucking insane? How much shit have you been sucking into your crazy veins recently?”
She huffed as the realisation I wasn’t buying her madcap scheme sunk in. “But Rat…”
“But nothing, Macy. Drago isn’t worth messing with, so get this madness out of your thick head.” Drago was the guy who really had the power around these parts. Marlon was just a middleman, but any junkie with two brain cells knew to screw with Marlon risked a visit from Drago.
Macy kissed her teeth and eased down to the earth. As my blanket of serenity washed back over me, I heard her mutter, “Marlon and Drago ain’t shit. Both just punks, same as you, Rat. Fuckin’ pussy ‘ole.”
I ignored her comment and floated back to the inner world between sleep and wakefulness. It’s a beautiful place, but there must’ve been enough junk floating around my system to ease me through the narrow daydreamers’ gates into the heaven of blissful unconsciousness. Blissful for a while, at least.
There isn’t much in this life to fear—not when I’m awake—but dreams are a different matter. Ever since I was a kid, I’ve had the most vivid and terrifying nightmares. Sometimes I think it’s what turned me onto junk, because junk sleep is the most peaceful thing on God’s earth, except death. That’s why they call it catching a nod. Anything you lay your head on—doesn’t matter if its bumpy and ragged earth or a cum-and-shit-encrusted mattress on the bare floorboards of a crack-house—once it hits your brain you’ll sink into the fat pillows of a king-sized bed in the Savoy’s best honeymoon suite. The irony is that the nightmares which visit a strung-out junkie are worse than anything even my fucked mind can devise of its own accord.
During that afternoon snooze, my relaxed brain switched gears on me. I can’t recall everything, but I’m certain it involved being chased across desert salt-flats in my bare feet by an evil Teletubby with a raging erection. Eventually, my blistered feet melted into the crusted, stinging salt and I could run no further. I don’t recall which Teletubby got stuck in first, but they all had their fun. Butt-fucked by La-La in my dreams. They should engrave that on my headstone, as if a pauper like me would ever get buried.
After the foreplay came the main event. Marlon had me, tied to a chair, soaked in piss, sightless and dumb.
“Where’s the shit, little brother?” he asked, his soft West Indian baritone barely audible above the throbbing background hum. I tried to speak and let him know Macy had it, but my teeth were clamped together. The bones had conjoined, wiring my jaw forever shut, so I could only groan. “Where’s the shit, little brother?” he repeated, more urgently this time. My moaning rose in tandem as he asked a third time, punctuating the shit with an openhanded slap, which ripped slits in my face like Freddy Krueger’s glove. Cockroaches slowly crawled towards the wounds. I could feel them probing my sutured cavities for an entrance, and I could hear their clicks and clacks as they discovered my open and inviting nostrils, which provided my only oxygen source…
I jerked awake and Macy’s concerned face peered into mine. Her earlier hardness had softened, and she looked like a frightened child. Darkness had descended, and the raucous sounds of the park at night disorientated me. For a brief second, I thought it was my sister staring at me—impossible, at least in this life.
“What the hell, Rat?”
“Nightmare,” I panted. The scorching summer day had progressed to a dank and sultry night. Sweat had drenched every pore of my body but, despite the warmth, I was shivering. I needed medicine. Before I could argue, I heard my voice say, “Fuck it. Let’s do the plan.”
“You wanna do my plan, after what you said? Jesus, Rat, you’re the crazy one.” Macy exhaled a deep sigh and spat out some thick mucus on the ground beside me. “Alright, soldier, let’s go.” She leapt from her haunches and her sinewy arm shot out, gripped mine and hauled me onto unsteady feet.
“How’d you know where he keeps his spares, anyway?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
“We used to fuck.”
***
We walked double-time down the amber backstreets, with our synchronised footsteps beating like the hearts of co-joined twins. Unseen, a distant train clacked through the city, directionless. North or south, it didn’t matter, because it was headed somewhere better. How I longed to be in its deserted carriages, racing far away from here, with cool air pulsing through vented windows.
We’d barely exchanged fifty words since we’d left the park; we knew what needed to be done. Sure enough, as we approached Marlon’s apartment complex, his black BMW-X3 series was missing, and the first-floor windows of his flat were all wide open. Macy whispered into my ear where to find the key.
There’s another reason my name is so fitting that there’s not a soul left alive on this earth who uses my birth name—I can climb like a bastard. After scouting the area, I vaulted the gate, clambered onto an outbuilding, and shimmied up to the balcony like a rat up… ah, you know what I mean.
