Dark Dream

8. The Devourer of Souls

It was getting dark and the others had returned. Davo and Spud had finished off the bottle of cheap cider and were getting on like the old times. They planned on going over to the nearest 24-7 to filch themselves a few bottles of Frosty Jack's. It was a mission and something they'd not done for a long time. They both had enough money to buy a big 5Ltr bottle if they had to but free would be better. As Spud liked to say, every little helps....

"Come on Davo, let's leave these bagheads to it. We have bigger fish to fry."

"Hey, watch what you say, old man."

"Rather be old than die young, Marty. At least my drug will only pickle and preserve me for future generations. Listen, give us what's left in that bottle. For the road, like. You won't be needin' it. Looks like you're set for the night. Damned if you'd find me wastin' money on that crap." 

Spud's usually menacing manner now sounded  slightly camp. Davo had heard this before and he sensed that he was taking the piss, but without being too obvious. Marty conceded and threw the remaining dregs at Davo. It sloshed about in the blue plastic bottle. "Anythin' to get rid of you, ya old Pikey. Hope ya choke on it."

"You're a Gent," Spud said, doffing an imaginary hat. 

"Now bugger off and let us get on with it," Marty said, turning and crouching into the loose huddle that had developed. "Alex, go keep an eye out while we sort this out."

"Why me? I did it last time, Marty. It ain't fair."

"Just do it."

Davo and Spud made their leave, as the loose crowd of addicts went through the well practised ritual of cooking their goods on a blackened tablespoon. The needles would appear soon. They'd tie their arms and drift into their own little worlds. Floating, they called it. Stupid, is what Spud called it.

"Knuckle dragging junkies. Cut your feckin' throat for a bag of Brown," Spud muttered, when they were safely out of earshot. "Pimpin' their little bitch asses. It ain't right. Half of 'em ain't even livin' rough, like us. Give us a bad name they do. Thievin' bastards, they need shootin', putting against the nearest wall," and he laughed and the irony of that statement. They were already shooting up against the wall. It's what they did best. Their pointless lives revolved around it. "Tracksuit wearin' Chavs, is all they are," he finished, almost as if he was losing enthusiasm over the matter.

There was a part of him that felt sorry for them. He'd heard some terrible stories from some of them. Stories of abuse and misuse, shame on the world that churned these kids out and left them to go cold in the gutter.

Davo nodded agreement but kept his opinions to himself. He wanted a quiet night of it and didn't want to sour the mood. He didn't point out that they were on a mission to lift some Frosty Jack's themselves, so making them thieving bastards. There was no point. Spud would simply justify himself with some ready-made philosophy which would probably involve Robin Hood and his Merry Men (merry being the operative word in Spud's little tale).

Then Spud seemed to get a second steam. His voice rose into the night sky and the busy streets. From then on, it never faltered as it continued its self-important rant about anything and everything. He wanted the whole world to know his thoughts, whether it wanted to or not. It made him happy, Davo reasoned. He also had to admit that he was good at it too. There must be a place in heaven for people with Spud's skills. He could talk the horns off the Devil himself.

"Watcha, Guv. Spare some change?" Spud said cordially, as he blocked a couple making their way to the next bar or club. "I just need enough to get me home. I've gone and lost my wallet and my little girl's been rushed to hospital. Poor little mite, only a few years old, she is. Gripped with fever and calling for her Daddy, she is. Doctor doubts she'll make it through the night without her Daddy there to pull her through."