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entry 58 - 27th February 02
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angela and drugs With the feel of sixty £50 notes in my back pocket, I met up with Angela in town and treated us both to a curry. The first part of the meal was thoroughly enjoyable - both the food and the talk - but as we were reaching the full-up stage she mentioned Tim-tom's apparent hostility towards me and wondered what I'd done to him. I couldn't believe it. I reached across the table and raised her sunglasses.
She moved my hand away and lowered her shades. "I take it you do know he's actually killed somebody," I added. "No he hasn't," she said. I stared at her sunglasses. I hate sunglasses. I hate pretending to see people's eyes. "It wasn't his fault," she eventually added. "He set fire to him," I said, "and watched him burn." She shook her head and made a little huffing noise. She flicked at a piece of chicken on her plate with her fork, then arched it over to one of the little chrome condiment dishes, where she stuck it into a lone cauliflower floret. She looked at the floret, twisting it as she spoke... "Anyway, it wasn't a him, it was a her," she said. I can't remember what I said to that: all sorts of stuff I think; garbled, shocked, pointless probably - but somehow the change in gender of the victim had sent me off on meaningless tangents. I don't know why, but I felt betrayed. That's what must have come across: betrayal. I was blaming Angela for something she knew that I didn't. I felt dizzy. I felt the rush of Tim-Tom's drug coming back at me. I wanted answers, but Angela wasn't giving me any. Eventually I fizzled out. "Tim said you wouldn't understand," said Angela. So I fizzled in again. I told her Tim-Tom was just plain crazy. I said she was in danger from him, more so than ever now she'd told me what she'd just told me. I said it was obvious. Couldn't she see it? He was plain evil. I asked who it was he'd killed, and why he'd killed her. She said she didn't know. I said whoever it was had obviously been brainwashed by him, but Angela simply didn't react: I was kicking against air.
And this is the weird bit, because just holding the matchbox had a massively calming effect on me. I opened the little cardboard drawer, looked at the coarse green powder inside, and suddenely felt bouyed up. I was in freefall. "Tim said you'd want some more," she said. "He mixes it up himself. It's called 'juice'. The only ingredient I can remember is called Jimson Weed, but there are lots of others too. I can't take it myself, it does horrible things to my mind, it makes me want to do horrible things. Tim says it doesn't mix with methadone. He said you'd understand." As we were leaving Angela told me that Tim-tom was going to be in Norwich all day on Friday week, and suggested that - if the weather was nice - we could meet on the beach. You bet. But tonight's tonight, and tomorrow I buy a helicopter. Right. Where's my pipe?
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"It's
more like what he's done to you," I said.
When
I finally fizzled out again Angela asked me if I'd finished the drug Tim-Tom
had given me, and, to cut a long story short, she handed me a matchbox
full of the stuff.
