Free Cold Steel by Paul Carson Page B

all. A bit of scag and a ton of bakin' soda.'
    Kelly had been sold the hitter's nightmare: white powder containing about three per cent heroin and the rest sodium bicarbonate.
    'Did ye see the sight of him?' said Narko. 'He's on his way out. No point wastin' good scag on him, he's headin' to the moon big time.'
    Jimmy whined. 'He'll fuckin' kill me when he finds out.'
    Narko grinned and a mouth of rotten teeth showed. 'Don't worry, Jimmy, I look after me customers, don't I? Micko doesn't look like he's gonna be a big spender much longer. Time to find new markets, time to look for new clients.'
    Weasel-faced Jimmy loved that sort of talk, it made him feel important, like a real businessman. He smiled. The smile didn't improve his looks. Then he remembered the knife and began worrying. The smile disappeared. 'I'm tellin' you, that's one mean bastard. He'll come after us when he finds out.'
    Narko spat onto the footpath. 'Fuck him, let him try.'
     
     
    Kelly barely made it back to his room, passing three other junkies along the corridors eyeing him up and down, wondering whether he was 'carrying'. They let him pass as he started to heave and vomit. Inside he flushed tap water into one of the syringes he'd pulled out of the waste bin, trying to clean dried blood away. The urgency of the fix took over and he pulled the brown paper bag from under his waistband and set up a hit. His hands shook violently. He sensed within minutes Jimmy and Narko had sold him shite.
    'The fuckers, the fuckers. I'll kill the bastards.' But the pains were coming fast, his head was already covered in sweat so Micko pulled all the syringes out of the waste bin and set up as many fixes as he could. He knew there was some scag in the powder and knew he hadn't the strength to look for more.
    One by one seven syringes full of a dirty-looking fluid disappeared into a vein, the only one that hadn't collapsed. He staggered over to the hand basin to splash water on to his face and glanced into the broken mirror. His dank hair was soaked, his face drawn, his eyes showed a tinge of yellow behind the bloodshot veins.
    He felt awful. He looked a wreck. He cursed viciously and angrily, swearing he'd kill Jimmy and Narko when he had strength back. He even sat down and chose a wide-bladed knife, practising his lunges on the mattress. Stuffing began falling out.
     
     
    'That looks like him, righ' enough.'
    At police headquarters a photofit image was shaping up. The pizza delivery boy was being made to feel as important as he ever would in his life, sitting at a desk surrounded by seven of the investigating team while the many variations of a face were offered.
    'Nah, not that, thinner,' or 'Yeah, that's good, maybe longer hair,' and 'Ah Christ, nah. Nah, not like that at all. Nah, it was more like above his left eyebrow, know worra mean?' A nicotine-stained finger shot up to the exact spot above his own eyebrow. The smell of cooking fat and the slow, deliberate way he was milking the occasion irritated. Behind his back a fist threatened to take his head off at the shoulders.
    'Have yiz a fag?' A reluctant and begrudged Sweet Afton was offered and the full packet taken. 'I think we're gettin' there,' proclaimed the delivery boy as he lay back in his chair, blowing smoke rings into the air. 'I think we're gettin' there. Defin'ly.' He grinned at everyone. 'Defin'ly.'
    Just after eight thirty the final image was faxed to the news desk of the national television station in Donnybrook on the southside of Dublin. Page two of the fax contained a detailed description. As the delivery boy made his way back on to the streets, fifty pounds richer for his efforts, the editor of the Nine O'Clock News set aside an extra three minutes for the murder report to include the photofit picture and description.
    'Are you absolutely sure about this?' she double-checked with Jim Clarke over the phone.
    He sensed her concern, acutely aware that on one previous occasion a photofit had been