One Shot (Part 1/2)
A two-part redemption story
Note for pronunciation sticklers like me: Dylan is Welsh, so it's pronounced Dullan.
Contains strong language and references to hard drug use.
“Look, if you had one shot or one opportunity
To seize everything you ever wanted in one moment,
Would you capture it, or just let it slip?”
‘Lose Yourself’ - Eminem
“Micah, please! I'll pay you back! You know I'm good for it.”
“’Cept you ain't, are you, Becca? You owe to dealers all round town. I ain't operating a charity here. You ain't got the cash, you don't get the goods.”
“Micah, come on—just this once. I really can pay you back this time! I'm getting the maternity benefit next week.”
“Yeah, ’bout that …” Micah looks pointedly at Becca's swollen stomach. “It ain't my business, but you take this shit when you're up the duff, there's gonna be problems down the line. Junkie babies—they don't always come out right.”
Becca clenches her teeth. “Don't call me that.”
Micah gives her a pitying look.
“If the shoe fits, babe …”
Becca flushes with anger, but she reins it in. She can't afford to lose it with Micah.
“Look, could we—”
“You're flogging a dead horse, love. This ain't a barter system. If I don't see no cash in my hand, you get nothing. Now, clear off.”
“Please!”
“I said get lost, Becca. Go on—go!”
She turns away, tears in her eyes. She's got no favours to call in, and her head's too addled with the craving to pull a fast one on anyone. She's got one card left to play. It's desperate, pathetic—but then so is she.
Becca heads across town. God, her back aches. The baby is wriggling around—she can see its tiny limbs moving under her thin top. The little bugger is never still. She swears it isn't normal, but then what would she know? She's never even held a baby before, let alone carried one in her womb. She's sailing uncharted waters, and she's hopelessly out of her depth. She knows she should've tried to get it together for this kid, but her life has unravelled too far to be stitched back together in nine months.
Becca waddles along streets choked with rush-hour traffic to the western suburbs. She's never been inside the place she's headed, but the address is etched into her mind. She's checked it out a few times, although she’s never had the courage to open the little gate and walk up the front path. She doesn't have the courage now, either, but what she does have is desperation, and that works even better.
The gate squeaks on its hinges. She rings the bell and bangs on the door, but no one answers. He's probably still at work. Becca sits on the top step of the porch, her enormous stomach resting on her thighs, and waits. Her hands are trembling and sweat beads on her upper lip. If he doesn't come soon, the pains will start, and then things will really get rough.
An old Ford pulls up outside and Dylan gets out. He sees her immediately, sitting outside his door, and he half-runs up the path towards her. Becca struggles to her feet, ready for a confrontation. She's too hyped up to notice that, under the shock written on Dylan's face, there is longing.
“Becca …” He's overwhelmed by the sight of her, here on his porch, pregnant, cheeks and eyes hollow in the face he still pictures every day. Torrents of words cascade into his mind, and he can't get a single one out except her name.
“I need cash.”
The abruptness of her demand startles him.
“For drugs?” he asks.
She doesn't answer.
“Shit, Becca.” He sighs. “Baby, why—”
She can't stand a lecture, not right now. Her stomach cramps and she doubles over in pain.
“Just fucking give me some fucking money!”
There's a pause, a heartbeat where her rage and desperation collide with his shock and pity, and almost crystallise in the air between them.
“No,” says Dylan quietly. “Not unless you give me something in return.”
She laughs, false and loud.
“Yeah, what’ve I got that you want, Dylan? You've done all right for yourself, haven't you? Nice house, nice little car. But I ain't got shit. No home, no car, no phone, no wallet. I've given it all, and more’n that. Stuff you wouldn't believe.” Her smile is more of a grimace. “You want some o’ that, Dylan? For old times’ sake?”
“Becca, don't.”
“What then? I ain't got nothing else to give.”
“The baby,” he says. “Swear you'll give me your baby when it's born, and I'll give you forty quid, right now.”