I took a second to scan the neighbouring buildings. Nothing stirred, so I climbed through the bedroom window and rolled softly onto an unmade bed, from where a faint musk of sex arose. After a struggle, I escaped the marshmallow mattress and dropped to my haunches to listen. Voices from a television penetrated the closed door of the living room, punctuated by occasional laughter. Next door, in the room which I needed to search, a child softly moaned. We were kindred in nightmares, but nothing else.
I inched towards the open door and waited for the right moment to traverse the hallway. Bare floorboards offered a disastrous potential to announce my presence. Before I tiptoed across, I heard a grunt as the living room’s occupant rose from their seat, so I spun across the threshold and tucked myself behind the door.
Rushes of blood pounded at my temples as the living room door opened, and feet padded down the hall. The part of my mind which remained engaged in mental calculation noted there were no creaks or groans from the wood. The resident entered the bathroom, followed by the drop of a toilet seat, and the light slap of a delicate bottom seating itself. A powerful stream of piss echoed through the toilet bowl as it hit the water, confirming my deduction that the other adult in the flat was female. The toilet flushed, and a muffled zip preceded returning footsteps. Through the crack in the door’s hinge, a svelte shadow passed back to the living room. The door clunked shut once more, and I exhaled a long breath of stale carbon dioxide.
I crept along the hallway and approached the other bedroom. My hand rested on the cool brass of the door handle. I slowly opened it and stepped inside. Slowly, as my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I discovered the room was not just a child’s bedroom, but also an office for whatever bookkeeping and admin a drug dealer requires. Perhaps subconsciously aware of the lurking bogeyman, the sleeping child murmured and rolled onto its back. Soft eyelids fluttered but didn’t open. I moved over to Marlon’s paper-strewn desk, where Macy had promised I’d find the spare key.
While I rifled through drawers with increasing desperation, the unmistakable chime of a doorbell froze me. Had Marlon returned already? A muffled conversation followed by a slamming door offered no definitive answer, so I sloped over to the window and caught a glance of Macy pacing around, smoking furiously, but no sign of Marlon’s car. The buzz of a moped moving rapidly away, along with the fact it was around dinnertime, suggested takeaway. Before I could resume my search, the living room door reopened, and I darted into the corner of the room. My ragged breaths paused as a hand touched the handle on the other side. The door slowly opened, slicing light upon the sleeping child’s beautiful face, but also hiding the insidious creep behind it. Shadowed in the doorway, the mother stood, considering her move, before a wistful sigh signalled her decision not to wake the child for dinner and company.
Once I heard the clatter of plates and cutlery, I scampered back to the desk, but still found nothing vaguely resembling a car key. I re-examined the various pots stuffed with stationary and, jammed at the bottom, my fingers discovered a chunky plastic key. After taking one last, longing look at the child to remind myself innocence still exists in this vile world, I retraced my steps into the damp night. I answered Macy’s questioning stare with a nod, and we walked over to a low wall to wait in the shadows.
***
Macy had nodded off by the time Marlon’s sleek vehicle crept into its spot. Still wired from the adrenaline, I nudged her awake.
“Huh, what?” Macy dribbled a little as I roused her.
“Wake up, he’s here.” We watched from across the street as Marlon’s bulky frame disembarked and he bounced towards his flat. Once he’d gone inside, we shuffled, bent double, towards the car. With a jolt, I realised our plan was completely reliant on a tiny battery, which might have expired while stashed at the bottom of a jar full of pens and pencils. I almost wanted it not to work, but when I depressed the button, the car unlocked with a quiet amber flash.
Macy kept guard while I opened the boot, expecting to discover a clichéd holdall full of drugs and cash. Upon finding nothing except a tyre jack, a baby seat, and a battered AA Road Atlas of the UK, I gently closed the boot, inched around to the door furthest from view, opened it and climbed inside. The car stunk of marijuana and perspiration, with a pine-scented air-freshener gamely lurking behind, doing its utmost, but ultimately providing little more than a background note.
I flung open the glove compartment but again drew a blank. A thorough search of the obvious stash places yielded nothing, so I clambered into the car’s rear.
“What the fuck’s takin’ so long?” hissed Macy.
“He must have some special dealer hiding pla—” Macy clamped her nicotine-permeated hand across my mouth and climbed in next to me. Her eyes were wide, and she held her breath. Heavy steps punctuated the audible beating of our hearts while we cowered. The driver-side door opened, and the car lurched to the right as Marlon dropped into his seat. I doubted Marlon carried a gun, but I was certain he’d easily overpower two skinny junkies, weapon or not.
