Free Nobody True by James Herbert Page A

punish the carpet.
    “Ollie, I’m not calling you anything. Look, let’s just ease up, give ourselves a break. Maybe carry on early tomorrow morning after a good night’s sleep.”
    “Fuck you,” he said, reaching behind him for his cigarettes on the bureau top.
    As he looked away I suddenly remembered why that wildness in his eyes had seemed familiar. Without another word, I rose and strode towards the shared bathroom.
    Cigarette halfway to his lips, he noticed I’d left my chair. “Where the fuck are you going?” I heard him say.
    Ignoring him I went into the bathroom and did not bother to close the door behind me. A black-marble shelf containing two basins ran beneath the full length of the long wall mirror and I squatted so that its surface was at eye level. I moved over to the second basin, studying the smooth, flecked marble beside it and saw exactly what I feared might be present: a small amount of scattered granules of fine powder and smears where Oliver had gathered up some of the residue with a damp finger to wipe into his gums.
    Just to make perfectly sure, I licked the tip of my own finger and dabbed it on the hard marble surface, then tasted it. Although rarely one for any kind of drugs, I had tasted cocaine before, and this was the real McCoy. Oliver was doing blow again.*
    *Sydney had taught me how to spot this years ago when we first suspected Oliver was a user. Unlike the cokeheads and their habits you might see in Hollywood movies, addicts who bend over glass tables or flat mirrors to snort cocaine, one finger closing a nostril while the other provides passage to the nose’s inner membranes, leaving a slight residue of fine powder like dandruff on a dark suit, coke is never wasted this way. It’s too expensive to leave even the smallest spillage. No, true addicts will always tongue-damp a finger so that it picks up whatever’s left. They will either lick their finger again as though it was some kind of narcotic lollipop, or will rub the substance into the gums. Where drugs are concerned there is no wastage. Doesn’t happen.
    I stormed from the bathroom to confront my friend.
    “You silly bastard!” I told him.
    His turn to freeze for a moment. The flame from his lighter hovered a couple of inches away from the cigarette, then was extinguished without completing the job. He glared back at me, but said nothing.
    “You told us you were finished with drugs. Didn’t you learn your lesson last time?”
    “All right, all right, okay, okay. So what if I am back off the wagon? Where’s the harm?”
    “It nearly broke the partnership before!”
    “You remember what Sinatra said: A nip every now and again pulls you through the day.”
    “I saw the movie; he was talking about booze, for fuck’s sake.”
    “Same thing, chum.”
    “The hell it is.”
    “Same thing and no hangover.”
    “It’ll ruin you.” I shook my head in dismay.
    “So will constant work overload. Besides it sharpens me up.”
    “Sometimes,” I told him, “it makes you think the crappiest idea is awesome.”
    “Hey, I give you good copy.”
    “No, Oliver, you don’t. Trouble is, you don’t know it when you’re high. Don’t you remember how strung out you were before?”
    “You’re exaggerating, chum. I can handle it.”
    “Don’t fucking call me chum.” Maybe it was the “chum” usage that made me a little bit cruel. “You lost Andrea, remember that?”
    I didn’t like the dark grin he gave me. Nevertheless, I softened my tone.
    “You promised you’d quit, Oliver. You’re letting us all down, but mostly yourself.”
    “Ah, fuck it!” An ugly snarl accompanied the curse. “It’s my problem, not yours.”
    “No, it’s our problem. We’re the ones who have to deal with it.”
    Anger spoiling his good looks, he jumped to his feet, shoving the lighter back into his pocket and tossing the unlit cigarette onto the carpet.
    “You know what you can do with the agency.”
    “Hey, c’mon.” Even though I