Fin told Judith that he’d heard about his mother’s death and the apartment fire from gossip circulating the Sheriff’s Court waiting room, before being sentenced for shoplifting. He’d been insulated from the impact thanks to a king sized hit of opiates, afforded by using all his remaining stash before getting sent down. This had seen him through the blur of the hearing, the journey to Barlinnie and the now all too familiar strip search when he arrived, though only delayed the inevitable misery of withdrawal on a prison bunk. Anticipating this, a part of Fin hadn’t minded if that little extra in the syringe had finished him off. But, during withdrawal, his consciousness had refocused, as if he were walking out of a mist and into the twilight. Then, the cold, sharp light of reality had caused him to scream out, as if trying to expel his heart. The indecipherable shadow that had accompanied him all the way from the Sheriff’s Court now revealed itself: his mother was dead.

 Following a Methadone assisted withdrawal, Fin had sobbed on his bunk each night, not only in grief, but in shame at the way he’d let his mother down. He’d been determined to make amends and so, upon release, not only had he rescued Danny from Katy’s parents couch, but embarked upon a combination therapy of prescribed drugs to keep himself off the heroin. In the long term, he hoped to become a voluntary counsellor, helping others to quit the habit as well.

 Fin was an advocate of the state providing prescribed heroin for registered addicts. That was the carrot. The stick was that they would have to take the drug under strict supervision in controlled shooting galleries, removing the drug and syringes off the streets, while reducing deaths from overdose. As he argued his case, Judith closed her eyes for a moment and it sounded like Danny talking.

 “Why should I have to pay taxes to pleasure drug addicts?” she protested.

 “If the British Government were to deal directly with third-world producer countries, we’d be spending billions less as a nation than we presently waste through stolen property, police time, courts and prison cells. By cutting out the middle men, we could obtain the opium for a fraction of its street value, so that just several pound a day would sustain an addict, as opposed to the fifty or a hundred pounds a day they must find at present, through shoplifting, purse snatching, prostitution and of course, dealing. Money aside, it would also relieve our justice system, health and social services to perform more efficiently, while making the general population feel safer going about their business…not to mention the good the money would do for societies like Afghanistan…I mean, that’s what our army’s supposedly out there for, isn’t it?”

 “But how can you morally justify feeding our citizens heroin?” Judith exclaimed.

 “The prescribing of the drug must be seen as the beginning of a long term strategy. Once the government has monopolized supply, the criminal networks will dissolve and, with no alternative sources to undermine the project, the health service can start gradually, but compassionately, weaning addicts off.”

 “But then the addicts will just go looking for it on the street again. Once the criminals can see there’s a market they’ll go back to their old ways.”

 “That’s why we have to legalize and nationalise the distribution of all drugs, so that there’s no established cannabis or ecstasy ring that can easily expand back into heroin. And anyway, like I say, you wouldn’t start the weaning process until every last granule of the stuff had been vacuumed up off the streets.”

 “But this ‘weaning process’ contradicts everything you’ve said about saving money. It would become an industry in itself and cost a fortune to administer. Wouldn’t it be simpler to just write the current generation of addicts off as a lost cause and let them live the rest of their lives in peace, enjoying the prescribed opium you talked about? The minute the government withdraws supply you’re going to recreate the very situation we have now. One way or another people are going to find the stuff...you’d have to use really draconian measures to stop it taking grip again and our prisons are already packed. I mean, where are you going to accommodate a hundred and fifty thousand recusant junkies?”

 “We wouldn’t send them to prison. I’m far too liberal a person for that.”

 “Go on?”

 “We’d exile them to Afghanistan.”

 “What?”

 “That’s right. Anyone found in possession of black market heroin, we’d take their passport away and send them out there. If they want to take heroin all day, then who are we to stop them? Likewise, who are they to stop the rest of us living in a civilized society? So, we banish them to Afghanistan and send social security payments each fortnight. That way they can buy as much cheap opium as they like and the drugs never have to leave South-Asia. I’m sure the Afghans wouldn’t complain so long as the money was arriving every two weeks. We could even exchange them for clean living Afghans who want to live in a first world country…I’m serious Judith. Communities like mine can’t expect any quality of life so long as that shit’s on the streets.”

 While talking about heroin, Fin’s eyes sparkled, so much that Judith wondered if the Afghanistan exile idea wasn’t actually some paradise fantasy. Infuriatingly, just as he got into his stride, someone hammered loudly on the apartment’s door. He went out to answer it and Judith heard a familiarly pompous voice invade the hall and grow louder as its owner approached the living room.

 “Ok pin-head, where’s Che Guevara?”

 Bob Fitzgerald appeared in the door frame, his swashbuckling stride broken by Judith’s presence. He was still wearing a white suit and pink silk shirt, only his hair, once so expensively styled, had become a matted, dull brown helmet. Their eyes clashed and she tried to decipher any evil in them, before his gaze swerved and he turned to go, colliding with a trailing Fin in the process. He pushed him aside and carried on towards the bedrooms.

 “Where’s the righteous one, ‘Fin’?”

 Fin chased after him and Judith could hear doors opening and slamming shut.

 “How did you get in the building?” the younger White brother demanded of the imposter.

 “Ah, you can get in anywhere if you look the part…this one is it?”

 “No! You can’t go in there!”

 Judith got up and went over to the hallway where Fin and Bob were jostling for control of Danny’s bedroom door handle. Just then, the door was pulled open from the inside and a scrawny man, with wild curly hair and a bushy beard stood there, naked. Fin and Judith looked away out of embarrassment, but Bob milked the scene with a sly, lopsided grin on his face.

 “Where is she Danny?”

 “You’d better come in,”

 Bob strode into the bedroom and Danny pushed the door shut behind them.

 Back in the lounge, Fin went out onto the balcony to think, allowing the crisp, autumn evening into the apartment. Taking advantage of his distraction, Judith pretended to go to the bathroom, but eavesdropped at Danny’s door instead.

CHAPTER: 7

 “I spent the fortnight consoling her.”

 “Consoling?” Bob quizzed Danny aggressively.

 “Yes. I’d like to have said we consoled one another, but the moment I needed some attention she abandoned me. I’d distracted myself from grief by attending to her problems, then, when I finally cracked and started expressing my own sorrow, she disappeared. I searched for her all week before learning that she’d been evicted from your apartment and gone back to Oxfordshire.”

 “Yeah, that makes sense. Her parents have a big place down there. Right, that’s all I wanted to know.”