Macy had other ideas. The first time I discovered she’d been packing a blade was when it flashed in the receding light of the car’s interior bulb. With greater speed than I knew she possessed, she brought it to rest against Marlon’s throat. He flailed and grunted with surprise but froze when sharp stinging steel jabbed his neck. Then he sighed, like being held at knifepoint was a mere annoyance, and his dark brown eyes flicked up and met ours in the rearview mirror.
“Where’s the fuckin’ gear?” Macy said.
Marlon kissed his teeth. “Macy, I can see your dumb bitch face. What’s this stupid shit? Is that the Rat with you? Man, you’re both so dead.” His stuttering laugh gave way to a hiss of pain as Macy’s blade dug into his soft jugular. I almost heard cogs turning. Perhaps the big man had rethought his stance.
“Just give us the stuff and your car key, and we’ll be on our way, motherfucker. Otherwise, I’ll bleed you out like a damn swine.” Macy’s words were so heavily laced with menace that even I felt a cold sweat creeping across my chest. Marlon must have too, because he slowly reached for the dashboard and pressed something, revealing his secret compartment. He picked up a tightly wrapped package and lifted it over his head. I plucked it from his hand and moved to exit, but something in Marlon’s voice as he spoke those departing words made me freeze. I can still hear them just as clearly today.
“All yours, boy, take it. But you should OD on that shit, ‘cause it’s a better way to die than when Drago and me find you. And we will find you. Don’t matter where you dumb cunts run. Trust.”
Macy kept her blade against Marlon’s neck. Her free hand snaked out and opened the other door. As quickly as she’d raised it, she withdrew her knife and slipped out of the car. We ran faster than I’d ever known junkies run, and I launched Marlon’s car keys deep into the blackness of the south London night.
***
We didn’t stop running until we hit the main road and jumped on the first bus which arrived. Luckily, they were always regular around those parts. The moment the bus hissed away, we both dropped to our haunches with our shrivelled smokers’ lungs wheezing for air like two dusty old accordions, terminally out of tune and fit only for the scrapheap. Four stops later, we disembarked and ducked into Kennington tube station. With the last remaining shreds of shrapnel in our pockets, we paid our fare—for once—and within minutes we were shuttling towards Earth’s molten core on the Northern Line.
That first night of our new lives, getting high was a necessity, to come down from adrenaline-jacked clouds. We scavenged works and slept curled together in a doorway, with the package stuffed inside my underpants. After that, we didn’t use for three days, while we took a crash-course in business acumen and how dealing Class A drugs works from the other side of the fence. We cut a chunk of gear three-to-one with baking soda and sold it by the greasy wrap to only the most desperate souls who we knew didn’t possess the mental aptitude to describe our faces.
Like fugitives, we bolted from place to place, sleeping only a few hours at a time, making a handful of sales before moving onwards, until we had enough crumpled notes to splash out on a room and other luxuries. We planned to spend a week, maximum, in any particular digs and scarper if we ever crossed paths with any serious dealers or sold to anyone sane enough to recognise us. But inevitably, we started dipping into the supply and getting sloppy. By the time we hit Kentish Town and our third residence, we had a decent stack of bills, but the gear was halfway gone. We’d got too comfortable, and the raw shit was just too damn good. The dealing days got shorter while the using days got longer. Eventually, we holed up and got high twenty-four hours a day until we were down to our last few ounces.
“How much cash we got, Rat?” Macy slurred, with a dreamy grin slipping from her slack jaw. I counted the bundle for the first time in a week.
“There’s just over two grand here,” I said, smiling. My drug-addled brain wasn’t processing the fact that two grand wouldn’t stretch far with a habit like ours. It sounded like millions.
“Let’s cut the rest of the shit down and flip it. Then we gotta move on.” Macy’s statement made perfect sense. I nodded and prepared to leave our bolthole and round up some necessities. When I slipped into my jeans, they’d become even looser than before. The last meal I could recall consuming had been three days ago.
I clawed at my scabbed-up forearms as I descended the cabbage-scented stairwell. Despite being nowhere near sober, I hadn’t been this straight in a fortnight. A serious sickness was in the post once we ran dry. We’d suck the money into our bloodstream within weeks. Talk about the circular economy.
The moment I opened the door, the bloated clouds above released their contents, gaining intensity until the rain became biblical. Although drenched, I was still too high to feel the cold discomfort and, catching my reflection in a shop window, I laughed. With my lank, mousey-brown hair plastered to my gaunt face, I looked like a drowned… ah, hell, I really was becoming my avatar.
