The Frontline

iv) The Frontline

St Anns was well renowned in Nottingham as the city's epicentre of drugs and prostitution. But, it had another non-de plume; auspiciously it was known - to those had understanding, as the FRONTLINE

If you talk drug users, almost anywhere in the UK they will probably tell you about similar places - in Bradford, in Glasgow, in Brighton, in Leeds. The notoriety of these places is almost unspoken, but mention such a name and they'll know exactly what you mean.

The terrible truth is that there are districts that law has abandoned and where criminality and vice are legion. Places where even sorrows, even miseries are fatigued. Young women and men sell themselves to the false joys of a life promised by sticky sweet Heroin and chalky white crack. Feral kids run amok, in this – the milieu of the vacant stares and the derelict. Take a walk away from the leafy suburbs, sometimes only streets away and you just might get a glimpse beneath the veil. Peer beneath to see the truth hiding just below the surface of dirty linoleum. Horror hides in the banality of a bus shelter, an abandoned warehouse or a toothless smile.

In London there is Kings Cross – where the dealers blatantly sell their wares, outside the railway station, cashing in on the misery of the sex trade. In Bristol take a walk round St Pauls, or in Birmingham, Balsall Heath. In Nottingham, you’ll find a zone that encompasses the huge red light district - from Forest Road East in Radford, to Sneinton Dale and Cranmer Street. An area that reaches its apex on the Woodborough Road, where punters of all types come in cars - some sleek, some shabby, roaming around these streets – all circling around for prey – for some a fix, some a boy or a girl who can tell? . Society doesn’t care anyway? Maybe if it spread out to middle England, invading the plush homes of leafy Wollaton, the Park Estate or Bramcote they would. But this part of society, so invisible to the untrained eye, but so obtrusive to those within it, it was always left to its own directions, left to fester and to feed.

Back at Ben's flat, now into his third serious nod, the clarion of the buzzer snapped him back to life. The electric horn gave its metallic pulse eking a distinct rhythm like out a code. This was another of the unwritten security measures Ben had implemented to protect his flat. It meant that one of the girls that he knew well wanted entry to the block. Awakened from his gouch (slumber like opiated state), he ran to the front passage and picked up the intercom.
“Its Christie – Ben, let me in! Please…..I’ve got summat for ya..”
He opened the front door with its many locks, but left the iron gate fastened as he watched the stairwell. Listening to Christie’s footsteps, he wanted to make sure there was no one else in tow. As she neared the gate and only when he was sure, did he undo the armoured cable that controlled the gate. Seeing him, Christie smiled. Now Ben grinned to – as he could see that arranged in the corners of her mouth were two dark wraps and two white ones. Surely this was the beam of fortune herself – a modern Fortuna or Tyche with a grubby face come to him in visitation, to release him from the grief of the morning’s sad hours.
Inside the flat Christie pulled out a beautifully formed glass pipe. With consummate care she unwrapped layers of cling film from the rock and the drugs fell out on to the table. As she fired up her lighter, melting a piece of the stone in this crucible, Ben watched her as if in a trance. Soon - but never soon enough, his turn would come. Then the smoke of angels would pack his lungs.

As they rocked and piped, she chatted about the goings on up and down St Anns Chase. They discussed who had the best gear and who had the worst. Then Christie told him more of the world of the street girls. A savage community it seemed for those unlucky enough to count themselves its members. She chatted about the ripoffs, the skanks, the dealers and the punters – and the little tricks they played to make their raises. Ben noticed, her reddened face, the pallor coloured by what looked like recent tears.
“What’s up Christie?” he enquired. A materialisation from crack head to social worker in seconds took place. He felt at once guilty, responsible and concerned.
It turned out that Christie had been staying at Foggo’s yard down on the Square. Things had been good at first, a warm bed, a shower and some company. Foggo was notorious even in this microcosm of notoriety. On the second night she stayed he turned nasty. She’d come back with only one of each and as she showed him her hard won drugs a kind of rage engulfed him. This was simply not good enough; she surely had earned more money than this! He took her things and then searched her. First her clothes and bag, but then still incredulous that she did not have more – he pulled out a bowie knife and forced her to strip. A private place wasn't left unturned and when this didn't produce a drug in sight he beat her. Then she was locked in a downstairs room. Next time she went out she’d owe him triple!
Ben listened to her story with dismay. She showed him the cuts to her body and bruises.
It was only by chance that she’d picked up a punter who was kind and drove away from St Anns whilst she formulated a plan. She needed somewhere safe to shack up and this place it turned out was Ben’s. Thus, the explanation for this impromptu visit. Ben knew what would be coming next.

“Well, Ben” she asked, feigning embarrassment. “Is it OK if I stay for a few nights….I’ll sort you out..You know I will”
Ben knew that this was going to be a real hassle, but on two scores he couldn’t say anything but yes. First the though of her going back to Foggo was appalling. He pictured her chained to a radiator screaming or there were worse things so bad you could scarcely imagine. He could not let her go back. Of course he was painfully aware that underneath good intentions was the primal desire for more drugs. He said yes. This was on the condition that she behaved herself whatever this meant and painstakingly he underlined the fact that he wanted no one - not anyone to be brought round the flat. Secondly her presence was to be kept secret. The last thing he wanted was an agitated Foggo hollering outside his door. Foggo wired on crack with his threats and knives, Foggo sneaking about outside - waiting for his moment to come. Foggo was not to get any information about Christie's whereabouts. That would be - well, not worth thinking about...........