There's a moment when the wrongness of the situation almost registers in Becca's mind, but her craving is shouting so loudly now that she can't focus. All she can think about is the chain reaction: money in her hand, money in Micah's hand, goods in her hand, goods in her bloodstream—and the quieting of all the demons in her mind.
“Yeah, OK. You can have it. Now, give me the cash.”
“Swear it?”
“Yeah, yeah—I swear.”
Dylan takes a biro out of his shirt pocket.
“Call me when you go into labour,” he says, taking her arm and writing his phone number on it in large characters. Then, he opens his wallet and places two twenty-pound notes in her hand. She clutches them tightly, turning and heading straight back to Micah.
This isn't the first time Becca's woken up somewhere and not known how she got there. It isn't even the first time she's woken up in hospital. Without moving, she takes stock of the situation. She's wearing one of their gowns, and there's a drip in the back of her left hand. The curtains are closed around her section of the ward. She guesses no one wants to look at the addict, taking up a bed, wasting their hard-earned taxes.
Who called the ambulance? Where had she been? What had she done? Beneath the creeping humiliation of unremembered indignities, something else is nagging at her, more than missing memories—and then she realises.
“My baby!” The scream tears from her throat and she rockets out of bed, then clutches at her abdomen, gasping. She yanks up the gown and sees it—the place where they cut her baby out of her, and she didn't even know.
Becca collapses back onto the bed, sobbing. The curtain parts and a nurse enters.
“Hey,” he says softly. “Hey, come on.”
He sits next to her and takes her hand. Through her tears, she reads his name tag: MOHAMMED.
“Is he dead?” she chokes out. “My baby. Is he dead?”
“No—hey, no! He's OK. He’s having a tough time of it, and he needs a bit of help, but he's all right. You can see him soon. We just need to check you're OK too. You've been through a lot.”
“How long—How long have I been here?”
“Since the night before last. Your boyfriend came as soon as we called—”
“My … boyfriend?”
“Yeah. He sat with you the whole time, except when you were in the operating theatre. We had to send him home in the end to get some rest. It was him that told us your name and details. You had no ID when you came in, no phone, nothing.”
“I don't understand. Who—?”
“Luckily you had his number written on your arm, or you'd still be Jane Doe.”
Becca glances at the smudged number on her forearm.
“Dylan was here? Dylan?”
“He brought you some things. They're under the bed. Just as soon as we run a few tests, you can take a shower and get back in your own clothes. Lie down for a bit and rest now while I see who's free.”
As soon as Mohammed leaves, Becca crouches down and drags two sports bags out from under her bed. Inside the first are jogging bottoms, three T-shirts, three sports bras, a packet of knickers and a packet of socks, a hoodie and a pair of trainers. Everything is new with the tags still on. There are toiletries too, and sanitary towels. The second bag contains nappies, wipes, little sleep suits and a soft baby blanket.
He's thought of everything. Becca runs her fingers over each item, shame and gratitude twisting her stomach. She hadn't bought any of this stuff. She'd meant to, of course, but they'd always been something else on her mind, and it had made more noise than her unborn child, his needs, or their future.
They run the tests and give her leaflets about NAS and rehab. They book her an appointment with a specialist to talk about next steps, but the hospital is overcrowded. They need the bed, so they let Dylan sign her out the next day.
As they walk to the car, she can already feel it starting—the craving for more. She tries to focus on the here and now. Dylan’s right arm is around her waist, his left carrying the sports bag with all the things he bought her inside. Her heart swells a little, even though she knows it's all an act. She's conned enough people herself to know how easy it is to slip into character.
Dylan drops the bag at her feet and leans against his car. She sees he's already got a baby seat in the passenger side with a little toy hanging from the handle.
“I'll visit him every day,” he says. “And when he's ready, I'll take him home. You're not to come back here, and you're not to bother us at my place.”
“But, Dylan—”
“Don't make a scene,” he says quietly. “If you so much as raise your voice, I'll take all of this to the courts. And you'll lose, Becca. You'll lose him forever. No judge is going to give a kid to a junkie with no job and no fixed abode.”
She flinches at the name, but he's right. “They won't let you keep him either.”