The corner shop cashier eyed me with suspicion as I perused his wares, selecting some flour as surrogate for bicarb, alongside some other groceries, before plonking them down on the counter and greeting his disdain with a wide grin. I peeled some crusty fivers off my roll, paid and turned to leave, before doing a classic Columbo move and returning for one more thing.
We often assume the huge, decisive moments in life decide our successes or failures, but I disagree. Consequences arrive because of the little decisions which litter the path behind. When I exited the shop, I saw a black BMW-X3 flash past. It was a common vehicle, but my heart jolted, and I stepped out into the street with renewed caution. The Beamer pulled up a hundred yards down the street, towards our sanctuary. I hastened to a bus stop, which shielded me from view, but risked a peek in time to witness Marlon disembark from the passenger seat. From the other side appeared Drago’s stout frame.
Incessant rain battered the bus shelter roof, competing with my hammering heart while I considered my options. I could run the other direction and leave Macy to her fate, or I could attempt to reach her first. Two equally shitty choices and I couldn’t decide, so I followed Drago and Marlon from a safe distance as they questioned anyone who looked vaguely like a street-dweller. It seemed they hadn’t discovered our exact location, but knew we were staying nearby. We’d been lying low for a week, but before that, our standards had slackened. Eventually, the pair would hit on someone who’d show a glint of recognition, and they’d give up their secrets for quick money, or quicker pain relief.
I abandoned my purchases at the bus stop for some other traveller to enjoy, and carefully made my way through the driving rain, along a parallel backstreet, to try outmanoeuvring the pair. Approaching from the opposite direction, I could see the Beamer crawling towards me, so I ducked behind a parked car. Drago sat stoically stationed at the wheel, his square head silhouetted against the grey, while Marlon quizzed another vagrant. I could see the weather-beaten old boy scratching his head, perhaps about to pluck our faces from the discard pile in his sautéed mind. I eyed the entrance to our building. If I crossed the road, Drago would clock me, so I crouched and ran along the row of cars until I could make safe passage, then darted down an alley and turned left into the street behind our building.
Once I thought I was close, I jogged down another alleyway and vaulted a six-foot fence into a messy and uninhabited garden. I tore through the undergrowth, hopped another fence, and found myself four of five houses away from our building. I don’t know if you’ve ever been garden-hopping, but it’s always a mixed bag and someone usually notices. The third fence was a blind jump, and I almost landed on an old woman, bent double, cocooned in a yellow cagoule, tending her vegetables. She never even knew I was there, and by the time she looked up, I’d safely reached the penultimate garden. After vaulting over a low wire fence, I reached the rear of our not-so-safe house.
Again living up to my name, I shimmied up the drainpipe, located a communal window, and used a rock which I’d picked up below to smash the frosted safety glass. After unhooking the ancient latch, I dropped inside and approached the hallway. When I reached our door, I cupped my hand to listen—nothing except Macy’s gentle buzz-saw snore. I turned the key, barged in, and ran to the window just as the Beamer stopped outside, blocking the road.
“Whass goin’ on, Rat?” Macy slurred, frowning at the sudden intrusion into her slumber.
“We gotta bounce. Drago’s here.”
“Fuck off man, you lyin’” Macy said, but she’d already began shuffling into her jeans. She joined me at the window, and a car trapped behind the Beamer furiously honked its horn. Drago got out and, seconds later, the driver hit reverse and sped away backwards at thirty-miles-per-hour. Drago slipped off his shades and, for an exquisite second of icy terror, one of his huge white eyes met mine. The other appeared to be looking elsewhere. I tore myself from his myopic gaze and pulled Macy’s arm towards the building’s rear.
“Uh-uh, how d’you expect me to get down there?” she said, shaking her head.
“It’s that or Marlon and Drago gonna take turns fist-fucking you to death, girl,” I said, summoning as much colourful imagery as I could. Insistent fists hammered at the door below. There wasn’t another way out—the only exit to the garden was via the ground-floor flat.
She shook her head like a lost little girl. “You go first. Catch me if I fall, huh Rat?”
I nodded and climbed through the window backwards, holding onto the flaking white paint of the window ledge as my feet found the drainpipe. I gripped the clammy black plastic and climbed downwards. God, I hope this holds. Perhaps losing weight had been a blessing.
