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lying on his flea-infested mattress. He reached one hand out, eyes half closed, and searched until he felt a small plastic bottle. He shook and listened for the comforting rattle, flicked open the lid and slid out two Rohypnol tablets. Gathering as much spit as he could, he swallowed them in one go then reached out again until he felt a large plastic bottle. He shook it until he sensed the comforting roll of liquid inside. One-handed, he twisted the cap off and took a deep swig on the methadone, coughing as he felt it burn his throat. He pulled himself half upright and took another swig, rinsing his teeth and foul-tasting mouth before swallowing. He noticed the blood for the first time and splayed his fingers out to see how much. The staining even covered the tattoo on each knuckle. He slumped back onto the filthy pillow and pulled both edges over his ears to drown out the screeches.
    'Fuck off,' he screamed, pounding the thin walls. 'I'll slit that child if ye don't shut the bastard up!'
    The screeches only intensified. In a violent rage Kelly fumbled under the mattress until he grabbed the handle of a wide-bladed Bowie knife. He made for the door.
    'I'll kill that wee bastard!'
    The screeches were momentarily muffled.
    Kelly slumped back onto the mattress, moaning. He was still holding the knife. He squinted at the dark staining on his hands and tried to remember how he'd got home. It wouldn't come. His mind was a blank. He struggled unsteadily to his feet, leaning against the wall as he stood up fully for the first time in over sixteen hours. He felt dizzy.
    Kelly was six foot three and once weighed fourteen stone. That was in his early twenties. Now aged thirty-three he was down to eleven and still dropping. His hair was unwashed and lay in dank matted curls over both ears and along the top of his shoulders. He was unshaven and hadn't attempted a cut for days. He was still in the same clothes he'd been in for the previous four days, a stolen navy blue tracksuit bottom and stolen white Marks and Spencer T-shirt. His mind was fogged, his vision slightly blurred, his mouth dry and unpleasant. He was in a foul, vicious temper. He noticed bloodstains on the T-shirt and ran his hands up and down vigorously as if trying to shake the discoloration away. With one hand he pulled the T-shirt off, threw it angrily into a corner and staggered to the cracked and chipped hand basin in the corner of the room. Resting his right elbow against the wall in front he peered at the reflection in the dirty half mirror stuck above the basin with glue. Fuck it. The vision was not good, not even to Micko Kelly who'd spent many years squinting at mirrors watching his face disintegrate. The hand-clutching-dagger tattoo over his left eye was sagging, reflecting his recent weight loss.
    The screeching started again and he flicked on a stolen Black Sabbath CD on his stolen CD player and turned up the volume. Then he pissed into the plastic bucket beneath the sink and tried again to remember the night before. It still wouldn't come. He started washing the blood off his hands and glanced at the bloodstained T-shirt lying in the corner. For a minute he ran wet fingers across his face and jaw, testing he hadn't anything broken. Then he lit up a prepared silver foil containing heroin and inhaled deeply.
    Outside in the corridor he heard loud angry voices and doors slamming and screams and curses and the baby started screeching again.
    'I'll kill that fuckin' child, I fuckin' will,' he promised and turned up Black Sabbath. He slumped down on his backside, opened a Mars bar and began munching. His brain was fogging even further and he felt himself slipping as he drew on the last of the foil. He smiled a little, munched some more then began a fit of coughing. A hand reached out and pulled back the ring on a stolen can of Pepsi. He sipped on the opening.
    Where am I gonna get some scag today? I'm right outa everythin'. Fuck it, I'll havta get out.
    The