Desperate Measures - [10]

Don was very protective of her. When one of the other housemates, a boy from Liverpool, referred to her as ‘the Duchess’ on account of her accent and the fact that her family were comfortably off, Don had said, ‘Her name is Norma.’ And his tone was so cold and firm that Robbie, who could be quite argumentative, simply held up his hands and muttered, ‘Fine by me, kiddo.’

There was a photograph she remembered from that time. Don’s 21st. Most people celebrated their 18th by that time and Don had done, at home, but he wanted to celebrate this time, just with friends. They had a house party. Someone’s girlfriend took a photo early on. Robbie made some punch, which had Norma squiffy after one glass. The housemates posed in the back garden, Norma in the centre, Don and Robbie either side of her and the other two girls on either edge. Norma looked like a doll next to Don, pale even though it was summertime. She never could take the sun, went red and peeled if she tried to. Her hair was silver blonde, her head reached his chest. She sometimes wondered if Don’s desire to support and defend her came from the fact that she was so petite. If he had been shorter or she’d been taller or less slender would he still have treated her like that? Or would he have done that for anyone he loved?

And now – where was he now? How could he just leave her like this? How would she survive? Norma felt despicable, the shame hot in her guts because when the police told her he was dead, her first thought was not for Don – she didn’t think about what might have happened to him or if he had suffered – but for herself. What it meant for her. She was so selfish. But how would she cope without him? It was impossible. She pushed the thought away and went in search of solace. Something medicinal, she thought, tears standing in her eyes, for the shock.

For the shock.

Chapter 8

It had all seemed to happen so quickly, she thought, as Adele went over and over the sequence of events during the day after the inquest: Marcie changing from a goofy twelve-year-old who liked baking and Buffy the Vampire Slayer and hanging around the Arndale Centre with her mates from school, to a sulky, withdrawn girl who was out all hours and bunking off.

It was Howard who first called it. Adele thought it was teenage rebellion (and maybe that was part of it) and that after a few months of back-chat and door slamming and sleepless nights for Adele, Marcie would re-emerge but as soon as money started disappearing from his wallet and Adele’s purse Howard realized. ‘She’s using it for drugs,’ he said.

‘No way. She’d never touch them, she doesn’t even smoke,’ said Adele, who couldn’t kick her own fifteen-a-day habit. ‘You’re wrong.’

They’d confronted Marcie who had sworn on her grandma’s grave that she’d never touched any drugs or taken any money and had flounced out of the house.

Adele was wild with anxiety. She looked up help lines and advice services, all the while thinking maybe Howard was mistaken. Then the police came round. Marcie had been caught breaking into a car.

It was all downhill after that.

Those endless nights, lying awake, Adele kept imagining her hurt or being hurt, nodding off in some filthy rat hole or freezing to death in a shop doorway. Some nights they’d go out looking for her, driving around, a blanket and a thermos for her in the back.

They found her a couple of times and persuaded her to come home. And the next time Marcie left, something else would be missing, jewellery, mobile phone, DVDs – anything portable she could sell.

The hardest thing was Marcie’s point blank refusal to talk about what was happening, to admit that was a problem, to accept that she was an addict. Smelling dirty and with her face all spots and scabs, she’d eat sugar by the spoonful, half a bag at a time. She was skin and bone in a few short months. There was sometimes a moment when Adele caught sight of the girl beneath all this, a glint of mischief in her gaze, but most of the time the habit seemed to swallow Marcie whole.

Adele was frantic to help but could see no way. If she’d had more money she could’ve paid for the stuff herself, rationing it out, so at least the stealing and lying and run-ins with the police wouldn’t happen.

The spectre of prostitution hovered close by. Adele didn’t know if Marcie was already embroiled in that but knew that it came with the territory. Prostitution, AIDS, homelessness, overdoses.

Don’t give them money, that was what all the charities said, money will go straight to the addiction. It doesn’t help. Not the answer.

‘What’s it like?’ Adele asked her one evening. Marcie was getting jittery. Adele could see it in the way her eyes swung about, the muscles jumping under her skin. ‘What does it feel like, the heroin?’

Marcie waited a moment, mouth open, finding the words, then said, ‘Heaven.’ And a look of lust and longing filled her eyes.

‘What it does to you, what it’s doing…’

Marcie shivered and scratched her neck. ‘You don’t get it,’ she said.

‘Maybe not,’ Adele said, her voice rising, ‘but what I do get is that you can’t carry on like this, babe. It’ll kill you. Don’t go out,’ she had begged later, ‘I’ll sit up with you.’