Free Acid Lullaby by Ed O'Connor Page A

fucked-up minds over this one. He’d been tempted to try it himself after hearing the rave reviews but he wasn’t that stupid: not anymore.
    Stark approached the Car Wash through the broken down buildings that had once been RT Plastics. The machines had long since been stripped away and even the glass had been taken from the windows. The derelict premises provided a secure, invisible route to the Car Wash. Stark waited inside the building and stared out intently into the darkened courtyard. He was expecting a couple of punters but none had arrived yet. He pulled up a wooden crate and sat down.
    The rain grew heavier and rushed against the corrugated iron roof. Stark cursed quietly. Rain wouldn’t deter the smack-heads but it would definitely put off the fair-weather middle class dope fiends. A shape moved outside in the yard. Stark caught his breath and strained his eyes for some point of recognition. The shadow moved closer: it was a man, hunched against the cold and rain. The figure found shelter in a dry corner of the yard and lit a cigarette. Stark recognized the gaunt face that was briefly illumined by the flash of match light.
    ‘Bernie,’ he called to the burning cigarette end. The glowing tip turned in Stark’s direction and, after a moment of evaluation, moved soundlessly towards him. Stark pushed open what had once been a fire exit from the plastics factory and ushered the shadow inside.
    ‘Jesus, I’m cold,’ said the figure.
    ‘You and me both, Bernie.’
    Bernie’s sunken eyes fixed him for a moment. ‘It’s different. I’m freezing from the inside out. Thank God for cigarettes.’
    ‘They’ll be the death of you, Bernie.’
    ‘Don’t make me laugh.’
    Stark watched as Bernie reached inside his duffel coat and withdrew a small roll of notes. He placed it between them on the crate. Bernie’s hand was small and scarred. It looked like a claw. Stark picked up the cash and counted.
    ‘What’s this, then?’ Stark waved the roll at Bernie.
    ‘What does it fucking look like?’
    ‘There’s forty quid here. That’s not even half a measure.’
    ‘So give me half a measure.’
    ‘I don’t deal in halves, mate. It ain’t worth my time.’
    ‘Course it is. Just cut the stuff.’
    ‘I’m a businessman, Bernie. This is not a bleedin’ soup kitchen. A measure is a hundred notes. It’s the lowest unit of currency. You’ve never heard of half of half a “p” have you?’
    ‘It’s all money isn’t it? Just take the money and give me your shit.’
    Stark thought for a second: business was quiet and he doubted whether there’d be many more paydays in Bernie. He didn’t normally make exceptions but the poor bastard was half-dead already. He might as well squeeze the last drop of blood out of the stoned.
    ‘All right. Make it fifty quid and I’ll sell you half a measure. I’m not gonna lose money over you.’
    Bernie pulled a damp tenner from his back pocket and tossed it over. ‘That’s my dinner.’
    Stark smiled as he opened his rucksack and reached inside. ‘As a connoisseur, Bernie, you’ll appreciate this.’ He withdrew a small plastic envelope containing the heroin and handed it over. ‘This stuff is vintage.’
    ‘It’s probably flour, knowing you.’ Bernie snatched the envelope and, coughing horribly, hurried towards the door.
    ‘Pleasure doing business with you,’ Stark called out after him.
    ‘Go fuck yourself.’ Bernie crashed the door behind him and shuffled out into the rain.
    Stark flattened out the five ten-pound notes Bernie had handed over and then inserted them neatly into his wallet.
    An hour passed slowly. The rain showed no signs ofabating. Stark was down to his last two cigarettes. This was the shittiest part of the job: the waiting around. Dealing with junkies was miserable enough but waiting for them to appear was downright depressing. At midnight Stark decided to pack up. He called a minicab company on his mobile and arranged to be picked up at the