Poster Boy, page 26
Cole returned from his chat with his wife, looking even more downtrodden than before. Heath left us alone, after reassuring Cole there was plenty of time to sway the tide yet. We didn’t fuck that night. I lay awake next to the restless PM with my mind racing.
The resistance needed to do something heinous.
Was he right? We needed to make a statement, and to do that we needed to grab attention. The way things were going, Cole would just fizzle out and be replaced. But that wasn’t good enough. Unless we made an example, put the real truth out there for everyone to see, then his successor could be worse. We had to be ruthless. We needed Cole to go out with a bang, not a whimper. I needed to get him back on top, then bring him crashing down.
But how?
That was when, for the first time in her miserable life, Rosa managed to time things perfectly.
19
ROSA
The first night I took G-Star I wept with happiness. Ted was wrong. It didn’t take my mind away from things; it changed my perspective on them.
It was like turning the dial on a kaleidoscope. All the elements remained the same but, as the light shifted, the pieces moved and the patterns became beautiful. Jimmy was still dead. But, instead of mourning that fact, I was moved to tears by the knowledge he had truly lived. I knew now how he had felt just before he died, and it was glorious. No fear, no pain. Just a euphoric sense of unity and peace with the world around him. Suddenly I felt I understood him, was one with him again. I had no more anger at his stupidity, because it didn’t seem stupid anymore.
Everyone else worked, worried, scrabbled for a future that would never be, could never be, as wonderful as this feeling. What good was a career, a family, money in the bank, if it couldn’t get you anywhere close to this nirvana? Long, healthy, conformist lives ended every single second with their owners never having felt this pure bliss. I had been the ignorant one.
Topped on G-Star, I was finally peaceful. I cried sweet, sharp tears in Ted’s arms as I described my life, and Jimmy’s, as I now saw them. We laughed, we danced, we fucked. I didn’t feel hung up about my body, or about what our physical actions meant. Because I finally got it. There was no more yesterday, and tomorrow may not come. Nothing meant anything, and that was true freedom.
The only problem I had left was the comedown.
When I woke from the dreamless sleep that came after the high, it was like I’d fallen asleep wrapped in the silk sheets of an emperor’s palace and woken in a gutter. All the things that seemed so sure, so certain, now filled me with doubt and guilt again. The notion that Jimmy had died in bliss seemed moronic. The cold, hard reality of unyielding tarmac and severed flesh beat at my brain. My body didn’t feel lithe, slender, and gorgeous any more. I looked down at my pudgy waist and stubbly legs and felt a hot flush of shame. God, what must have I have looked like naked? What must Ted think? Did I even use protection? The reality of my choices was too heavy, and embarrassing, to bear.
The only way out of the mire was to take more. Ted was happy to oblige.
I got hooked on G-Star about two months before it officially became illegal. Which is just my luck. Nothing was ever said in the press about Jimmy’s little habit, but the loopholes that allowed SIGHs to fly under the radar of classification were quietly closed. Ironic, really. If Jimmy hadn’t been topped he’d never have taken that dare. Hell, Kinga never would have dared him in the first place. G-Star use saved Cole’s life. If anything, the drug was more the hero of the hour than Jimmy was. Yet the ERP cracked down nonetheless.
It wasn’t any harder to get, so the supply was still plentiful. But its sales couldn’t go through the books anymore. And I became a criminal overnight. I didn’t equate the two things at the time (I was perpetually topped) but the phasing out of cash as legal currency forced more and more illegals into the, now criminal, SIGH trade. You couldn’t buy SIGHs legally. You couldn’t buy anything legally if you didn’t have a chip. Even Ted had to get one of those scanners to avoid prosecution. You couldn’t get a bank account without a chip, so cash was the only thing you could deal in.