“No,” he concedes. “He'll go into the system. Maybe a nice couple will adopt him, but most likely he'll be fostered, bounced from family to family like you were. A tough childhood like that doesn’t necessarily mean a tough life, but you know the stats, don't you, Becca? You're one of them.”
“That's not fair, Dylan. That was harsh.”
He shrugs.
“When can I see him again?” she asks.
“You can't. Not till you get clean.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Get clean, and when you do, call me.” He opens the driver door, reaches over to the glove compartment and pulls out a phone. “The PIN’s your birthday. Mine’s the only number in your contacts.”
He puts the phone in her hand, but doesn't get out of the car again.
“You've got a month, Becca. That's all.”
Dylan slams the door, starts the engine and backs out of the parking space, leaving Becca alone in the car park.
She's sweating now, her hands shaking. This is all too much. Her body wants another hit, but through the mist of craving that's descending on her mind, Becca knows this is a definitive moment. She isn't sure what Dylan just gave her—a threat, a challenge, a chance—but it feels momentous. The decision must be made, right now, in this hospital car park, before she takes another step.
She glances down at the leaflets in her hand: Help is free the top one proclaims, but Becca knows there are caveats: waiting lists, prerequisites, paperwork. She hasn't got time. She needs to do this immediately, before she forgets what's important and her craving for oblivion eclipses everything else.
Becca loosens her grip on the leaflets, filled with promises and warnings. She watches them flutter to the ground, coming to rest on the damp tarmac of the car park.
There's only one person who she can turn to.
Justin lives in a fancy apartment block by the canal. He buzzes her into the building and she finds him standing in the doorway, shirtless.
“Becca. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I need you to help me get clean.”
He looks her up and down.
“Hell, no. Girl, I'm not touching that with a barge-pole,” he says, pointing at her stomach.
“No, no - I'm not pregnant! I had the baby. This is just, you know, the—the aftermath.”
“When did you have it?” he asks suspiciously.
“Three months ago,” she lies. Justin won't agree to this if he knows she walked out of the hospital mere hours ago. He'll say her body can't take the strain, but Becca knows it can. It has to.
“And it was, you know … OK?”
“Yeah. He's perfect,” she snaps, impatient now with all his prying questions. “That's why I'm here. I have to get clean. For my kid.”
“Motivation is good,” Justin replies evenly. “You've got to want this bad because it's going to hurt, Becca. It's going to rip you apart like nothing you've ever experienced.”
She nods, and he lets her in.
His apartment is pristine. Justin has taste—and money.
“You're serious about this?” he asks. “‘Cause if you're just here to fleece me—”
“No. I really want to do this. But we've gotta do it soon. I'm already feeling…”
“Yeah, I can see that.” He sighs. “OK. Well, you're in luck. It just so happens there's a vacancy at Casa del Justin right now, but if we do this, we play by my rules. The second you screw up, or try to bend the rules, or even question me, you're out.”
Becca nods, mute.
“Come on, then.”
He leads her down a long corridor to a room at the end. It's a spare room, bare apart from a couch, windowless, but with an en suite bathroom. Justin fiddles around with the couch and pulls it out into a bed. Then, he opens one of the built-in cupboards and pulls out pillows, sheets and a plastic tarp. Becca stares at it, eyes wide.
Justin laughs. “Don't worry—I'm not going to chop you up. It's protection. Don't want you sweating all over my furniture. You got something comfortable to wear?”
“A T-shirt?”
“Sure. Put it on. No jewellery, no watch. You don't wear contacts, do you?”
“No.”
“You got a picture of the kid?”
Becca starts to shake her head, then roots around in the sports bag until she finds her old jeans. She digs in the back pocket.
“I've got this.”
It's crumpled. She's been carrying it around for over four months: her 20-week ultrasound scan.
Justin gives her a funny look.
“OK. That'll do. You're going to stick that on the wall, right here, and you're going to look at it every time you think about giving up. And you are going to feel like giving up, Becca. Before this is over, you're going to wish you were dead.”
So, have you guessed which fairy tale inspired this story yet? If you haven't, you certainly will in Part 2, which you can read here next Friday.