“Hurry, Rat!” Macy shrieked as the door splintered and heavy footsteps pounded up the stairwell. I jumped the last two metres, landing lightly on the balls of my feet. With minimal grace, she seated herself on the ledge and peered down. Panic spread across her face, increasing after a quick look behind, and Macy dropped onto the pipe, hugging it as she inched towards me with her eyes scrunched shut.
A bulky shape appeared at the window and Drago leaned out, smiling at the errant clowns below, putting on a show for his own private amusement. A huge paw reached skyward. There was a creak as Drago effortlessly ripped the drainpipe from its housing, and it levered away from the blackened brickwork with a groan. Macy screamed and Drago’s smile widened into a grin as he absorbed the unfolding chaos.
Meanwhile, a vivid flashback intruded the slapstick horror. My dad was present, so it must have been before he really hit the booze, and my sister too, God-rest-her-soul. We were happy together, laughing at some silly 1970s sitcom, almost like a normal family. Almost. Had I ever found safety or warmth since, except in heroin? I wanted to crawl inside the memory forever, but reality’s crushing juggernaut has no reverse gear, only forwards.
The pipe swayed, with Macy holding on and still shrieking. A neighbour opened their window and peered out. They seemed unshocked. Was this an everyday occurrence around here? Macy’s weight brought the pipe swinging back towards the wall and, with a howl of pain, she struck the building, weakening her grip. She clung on by her fingertips, momentarily suspended, before gravity claimed her, and she dropped like a knife. A bellow of complete agony accompanied the rifle-crack of her shattering shinbone as she landed feet-first and crumpled in a heap.
I stared into her pleading eyes as she lay motionless, whimpering. For a second, she reminded me again of my poor dead sister, and the last innocence I’d ever known in this world. But Macy wasn’t innocent. Maybe people like us never were. Hopeless. With my atrophied muscles, I could never carry even her modest weight and, like those things that desert sinking ships, I decided to bolt and leave Macy to her fate. Fate had other ideas. When I turned to flee, Marlon crashed through the neighbour’s fence, blocking my route to lone and guilty freedom. Our eyes met, and he laughed. Gold teeth glinted in the weak sunlight, which had broken through the dismal clouds.
“Going somewhere, boy?” The question was rhetorical, but before I could reply or switch direction, he swung a lightning fist, clipping me solidly on my temple. Crystalline white flashed across my vision and my arms pinwheeled. The ground pulled another victim into its hard embrace, and existence clunked off like an unwatched television set switching to standby.
***
Nothing. Blissful, unwavering blackness. Then, from across the universe, a voice summoning me from the depths of a perfect ocean, to be unwillingly born again into this bitter world. The room spun and swirled into grimy focus, and pain welcomed my return with a vicious slap across my battered face. I tried to protect myself, but it was futile—my arms were bound and redundant—and I could do nothing except stare through those mad windows into a demented soul; Drago, with strange, mismatched eyes, one boring into my skull and the other limply pulling off into the periphery, seeing something only God could reveal.
“Welcome back, Rat,” he lisped, with a slight trace of his eastern European heritage lurking behind surprisingly gentle tones. I’d never heard him speak, and I’d hoped I never would. Somewhere far away an ice cream truck played Greensleeves, triggering visions of joyous, excited children chasing after the sound. Had Drago ever been a child, free of torment and without the desire to inflict suffering? I couldn’t imagine it. My head lolled while my eyes scanned the room. It was dull and grey, with a naked lightbulb overhead and little else. I couldn’t believe this uninspiring cell would be the last place I’d ever know.
“Do you know what we do with rats in my country?” he asked. I peeled open my cracked lips, but couldn’t summon enough moisture to reply, so instead I hissed and gasped. “How rude of me. I think you are thirsty, no?” I nodded, and he reached behind the chair, returning with a bottle of water. He pressed the bottle to my lips and held my head in an almost fatherly manner while I drank. The cool liquid spread inside my mouth, lighting up the pleasure centres in my brain like a pinball machine, despite the hopeless situation.
“Thanks,” I croaked.
“So, my question…”
“Sorry, Mr Drago, but I wouldn’t want to hazard a guess. A time share in Malaga and a small pension, perhaps?” His laugh filled the room. It was a disarming sound, hearty and full of life, like we were lifelong pals sipping whisky by the fire and telling private jokes. Once the tears had dried, he shook his head.
“No, not that. But we don’t always kill them, either. We dose them.” He paused to let the gravity of his message sink in. “Sure, they often die, but some live, forever changed, offering a warning to all those who come after them. All who would try to steal our bread, like their brothers and sisters before.”