Needless to say, there was plenty of cash coming in and out of the bar. We became a dealership, not just for SIGHs but also for all illegal goods. Anything purchased with cash was ‘black market’, so it wasn’t long before illegals were swapping drugs for food. Suddenly the kitchen, which had once been bare save for a few pot noodles and a lump of mouldy cheese, was stocked high. Ted bought foodstuffs legally, under the guise of being a pub-restaurant, and traded them for SIGHs or cash (with which to buy more SIGHs). We sold G-Star over the counter, scanning customers for the cost of a round of beers. It didn’t matter that we were recording more pints than were sold; the regulars drank enough for free to cover the difference.
Somewhere, in my addled consciousness, I believed we were being altruistic. The illegals needed food, and we were giving them a way to obtain it. It was exploitation of course, but that’s what the world turns on. The irony was that, for the most part, the illegals themselves didn’t use SIGHs, yet they were the driving force behind the booming drug trade. Off they went with their boxes full of potatoes and meat to feed their children, leaving us legal patriots to throw away our privilege on fleeting highs.
I had become the very thing Jimmy told me not to. A fuck-up. And I didn’t care.
Weeks turned to months. Little white G-Star pills turned to dirty syringes full of Krenom. Principles and plans turned to ‘Who did I fuck last night? Shit. Gimme another hit.’
The time for me to take up my place at university came, and went. I vaguely remember glancing at the nicotine-stained calendar on the wall, where I had circled 12th September in red biro, as Ted pulled the tourniquet tight and shot liquid heaven into my veins.
I existed in an endless cycle of injecting, topping out, crashing and injecting again. Ted and I were running the bar, somehow, and even making a tidy profit. Not that we saw any of it, unless you count that fleeting moment where you watch the amber liquid disappear into your skin.
The world was moving outside our walls, and I was glad not to be a part of it. My Shades stopped working and I didn’t even care. Occasionally a regular would tell me they’d seen my mum on TV again, promoting some cause. I would just shrug and walk away.
And so life continued, month after month, hit after hit.
You should never let someone shoot you up if they’ve taken their hit already. That’s topping 101. And it’s a decent rule to live by. Trouble is, like all decent rules, it goes out the window when you’re high. Why would you be shooting up when you’re already topped? Because you’re a fucking addict.
We were going for a double-hitter, me and some guy whose name I can’t remember. I’d shot him up with Krenom, but he was having a little problem in the trouser department. In our drugged haze we both agreed that a second shot was what was needed to raise the beast. The last thing I remember about that evening was him kneeling between my legs, pushing the syringe into my thigh.
I woke up three days later to the sound of beeping machines and the feeling of choking. Panicked, I clawed at my throat.
Someone in the blinding brightness of the room rushed over. “It’s okay, sweetie, it’s just the breathing tube. Hold on.”
Her name was Sadie, it said so on her nurse’s ID. I remember because I was in the unusual state of sobriety. She calmly explained to me why I was no longer in the dark comfort of my room. I had overdosed, nearly died in fact. That didn’t overly bother me. What bothered me was that I wasn’t topped. Reality with all its floodlit sharp edges was inescapable. For now.
“I know it’s a shock,” she continued. “Just rest and take deep breaths, hon. I can give you a while to come to, but there’s a lot of people waiting to hear how you’re doing.”
A lot of people?
“Like who?” I croaked.
She smiled, “Your boyfriend for one, he’s been hanging round the whole time.”
“I don’t have a boyfriend.”
“Oh,” she said. “My mistake. Well, whoever he is he sure cares about you. He’s the one that called the ambulance, said he found you alone and unconscious in your room. Tall guy, really tall… wavy hair.”
“Ted?”
“Yeah, that’s it. Ted. He’s around somewhere.”
Ted had called the ambulance? So that fucker who shot me up must have done a runner when it went wrong… I wondered if he’d banged me first. I thought about tracking him down, then I realised I didn’t have the faintest clue who he was. That should have made me reassess my life, but it just made me want a hit.
“Send him in?” I asked. “Please?” He might have some SIGHs in his pocket.
