Free For Faughie's Sake by Laura Marney Page A

strong healthy young body, his hair shone and his skin was flawless. How did I ever manage to produce such a magnificent creature? And at the same moment I was burning with fury that he would so casually jeopardise this magnificence; throw away his beautiful young life, in a moronic boating misadventure.
    ‘Oh not again,’ he said, wrinkling his nose, ‘I know what you’re checking for.’
    I had no idea what he was talking about.
    ‘Do you indeed, and what’s that then?’
    ‘Tired and irritable, check. Decrease in appetite, check. Poor personal hygiene, check. Dark shadows under the eyes, check.’
    I knew now what he meant, and dreaded what was coming.
    ‘Puncture marks or bruising on the body.’
    At this point he rolled over and held his arms open wide, a Christ figure, showing me his mercifully unbruised, unpunctured arms.
    ‘Not check.’
    I honestly hadn’t been looking for tracks on his arms but he must have seen the relief on my face.
    ‘Ah, but I’ve fooled you. I actually am a hopeless addict.’
    ‘No you’re not.’
    ‘It’s just that I’ve decided to go down the slightly more alternative route of spit meth addiction.’
    ‘Just stop it, Steven.’
    When I’d been a medical rep part of my job was to visit pharmacists. While chatting in the back shop I’d seen plenty of heroin addicts being given their dose, knocking back the little cup of bright green methadone under supervision, but I was shocked to discover what some of them did with it next. Instead of swallowing there and then, some of them walked out the shop, spat it out into another cup, and sold it on for a fiver to someone even more desperate than themselves. It was me who had told Steven about this disgusting spit methadone practice, not for laughs, but to warn him of the indignities of addiction; to frighten him. And now he was trying to frighten me.
    ‘They usually throw in some food particles for free and, if I’m lucky, sometimes a nice chewy bit of phlegm.’
    ‘Right, that’s enough, Steven. I know you’re not an addict, I never said that. So if we’ve established that you’re not hooked on spit meth, why would your irresponsible behaviour be acceptable?’
    ‘Oh just leave it alone, Trixie, will you?’
    ‘Look, I have to live in this town. What are you going to do about the boat you stole? What you think is just a prank is also known as common theft; the owner could press charges. At the very least you’ll have to apologise and make good the damage.’
    ‘The boat is taken care of,’ he sighed. ‘Jackie towed it back from the island with us. I phoned him this morning to apologise and he said he’d returned it to Murdo with a set of oars he has spare. He said Murdo was alright about it, he just laughed.’
    ‘Oh yeah, what a hoot! You could easily have drowned in that drunken state. I could have coped with
you
drowning, Steven –’
    ‘Cheers.’
    ‘– but what would I say to Gerry’s mother?’
    ‘We were fine.’
    ‘So fine that you had to phone Jackie to come and rescue you.’
    My throat closed a little as I said his name. In a life-threatening crisis Steven had thought to phone Jackie instead of me. Jackie rescued him, Jackie supplied replacement oars, smoothed everything over with Murdo. I didn’t even know Jackie’s phone number. Steven had him on speed dial.
    ‘It was getting cold.’
    ‘Exactly; you could have died of hypothermia.’
    ‘Me phoning Jackie, that’s what’s really bugging you, isn’t it?’
    I had to walk out of his room.
    Steven stayed in bed most of the day. The next morning he and Gerry took the early train back to Glasgow. He wasn’t speaking to me. No gossip whatsoever on the burd he’d nipped; no sexual health or relationship advice sought or given, no vicarious thrills for mother. I didn’t even get the burd’s name, but at least Steven and Gerry had made it out alive – not drowned or dead from hypothermia. As a means of enticing Steven to spend his summer with