I gulped. It made perfect sense. After all, who’d notice if two junkie grifters simply disappeared from the face of the earth? Who’d even care? Better to leave a survivor, so people would know what kind of fate awaited them if they dared to cross such a man as Drago.
He reached behind me again, and this time he held not life-giving water in his sausage-like hands, but two syringes. “Seeing as you’ve given me such a laugh, Rat, I’ll give you the pleasure of choosing your dose.”
“Uh… what’s in those?” I asked, positive I did not want to hear the answer.
“Let’s call them two hotshots, just like you and your female companion in the other room.” He jerked his head to my right. “One’s hotter than the other, though.” Ideas of what cruel cocktails they might contain darted around my mind like frantic rats trapped in a maze, but for the first time since my reawakening, a distant and feint star of hope also lingered in my otherwise bleak skyline. Maybe I could survive whatever those vials offered. Untouched, not likely, but intact and alive, perhaps?
“I’ll take that one,” I said, pointing my head to his right hand.
“Decisive and brave, like your namesakes. You impress me, Rat. In another life, you might have been useful to me.” He held the syringe between grinning teeth as he adjusted the ropes and rolled up the sleeve of my stinking, sweat-soaked tee-shirt. “Tell the world what you see, Rat, and who they’re fucking with. Bon voyage, sweet prince.” With a wasp sting, he pushed the plunger gleefully downwards and sent his medicine coursing into my widened capillaries. I closed my eyes and waited for the show to begin. It didn’t take long.
***
What good is a horizon when staring into infinity? Beauty and horror are two sides of the same wheel, and I never knew the quantity of each my soul contained until that day. Even the most perfect face is hideous when magnified a thousand times, where smooth and featureless porcelain becomes a mountain range of bumps, ridges, and troughs.
What is death except the end of life? Every journey must end somewhere, and I travelled many miles without leaving that room. When I bored into my absolute centre and faced the core of my being, deep down in the darkness, I found nothing to fear. Because rats feel no fear. In the mirrored glass of eternity, I stared in silent terror at the ugliness of my reflection and suffered no shame. Because rats do not feel shame. With my foul mouth twisted in a gaping Munchian scream, I described every act of brutality I’d ever committed, and the answering echo brought no guilt. Because Rats do not feel guilt.
***
Despite the nuclear winter of that day, my sanity survived, structurally sound, if not untouched. My mind is a cockroach, which cannot be destroyed by regular means. I told you I was a survivor, didn’t I? I wish I could say the same about Macy.
Drago keeps track of which institution she’s currently gracing, should anyone dare question the foundations on which he’s built his urban legend. She can’t speak a word, but one look into those black lenses tells more of a story than I ever could. I don’t know for certain, but I expect Macy and the Rat were the last junkies who ever dared cross him.
The needle and I no longer speak the same language. I don’t need it because the furthest recesses of despair and highest peaks of amazement are forever locked inside me now—I can visit anytime I want. These days, my poison is basic, like my father’s. I can sit on the street and drink it until I go blue, and nobody bothers me. Besides, it’s the only thing which quietens those fucking dreams. Recently, I’ve seen her a lot. Not Macy, but my sister. She’s waiting for me, forever frozen in childhood, always innocent and untarnished by the layers of dirt which have accumulated on me ever since the day we parted. We’ll meet again soon, I’m positive. She’ll wash it all away and I’ll be clean again.
Next time you pass that untethered spirit, clutching a bottle in gnarled, red-raw hands, and talking to the sky all at once like a sacred friend and infinite nemesis, stop and listen for a moment. There’s honest wisdom down there, inside the immaculate chambers of his hollowed mind. He’s crossed fast-running rivers which swept away better men, miles beyond the safe realms of your pale white life. When he’s descended deep into the vaults of his soul, yet never touched the bottom, nothing can ever hurt him again. They say in London, we’re never more than six feet away.
Joseph always knew he would write seriously one day. That moment arrived in 2020, when his thriving hospitality business was temporarily shuttered. With time on his hands, he quickly fell into an obsession and became a keen student of the craft. Since finding the passion, Joseph can't imagine life without stories rattling around his head. Eager to make up for lost time, he's been fairly prolific, and his short stories have appeared in several anthologies and literary magazines. He has published one novel, the dystopian thriller, Mandate: THIRTEEN, which was released on Jan 10th 2023 via Manta Press. Even better, his rejections are getting nicer by the week! Joseph lives in London with his wife and their Scotty dog.