“In a while, my lovely. For now it’s next of kin only I’m afraid. Your mother’s frantic, you know.”
Oh, fuck. My mother.
“There’s also police, and press. But we won’t let them near you until you’re up to it, okay?”
Police and press? I’d never be up to that. I should have known. When you’re Jimmy Lincoln’s sister you can’t fuck up privately. I wished Ted had never called the ambulance.
20
TERESA
“Hey, Jinks, you’ll never guess who’s in a coma.”
Greyson interrupted my train of thought. I was grateful. I’d been back and forth over my conflicting problems (what Gridless ought to do, and what Cole ought to do) for hours, and neither of my identities had come up with a solution.
“Dunno,” I sighed. “Hit me.”
“The Lincoln girl.”
“No shit?” I hadn’t thought about Rosa in months, years probably. “How?”
“ODed. Krenom apparently. Would you fucking credit it? After everything we did for her and her family. Some people just don’t appreciate what they’re given.”
I should have predicted it. I knew she was weak. I guess it made sense; she’d crumbled under the weight and turned to drugs. I don’t know why I felt a small prick of shock. Somewhere, in the back of my mind, I’d assumed she’d have got past it all by then. Gone back to who she always would have been, got herself back on the middle-class treadmill. She hadn’t been on our radar; there’d been no more need to keep tabs on her. She’d been hiding from the public eye ever since the interview. Which suited the PIDs fine. She didn’t come across well. The mother had kept herself in the media, and that was enough.
“What’s the prognosis?” I asked.
“Dunno,” Greyson said. “But the vultures are gathering outside the hospital. Mills is debating whether we need to get involved, if she wakes up that is. She’s not exactly got the best track record on camera.”
“She won’t want to give an interview. Put her under protection, keep them away. Let the mother do the statements. She’s more… predictable.”
“Sounds like a reasonable plan. But we’ll wait and see what Mills thinks, shall we?” There was a sharp edge to his tone that unnerved me a little. Come to think of it, his attitude had been getting colder for a long time. I assumed he’d found a fuck buddy. Men are usually only respectful to their female colleagues if they’re trying to sleep with them. “Don’t forget, you’re not supposed to have anything to do with Rosa. After your cock-up.”
“That was years ago,” I snapped. “It’s not relevant now.”
“Yeah. Funny how some people can’t let go of the past, isn’t it?”
I could tell he was being deliberately cryptic, but I didn’t give enough of a shit about whatever whiny point he was trying to make to bother figuring it out. Probably implying the same as Heath had, that I was a one-trick pony. I’d had one big success with the Jimmy spin and now I was resting on my laurels. Given that the whole point of being a PID was to help Gridless from the inside, I didn’t care what either of them thought about my job performance.
I tried to concentrate on whatever shitty report it was I was supposed to be working on. But I couldn’t get Rosa out of my mind. I was curious. She’d been a petulant, idealistic rebel without a cause, or spine, last time I spoke with her. Then we destroyed her. She didn’t have the spunk to come back fighting. Not enough guts to actually stand up, join the resistance. But… clearly not superficial enough to just take the money and run into a life of comfortable mediocrity like I thought she would.
Something had screwed her up so bad she wanted to escape reality. Losing her twin? Maybe. Losing her friend? Possibly. Family breakdown? Highly likely. But… maybe. Maybe it was more than that. Maybe it was losing her integrity. She was self-indulgent enough to hold her own values in high esteem. The type of person who has the luxury of not having to worry about basic needs, so laments their principles and reputation.
Maybe she still felt the way she did back when I scared her into silence.
And now she was back in the public eye.
Which meant the whole Jimmy story would be too.
Then it hit me.
Maybe I was a one-trick pony, but what if one trick was enough?
Mills and Greyson were getting cosy down the hall. I grabbed my cup and headed to the water cooler so I could listen in.
