his mouth to hold down whatever meager slop he’d forced
himself to eat during the day. Chil s seized him, his muscles shaking.
He felt this way every time he was with a woman.
Hel , he felt a measure of the strain constantly. Whenever Declan woke, his anxiety was worse than
the day before, as if acid seethed in his bel y and barbed wire cinched around his heart.
Tracks lined his arms; he could take or leave food even though he was stil growing like a weed; bouts
of nightmares plagued him.
For as long as he could remember, he’d had a frenzied sense that he was supposed to be doing
something. No matter where he was, he felt like he was supposed to be some-where else .
And that strain was kil ing him.
After sex, it grew stronger, like a beast lived inside him, clawing at his insides to get free. Though only seventeen, he was ready to give up women altogether.
For now, he’d numb the feeling the only way he knew how. He reached toward the battered crate
beside his mattress on the floor and plucked up the syringe that lay ready.
Why did he always expect to feel different after sex? When he knew better?
Because, Dekko, ye’re not ready to admit ye’re done as a man.
He frowned at the weight of the syringe in his hand. He’d been shooting heroin for three years, and
knew it was too light. Dread seized him as he gazed down. Empty.
Rage building, he hurled the syringe across the room, then turned on the girl. Jostling her awake, he
yel ed, “Ye feckin’ slag! Ye stoled it?” That was al he’d had. No money to buy more.
She woke, mumbling, “Needed a wee bump—”
“Get out!” he roared, shoving her up and out on her arse, tossing her clothes at her before slamming
the door in her face.
He punched the wal , moldy plaster exploding. Tonight he’d have the nightmares again. A monster at his
back. Burning pain slicing through his chest. A woman’s grief-stricken screams.
Those screams …
Desperate to avoid those dreams, to numb the strain, he yanked on his pants and threw on a jacket,
readying to leave. On his way out, he passed the bitch in the hal way, spat in her direction.
Half an hour later, he pleaded his case to his dealer: “Just a couple of quid’s worth. Give me the shite
now, and I’l fleece ye some of me mam’s jewelry if I have to.” Would he actual y steal from his own
mother?
Oh, aye. But it’d take time to get to his parents’ house and back.
The verdict: “Cash first, Dekko.”
Declan would need even more time to fence the jewelry. Might take him a day to get back here with the
scratch. He didn’t have that long.
“I’m beggin’.” He was about to vomit. The dealer clearly thought it was from withdrawal. No, from
madness, more like. He’d do anything to avoid what awaited him. Anything. Others in his gang had no problem giving to get. With that in mind, he said, “There’s got to be something I can give ye?”
His dealer’s eyes widened with surprise. He hadn’t known Declan Chase would suck for it.
I hadn’t either. Could anything be worse than this feeling?
“Hie yer arse out o’ me sight, Dekko.” The man booted him in the back, sending him reeling out the
door.
Unsure whether he was relieved or not, Declan scuffed back out into the streets.
When a biting wind blew in from the sea, his chil s worsened until his teeth chattered. With a despairing
eye, he gazed around, tempted to break into a house right off the main strip, but everywhere he turned,
bars covered the windows.
No choice but to set off for his parents’ place. They were working-class; any jewelry of his mother’s
had been either handed down from her own mam or hard-earned by his da.
But she can’t need it like I do.
An hour into his journey, Declan passed the run-down cathedral where he’d been an altar boy. At
fourteen, he’d confessed his constant gut pains and tensions to the parish priest—a stern old codger
who’d told him to keep his ailment to himself and
himself to eat during the day. Chil s seized him, his muscles shaking.
He felt this way every time he was with a woman.
Hel , he felt a measure of the strain constantly. Whenever Declan woke, his anxiety was worse than
the day before, as if acid seethed in his bel y and barbed wire cinched around his heart.
Tracks lined his arms; he could take or leave food even though he was stil growing like a weed; bouts
of nightmares plagued him.
For as long as he could remember, he’d had a frenzied sense that he was supposed to be doing
something. No matter where he was, he felt like he was supposed to be some-where else .
And that strain was kil ing him.
After sex, it grew stronger, like a beast lived inside him, clawing at his insides to get free. Though only seventeen, he was ready to give up women altogether.
For now, he’d numb the feeling the only way he knew how. He reached toward the battered crate
beside his mattress on the floor and plucked up the syringe that lay ready.
Why did he always expect to feel different after sex? When he knew better?
Because, Dekko, ye’re not ready to admit ye’re done as a man.
He frowned at the weight of the syringe in his hand. He’d been shooting heroin for three years, and
knew it was too light. Dread seized him as he gazed down. Empty.
Rage building, he hurled the syringe across the room, then turned on the girl. Jostling her awake, he
yel ed, “Ye feckin’ slag! Ye stoled it?” That was al he’d had. No money to buy more.
She woke, mumbling, “Needed a wee bump—”
“Get out!” he roared, shoving her up and out on her arse, tossing her clothes at her before slamming
the door in her face.
He punched the wal , moldy plaster exploding. Tonight he’d have the nightmares again. A monster at his
back. Burning pain slicing through his chest. A woman’s grief-stricken screams.
Those screams …
Desperate to avoid those dreams, to numb the strain, he yanked on his pants and threw on a jacket,
readying to leave. On his way out, he passed the bitch in the hal way, spat in her direction.
Half an hour later, he pleaded his case to his dealer: “Just a couple of quid’s worth. Give me the shite
now, and I’l fleece ye some of me mam’s jewelry if I have to.” Would he actual y steal from his own
mother?
Oh, aye. But it’d take time to get to his parents’ house and back.
The verdict: “Cash first, Dekko.”
Declan would need even more time to fence the jewelry. Might take him a day to get back here with the
scratch. He didn’t have that long.
“I’m beggin’.” He was about to vomit. The dealer clearly thought it was from withdrawal. No, from
madness, more like. He’d do anything to avoid what awaited him. Anything. Others in his gang had no problem giving to get. With that in mind, he said, “There’s got to be something I can give ye?”
His dealer’s eyes widened with surprise. He hadn’t known Declan Chase would suck for it.
I hadn’t either. Could anything be worse than this feeling?
“Hie yer arse out o’ me sight, Dekko.” The man booted him in the back, sending him reeling out the
door.
Unsure whether he was relieved or not, Declan scuffed back out into the streets.
When a biting wind blew in from the sea, his chil s worsened until his teeth chattered. With a despairing
eye, he gazed around, tempted to break into a house right off the main strip, but everywhere he turned,
bars covered the windows.
No choice but to set off for his parents’ place. They were working-class; any jewelry of his mother’s
had been either handed down from her own mam or hard-earned by his da.
But she can’t need it like I do.
An hour into his journey, Declan passed the run-down cathedral where he’d been an altar boy. At
fourteen, he’d confessed his constant gut pains and tensions to the parish priest—a stern old codger
who’d told him to keep his ailment to himself and
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