Junkie Love by Phil Shoenfelt Read Free Book Online

glow.
    “C’mon, let’s go get something to eat — I’m starvin’, an’ I know this great little Italian restaurant just down the road. C’mon, I’ll treat you, it’s your reward for helping me clean this mess up … and don’t worry, I’ve got loads of money right now — Julia fronted me some until I get things sorted out.”
    I didn’t mention that I’d had some other type of reward in mind, but as we walked down the stone steps of the crumbling old terrace block, I tried putting my arm around her waist in such a way that the gesture could be interpreted as either romantic, or as a sign of protective and caring friendship. At any rate she didn’t resist, and as we continued down the street she drew closer to me and soon put her arm around my waist also.
    We spent a couple of hours in this restaurant, getting quietly drunk on red wine and talking, once again, about everything that had happened to us since the last time we’d met. With her skin bathed in soft colours from the candlelight, and with her eyes shining, Cissy began to get sentimental about her ex-boyfriend, pleading his case and making excuses for his craziness.
    “He’s not a bad guy, really, just a bit fucked-up — but then so am I, so are you, it just comes out in different ways with him, that’s all. It’s to do with his mother — she went off with some other bloke when he was a kid an’ left him with his grandmother for her to bring up, more or less abandoned him. He’s even told me, sometimes, that no woman could ever hurt him as much as his mother did, an’ it’s really hard to get through to his feelings, he’s so closed. But I managed to, an’ really, underneath it all he’s a sweetheart, honest.”
    The thought that this wreaker of chaos was a “sweetheart” with a sensitive soul was faintly comical to me (especially when I thought of the axe embedded in the wall), but I managed to keep a straight face, and nodded understandingly. I didn’t wantto spoil the mood by being cynical, or getting into a pointless argument over some guy that I hoped was off the scene for good. But I was feeling more and more protective towards Cissy, and undeniably jealous whenever she mentioned her ex. I changed the subject each time she did, and endeavoured to keep her talking for as long as possible so that I could miss the last train home and hopefully get an invitation to stay the night.
    As we walked back together, through the streets and alleys of Bloomsbury and King’s Cross, with the high Victorian towers of St. Pancras silhouetted against a full orange moon, I put my arm around her once again, allowing my fingers to brush lightly against the smooth skin of her exposed midriff. This time, she pressed up really close to me, and I was more than pleased when she invited me back to the flat for coffee and to smoke a joint. I certainly wasn’t going to let her escape a second time; and although I didn’t exactly jump on her the minute we got through the door, I soon had my tongue down her throat, my hands on her arse and was guiding her inexorably towards the bed, where we collapsed giggling in a heap, tearing the clothes off each other as quickly as we could. We fucked for most of the night, with the huge summer moon shining in through what was left of the windows, and towards dawn we finally fell asleep, worn out from the acid, the wine and hours of fucking each other senseless.
    For the next few days, we were never apart. I called in sick to work, and we’d spend each morning in bed — sometimes the afternoons too — before going down the street to a small French coffee-shop for a late breakfast, or lunch. In the evenings, we’d go to a pub or a club together, drinking with friends until the early hours of the morning, then take an all-night bus, or a taxi, back to King’s Cross. There, we’d buy a takeaway kebab, or pizza, and eat it as we walked back to her flat, past the whores, junkies and hustlers who always hung around the