by R E Swirsky
CHAPTER 5
Thursday 19:55 Calgary, Alberta, Canada (one day earlier)
In all the times that Willard Mahoney and Garrod Shaw both frequented the Ogden house over the past few weeks, only once had they interacted or spoken face to face. And that short discussion amounted to a total of three words Thursday evening, before the two of them disappeared unnoticed into the back of the house.
Willard Mahoney wasn’t his real name. He had sported so many names over the years; his real name seemed a distant memory. Appearing forgettable and insignificant was how Willard always operated: he liked to appear like a dirty, unkempt addict living life lower than any stray dog. Those who could own up to remembering him later, if asked, would have said he was nothing more than a drifter—another street person who strayed into the neighbourhood for a few weeks and then moved on.
Most times, he would slip away into some dark corner after purchasing a fix of some sort. Soon he would let his eyes close and his chin drop to his chest. He’d maintain that pose as the hours passed. This was how he wanted the people inside to remember him.
He rarely used the drugs he purchased. He could tolerate the weed and still maintain his focus, but taking other drugs was always a hit and miss on how far from reality he would recede. The purchase he made upon entering each time was just for show, a pretence to complete the deception. After a few hours of motionless, intent listening, matching voice to conversation, he’d perk up and lift his head, only to steal a glimpse of the face behind a voice of interest. Sometimes, as the crowd emptied out he’d perk up again and smile at one of the working girls who crawled in after the streets rolled up. A short conversation and exchange of goods was usually followed by fucking the hell out of her in some back room. Every man has his needs.
Shaw’s anxiety remained as Willard led him inside the small bedroom in the back of the house.
Willard closed the door and turned the lock, ensuring they would not be disturbed until the transaction was completed. He sat on the edge of the bed, pushed up one sleeve and revealed a reddened, slightly swollen forearm interlaced with the recognizable track marks sported by all frequent users. Shaw sat down in a wooden chair opposite the bed. He seemed unfazed by the condition of Willard’s arm.
Most of the damage on both of Willard’s tattooed arms was self-inflicted—a quick gnawing and rubbing a few hours earlier brought out the redness. Monthly poking at the surface of his skin made it bleed and scab over and gave the appearance of repeated needle use.
Small empty glass vials, tiny plastic bags, numerous clumps of burnt tin foil, and ashes were scattered on the dresser and floor of the tiny room. A plastic garbage bin rested next to the door. “NEEDLES GO IN HERE!” was scrawled across it in black felt marker. It was if anyone who entered the room either couldn’t read or purposely ignored the instruction, as two recently used needles remained on the dresser and one rested on the floor next to the bin.
Willard knew the risks and had participated numerous times over the years. But he was careful—always extremely careful.
Shaw shifted on the wooden chair next to the bed and a half-smile crossed over his lips as Willard pulled out not one, but two of the small bags from his jeans. A side profile of a naked breast with the words “DAMN HOT” underneath was stamped onto each bag. He tipped both dimes of the white powder into a small square of tin foil he had shaped into a bowl and dribbled in a small amount of water. He began to heat the mixture with his lighter until it began to bubble on the edges.
Shaw licked his lips and rubbed one hand over the other.
It was ready. Willard pulled a Q-tip from the box on the bedside table, rubbed the fuzz off one end, rolled it into a tight ball between his fingers and dropped it into the mixture. He immediately set the syringe atop the fuzzy ball, pressing down lightly as he drew back on the syringe handle to draw the amber-coloured liquid up through the cotton and inside the syringe.
Willard cleared his throat once and lifted the needle up in front of his face. He gave one short push to bleed out the air, clenched his fist multiple times to pump out a vein, and jabbed the needle into his arm. He drew back briefly on the syringe until he saw blood—the only sure way he knew he had hit a vein, and then continued with a slow steady push until all of the toxin was released into his body.
“Oh man,” Willard uttered. He hadn’t felt a rush this strong since the Halifax job two years ago. The immediate sensation of floating and nausea came hard and fast. He wanted to throw up, and chomped down, holding back against the impulse. He knew the nausea would pass in a few moments, and when it did the rocket ship named euphoria would blast off, taking him up to a place where the air thinned out.
Shaw couldn’t wait any longer and plucked the syringe from Willard’s fingers.
“New needle,” Willard whispered and pointed limply at the box of needles resting on the nightstand next to the bed. The drug was stealing him away and he struggled to maintain focus. He hoped he hadn’t overdone it.
Shaw ignored Willard and pressed the same needle back down onto the cotton ball.