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‘I could come and fix it.’

James caught his dad’s eye. He was smiling, but there was a mixture of worry and sadness in his expression. He couldn’t bear the thought of his dad seeing the place where he lived, smelling Davo’s shit, looking at the needles and pill packets that littered the countertops and tables.

‘It’s OK,’ he said. ‘Davo said he’ll get to it.’

‘Davo,’ his dad said. ‘Of course.’

‘He’s all right,’ James said. ‘He’s a good bloke.’

‘Maybe.’ His dad gestured at the sandwich. ‘BLT. Eat something.’

James took a bite. It was good, the bacon salty and rich. He swallowed and then put it down. He felt nauseous.

‘I had a big breakfast.’ He could see his dad’s pain at the lie and he felt an overwhelming urge to get up and run and find some drugs to make it all go away. ‘Dad,’ he said. ‘Really. I did.’

‘It’s OK. How are you?’

‘Good. But the shower – it’s not broken. We don’t have heat. They turned the electric off.’

‘Why?’

‘It wasn’t our fault. We missed a payment. By accident. And now we’re behind and – you know how it is.’

‘You need a bit of money?’

James nodded. ‘For the ’leccy. I’ll pay you back.’

I’ll pay you back. He said it every time they had these conversations, a pathetic formula to cover up the fact he was begging his own father for money to buy drugs and his father was giving it to him so he could check his son was still breathing.

And his dad would always reply the same way, absolve him of his guilt with a simple ‘You don’t have to’.

But this time he looked at him, his eyes narrowing.

‘You can pay me back by stopping taking those damn drugs,’ he said. ‘And coming home.’

James swallowed, his mouth dry. ‘I don’t take them much,’ he said. ‘And I’ll stop soon. This is temporary – I’m having a hard time at the moment. It’s not as bad as you think.’

‘It’s every bit as bad,’ his dad said. He put his hands on James’s. ‘Why do you do it, son? Why do you take them?’

‘Because … because …’ James felt the warmth of his father’s hands on his. ‘It helps. I lost my way a bit, and it helps.’

‘I can help. Mum can help. There’s a way out of this, James. All you have to do is say the word and we’ll be able to get you through this. We can get the right treatment, take care of you at home. You can recover. You can take as much time as you need. You’re still young. You have your whole life ahead of you.’

‘I know. I know. And I will, but …’ But all he could think was I need the prick of that needle and the rush and then the oblivion, everything else is too hard, too damn hard, and I can do that later, recover later, get help later, but now, now I need the needle and the pain to go away and the darkness that follows.

‘You can start to work again. Take your time learning a trade. Become a teacher. Anything. The world is a wonderful place, James. Life is a wonderful gift. Don’t waste yours.’ His dad cupped his chin. His hand was warm. It smelled clean. ‘And I can help you. Come with me and leave that life behind.’

James was gripped by an all-consuming panic at the thought of going with him, of walking away from what he knew, from his friends.

From the next high.

‘Sorry,’ he stammered. ‘Sorry. I can’t. Not now.’

3

He fingered the notes in the pocket of his jeans. Ten twenties; two hundred pounds. It was what his dad normally gave him. They met about once a fortnight, and it was enough to get him through.

And he needed it today. Needed it more than normal after the conversation with his dad.