The Sunken City

Ben lay recumbent, strewn across the balcony, the searing heat of the mid morning sun rousing him. He slowly cleared the crystallised sleep from the corners of his eyes and then picked the crusty globules from his face. Taking a sip of water from the blue plastic beaker, he gazed over the horizon. The lukewarm water was tainted but still welcome by his arid mouth.

He stood almost stumbling and tried a stretch. Aching limbs and tired bones already summoned to life by the ticking clock of withdrawal.. Casting his eyes over the estate and to the humming city before him he mused, for all its misgivings his flat commanded some of the grandest views of the East of Nottingham. Like a bird’s nest etched into the hub of a man made mountain, this was a vantage point over a latter day Gomorra.

He had sometimes forgotten the lonely and wretched path that had led him to this place. The promise he once owned now bespoiled and broken. The semblance of the things that mattered, what mattered? Family, relationships, job, career, self-respect – all turned to ash, but haunting him like shrouds of the angelic smoke of the crack pipe. As God had breathed life into man, turning him from dust, the breath of life was now being sucked out of him. White hot cinders of death from the crack pipe. This was the destroyer of all that is good, Lord Vishnu suspended in chemical terror.

It was 2001, Ben did not know the date and nor did he care. He knew it was summer, as the Sun seemed relentless. Perhaps this was the hottest summer he could remember. The rays beating down hard on the mass of glass and concrete that he had recently moved to. The block was double glazed, South facing – and seemed to amplify the heat to a most unhealthy scale. Although only recently had he left the relative shelter of the fluorescent-strip lit world of Queen’s Medical Centre psychiatric ward it seemed another age ago. The hospital tang, with its cries in the night and biblical pathos now just a dim stain on his memory.

What would have seemed horrendous, terrifying and pathological to Ben time ago had become the mundane, indifferent – even normal.

As he took in breath the stench of the sewage system hit him again – it was in perpetual breakdown as the effluence leaked from the rusty manholes that peppered the complex, like a dreaded skin disease oozing puss The low-rise high density flats where Ben lived were the archetype of all that was wrong with late 1970’s architecture. The utopian yet cheapskate planners had not foreseen the rat run of alleyways, the dealing dens, the drug holes, the mugging traps and dim streetlighting where the girls sold themselves for pitiful wraps of dark and light. The municipal dream of the happy families and communities of workers lodged in the skies, now a nightmare in the future of the now. A future of the workless, the sick, the alcoholic and addicted, the inept and forgotten – the last remaining shop on the Marple Square estate Mr Hassid’s grocery was only surviving because of the pound a bottle cider it sold. This along with a few syrupy super lagers and best dated sherry. The misery fuel of the masses was kept company by lonely cans of Betterware Beans and green loaves.

Before going inside to answer the buzzer of his flat, Ben looked down at the communal gardens and at the few surviving spidery Rhododendrons long wasted with neglect. It amused for a moment to even contemplate that something could still grow, amongst the litter of blue and green plastic Pole Star bottles, discarded syringes, used condoms, tampons and scum.

He went to the door, first checking the identity of his caller. No appointment had been made but when it realised it was Caddy, no explanations were needed. He swiftly unlocked the mortice and then started on the iron gate and chain which had become fashionable, if makeshift DIY accessory in these parts. Money may have been tight, but security was tighter. Afterall, he didn’t want to suffer the fate of his neighbour Kevin the Gerbil, who was still recovering from his head meets metal pipe ‘accident’ of a few weeks ago, when he was careless enough to open his door not only drunk but without checking who his caller was or what was their purpose.

Caddy, was wearing a soiled boilersuit that had become somewhat of a trademark for him. In fact it was rumoured that this was in fact his only item of clothing. It seemed to hang from him like it was welded to his body in some kind of symbiosis. His name was emblazoned on a front pocket in bold red cotton. “Andrew Caddy” just in case anyone, including himself happened to forget it. Ben swiftly released the double locked doors and iron gate to let in the man himself.