“Well,” Mills was saying, “the latest from the hospital is that she’s likely to make a full recovery. So I think your plan is the way to go, Greyson. We’ll station a couple of officers with her, keep the media away. Mrs Lincoln will read any script we give her.”
Slimy bastard.
I downed my water and told Belinda I was taking an early lunch. My heart was racing as I strode through the corridors, trying to keep my exterior looking calm. On the inside, my brain was in overdrive, spinning so much my thoughts came in echoes. Pennies dropped so fast it felt like the jackpot.
Once outside, I called Kyle on the secure connection Greg had set up for us.
“Kyle, I want the Lincoln girl.”
“Well, thanks for sharing, Terri. But I’m not interested in your libido.”
“I’m fucking serious. We need a van on standby, and at least five, maybe six, recruits… with guns.”
“What the fuck are you on about? Is this a wind-up?”
“No, this is what you’ve been waiting for. This a fucking call to arms.”
21
ROSA
I never did get another hit.
The three days I was in hospital (well, the three days I was conscious for) were abysmal. Not only did I have to put up with my mother – who played the concerned, harrowed parent whenever anyone else was in the room, but turned on the blame and anger when we were alone – but there was also the knowledge that my relative anonymity had come to an end. I had propelled myself, and Jimmy, back into the headlines. And all this on top of withdrawal.
Mum forbade Ted from entering my room, which meant the only way I was ever going to make this need stop was to get discharged. Her endless chiding would have been bad enough if I was high. Having to listen to her while every cell in my body itched and crawled was intolerable.
I was relieved when they stationed a PID officer in my room on the second day. Sycophantic Mother was irritating, but preferable to the constant renditions of, “How could you do this to me? To your brother? You are just so selfish!”
I’d been under the mistaken impression that it was my veins that had been shot up with enough SIGHs to slay a small whale. Me that been clinically dead on arrival and was now going through the physical hell of recovery. But seemingly this was nothing compared to having to sit by my bedside, keep her make-up camera ready and shake hands with well-wishers.
I was at least glad that the PIDs had decided I was not to give interviews. But it soon emerged that I only had two less than desirable choices if I was going to get out. The first was to check into a rehab centre. The second was to go home with Mum.
“Well, of course she’s coming home with me,” Mum said when the PIDs, in collusion with the doctors, ran through my options. “I’ve made up the spare room for you, darling. You come back to me and we’ll put all this behind us and work on getting you fit and well again.”
I opted for rehab. Truth be told, I thought I had more chance of making a break for it, and getting my hands on some Krenom, if I was surrounded by highly trained drugs experts and 24-hour security than if I was under Mum’s regime. She wasn’t impressed. But the PIDs told us they had been authorised to cover the cost of the best care available, in deference to Jimmy’s service to our country.
She started to picture the media mileage she could get out of my little habit. Now she could be a spokesperson for parents of recovering drug addicts, as well as the mother of a national hero. That’s double the charity functions and committees.
I couldn’t care less what she did. I just wanted out. So I played the game. Professed my desire to stay clean, swore that I had learned a valuable lesson. I had, but not the one they thought. I would never again let a topper shoot me up. I signed the papers and committed myself to a stay in rehab. I’d happily sit around singing songs, sharing platitudes. I’d follow twelve steps. Hell, I’d take any steps they decreed, because eventually they’d lead to my next hit.
“We’ll take you out through theatres,” the smiley PID officer whose name I couldn’t be bothered to learn said. “There’s an ambulance waiting out back to transport you to the centre. Less conspicuous that way than in one of our cars.”
I just shrugged. Didn’t matter to me. So I was going to be led out the back, past the festering waste in the clinical bins, and ushered away discreetly. Whatever. Just so long as I was inching closer to freedom.
Officer Smiley accompanied me in the back of the ambulance. Thank God my mother didn’t come too; she’d never have been off the screen again if she’d been on that trip. The PIDs felt it would be a good diversionary tactic to have her exit at the front of the building, giving the impression I was staying in.