“Well, hello there Andy. What you holding today then…….it is after all your giro day, innit?”

Caddy whirled round and plucked from his pockets two one-litre bottles of liquid filth with certain aplomb. Onlookers would have been forgiven for assuming on first glance that it was not the cheapest of the cheap cider but some fine wine or champagne. He unscrewed the top like an artisan at work, first waiting for the hiss and sulphite pong. He forced a retch before taking a long swig.

Now his eyes seemed to dance as the brew worked its unsubtle magic. He crashed on the sofa and grinned, then emptying the contents of a green plastic bag on the coffee table. Two pork pies (both already best before), two tins of Puss-E-Chunk value catfood (presumably a gift for Ben’s cat – but with Caddy you couldn't be sure). Now a bottle of Methadone, four blister packs of Librium, some antibiotics and a half bottle of Commisar Vodka.

He looked for Ben’s reaction then started to say, “Listen Ben, I know you sorted me out last week but….,”. Now he was stumbling, trying to fool Ben into believing he had committed the cardinal sin. Not arriving with some drugs.
Now the showman took over. Like a gentle tramp or gentleman of the road pulling toffees from behind his ears for children in a game, he removed four tiny wraps; two black ones and two a translucent white from the back of his ear. “Surprise!” he shouted as he whipped them into pride of place on the top of the catfood.
“I told you I wouldn’t let you down Ben. It’s giroday and my treat as you treat me on yours..” he paused “and if I were you I’d get one of those porkys down ya…you ain’t had nothing but liquid dinners for days, whilst I load you up a nice fat pipe.”
And thus it went on, a morning of crack, smack, discount vodka and Caddy’s inane banter. As the midday sun span down on them, elevated by the unusual weather to the status of a fiery orb, omniscient and overpowering, choking St Ann’s as the pollutant count rose.

Ben and Caddy sat on half fixed deckchairs on the balcony. The drugs had soon gone, then shortly the vodka – and now all they had was the cheap sulphurous carbonated filth. Ben of course had been trying to negotiate with Caddy over the Methadone. The sickly green substitute would at least keep the wolf from pigs of withdrawal and Caddy duly settled for a crumpled fiver – a bargain for 90ml. His own opiate habit was quite small these days and he only used gear on his (or Ben’s) giro day. “I’m in semi-retirement, these days”, was his stock phrase and he was far too old for this god awful game. Now as the Librium prescription suggested he was dying the slow death of alcoholism. He tossed Ben half a blister pack of six emerald green tabs, “That’s all I can do you.” Ben wasn’t complaining, the chlordiazepoxide tabs would not go as far as the Methadone, but would provide a chemical buffer if things got that bad. Alternatively taken 10-15minutes before mainlining smack, you could get a good gouch, and so good you would almost overdose when mixing the Librium with smack.
As Caddy sipped the last of the acrid cider from the blue plastic beaker he tossed a few of the green tablets down his throat.
“Have you ever seen a summer as hot as this? Have you Ben? – It’s relentless it just goes on and on? It like..What’s that fuckin film with Charlton Heston? The Day the Earth caught fire……….Jesus, wept,” he slavered, cursing at the Sun.
Caddy suddenly became morose and Ben felt the sinking feeling he felt when the drugged oblivion sands ran out and the hourglass of bare time took over. Ben went to fix himself a cup of tea – but found no milk or sugar. Black and as untainted as God intended he thought. As it poured He looked at the pathetic figure of Caddy now slumped on the balcony, thinking on his last words. Jesus would surely weep if he could see us now he thought…………the fun drugs gone and only melancholy for the frozen hours.
After hours of silence, Ben woke Caddy from his torpor, as the light seemed to exit without warning. The rush hour had passed and the sounds of the city now just a faint rumbling, now superseded by the low drone of the police chopper that was an almost permanent feature in the dusky skies over St Ann’s. He helped aid the scrawny frame down the stairwells of the huge pyramidal structure, back to his flat at the bottom end of the complex. Housing over 1,000 tenants Cheverton Court rose up and down over the side of Corporation Oaks hill, where the Severn Trent water tower had been built years before. From the back, it just looked like a four storey low rise – but it was the CCTV camera’s and council signposts etched with broken letters, the high fences and redbrick walls that looked like barricades to keep the people in – all added as an afterthought, a superficial reaction to the crime tsunami that the estate was swept under in. These were the features of Cheverton that made it look like it had been designed deliberately as a bunker for an unnamed war. As he bade farewell to Caddy, making sure both the front door and the iron gate were firmly locked. He walked down the next open stairwell, winding round at the bottom of the flats and walked onto the street.

Street girls trawled the top of Cranmer Street, fishing for their punters. Some of the washing lines of the flats with balconies facing the street festooned with red towels, red panties, and red sheets – advertising that they were ready and willing for business at any price. The inept crime busting endeavours of Nottingham City Council had only served to harbour and breed the very maladies they had been hoped to prevent. Although Ben unquestionably accepted that social deviance was now the social norm, he sometimes shuddered to think that this really was Britain at the turn of the millennium and not some post apocalyptic world conjured from the pages of a dystopian novel.
.
He decided to walk back up along to the top of Cranmer Street and look over the city. For all it’s sins Ben, still loved Nottingham, his adopted home. It was around 10pm and the Victoria Centrre flats were lit up, like a mother greeting the revellers of the still young Friday night with a lantern. Ben thought of taking a walk into the town. He thought of the drunks and the bars, the throng of dance music and the promise of ecstasy like it belonged to another age.
No, he now belonged to the dirty alleys and the dealers waiting on the St Ann’s Chase. The thought roused him and he quickly checked his pocket - £20.40. £20 for one of each, a crumbly piece of Crack Cocaine and a smudgy smear of Heroin, the 40p was just in case he needed to use a call box, just in case there would not be any dealers on the Chase. By the time he got there he was not disappointed, in the dark he could just make out their dark shapes. They called him like shrouds, whispering his name vying for custom. He walked down to the alley at the back of the Catholic Church off Woodborough Rd. It was Pablo, his skin so dark he barely crept out of the masking shadows.
“Good tings, bred. Dis’ bum ting, ya…”
“One D, One W”
“You got money…..yeah twenti.” He took Ben’s notes and added them to his wad with all the skill of a croupier. Then he magically took out the shots from his mouth, took one dark one wrapped in black plastic and another clingfilm wrapped of translucent white.
Ben took them and went to put them in his pocket, but Pablo warned him,”No, in de mouth….bumba clat. Feds about, man. You rarse yout….”
Ben can’t really remember what happened next. In the dark it was so difficult to see, but he’d always remember it. As the tall voodoo man berated him for his folly, Ben thought the idea of putting the tiny wraps in his mouth after they had been in Pablo’s distasteful in the least, an invisible assailant seemed to strike him. Pablo had begun what seemed like a little dance. He screamed and clutched his head, seemingly spinning like a top. Ben was scarred and was walking swiftly to the street and the safety of the corner of Woodborugh Road. Now he remembered that sometime splits seconds afterwards he’d heard what sounded like a whistle and a muffled concussion. He thought about it again and felt s chill. He’d just been witness to one of the notorious yardie gang shootings. No, he thought it seemed more like an air rifle shot. Ben then mused about how close he’d be to Pablo, IT COULD HAVE BEEN YOU seemed to flash across his mind in huge red letters as his heart pumped. He checked his pockets for the tings – always the tings come first no matter what’s happened. Then he ran back to Cheverton Court, trying to conjure a picture of the sniper, who had nestled in the ditch at the back of the Woodborough pub carpark. Man, he needed fat fucking pipe…..
Round the corner of the Catholic Church, a huge black man was scrabbling on the ground. Vying for a sweet revenge on those that had done this. He rose his fist shaking it and calling to his God for vengeance. Instinctively he picked something up, something small dark and bloody. He’d found it – but now what could he do. With rising horror he looked at it in the palm of his hand. It was a piece of his shattered ear.