Someone's Brother ~ Part Four

WARNING:  the story contains references to drugs and strong language. 

Previous installments ~ Part One   Part Two  Part Three

          His chest really hurt.

From the sink, Ryan had managed only a few paces before he had to sit down again, placing himself on the steps at the entrance of the Gents.

Once again his predicament had him despairing he would ever get out of there.

He weighed his options. He had no mobile phone and no money, but could reverse the call and phone Lola. Maybe she would send a cab for him. He just had to gather his strength and walk to the nearest public phone. Where that was, he had no idea, hopefully not too far, as moving was painful.

He was starting to feel faint again and had to lean against the wall. Everything was coming to him at once, broken ribs, cough, fever, cravings. He was sweating and shivering at the same time, his head felt hot, but his hands were freezing cold, and he was aching all over. He could not remember ever feeling so ill and he had gone through some really rough times in his life.

He squeezed his eyes, fighting the tears.

“Please, help me.” His voice was a feeble squeak. “Someone…”

Had Hailey cried for help too, the day she had died?

Once again the thought of her filled his mind and he wondered if she had felt death coming, if she had been scared.

The last time he had looked into her eyes there was nothing. If she had felt one last emotion, no trace of it had been left behind.

Perhaps it had all been too quick, just like switching off a light, one click and a plunge into darkness.

It didn’t seem to be going that way for him. Death was taking his time, having fun torturing him first.

How much longer?

Please, make it stop. Just switch me off.

He shivered as he felt the hands of Death on his shoulder, then slipping under his arm to lift him up.

Ryan… He called him.

Ryan coughed and moaned. He wasn’t very strong, Death. He pulled, but couldn’t lift him.

“Come on, help me out. Pull yourself up.”

Ryan opened his eyes and breathed fast.

“George?” He croaked.

“Yes, I’m here.” George’s voice echoed beside him. “Come on, let’s get you out of here.”

With great effort, Ryan stood up, George’s arms under his armpits giving him the push. His ribcage shook, sending him into a spasm, and he groaned loudly.

“I think… my ribs… must be broken…” he panted.

George eased his grip.

“They really made mince meat of you,” he observed, as he helped Ryan up the steps and out into the open.

The fresh air hit Ryan like a shot, making him alert, but he was soon limping again, wheezy and feverish, leaning over George, mechanically following the man to his Ford Focus, parked on the opposite side of the road.

George helped him into the front seat, before taking his place behind the wheel and starting the engine.

“Are you comfortable?”

Ryan nodded in silence, though he wasn’t. He caught his reflection in the windscreen and was shocked by his own appearance. His face was so bruised and swollen, he struggled to recognise himself.

His mind had started to race, filling up with confusion and questions.

“How did you find me?” He finally asked, his head slumped on the headrest.

George cleared his throat. “I followed you.”

“Followed me?” Ryan was finding it difficult to speak, to think, even. His body temperature had increased, he could feel he had a fever, and it was getting harder to focus, now that his cravings were taking hold of him.

He closed his fists to try and control the shaking of his hands.

“Followed me?” He repeated. “How? When?”

George’s eyes remained fixed on the street ahead.

“I know where you… work.” His voice was only faintly coming through above the engine’s noise and the buzz that rang in Ryan’s ears. “I know which area you walk, to find customers. I looked for you. I found you. I saw you with that lowlife, entering the toilets…” He tightened his grip on the steering wheel. “You disgust me,” he hissed.

Ryan forced himself to remain alert, though his head was getting heavier and more dazed. “Are you taking me home?”

“No,” George’s mouth creased at the corner. “I’m taking you back to the hotel. You’re sick. You need rest.”

Ryan crossed his arms over his chest; talking hurt. “I need to shoot.”

George remained silent.

“I need it now, George.”

“You have no money.”

“That’s my problem. Just take me where I can get it. I’ll tell you where.”

“You’re not getting that rubbish, not anymore.” George almost whispered. “I’ll get you cleaned.”

Ryan’s tremor was now uncontrollable.

“What are you talking about?” He was starting to panic. “You want me to go cold turkey? Do you know what that’s like?”

George didn’t answer.

“I have seen it,” Ryan continued. “It’s hell.”

“You can do it.” George’s voice was unemotional.

“I can’t! And you can’t make me! Don’t make me go through that, George. Just let me get some, please!” He cursed himself for begging that way.

George shook his head.

“I’ll help you,” he said. “I’ll save you.”

“Fuck you! Who asked you for anything? Why did you follow me?”

“You robbed me.”

“Stop the car.”

“You owe me over a hundred pounds. I’ll make you pay every penny. But first I want you clean.”

“Stop the fucking car, George!”

In his panic, Ryan didn’t notice George’s hand moving until he felt it hitting his face.

“Stop shouting.” George sounded surprisingly calm. “It’s for your own good.”

The slap had not been especially hard, but it took Ryan a few minutes to come around, in his weak state. He was being kidnapped, he realised.

What was he going to do now?

He started to look around, searching for a way out.

And that’s when he saw it. George’s jacket on the back seat and, peeping out of a pocket, George’s wallet.

“Your wallet,” he noted. “You have your wallet.”

George went rigid. “I told you to be quiet.”

“You fucker!” It was surprising how lucidly he could think, Ryan reflected, considering the state he was in. Everything was as clear as daylight. He held his broken bones to speak again. “That’s how you knew where I was. You got that scum to do me in. You sent them to find me!”

“You needed it.” George replied, softly. “Your parents didn’t beat you enough, if you ask me, and sense has to be beaten into you.”

 “Beat me into submission, you mean.” Ryan had to pause and inhale to fight the strain. “That’s what you always wanted, to break me.”

“I can mend you… and break you again.”

“You are crazy! You’re a fucking lunatic! Stop the car!”

George turned to look at him, a cold glint darting from his small eyes.

“Be quiet.” He moved his elbow and hit Ryan in his chest, causing him to howl with pain.

The car was cruising through the early morning streets, and Ryan was scared. He could not stop George, he didn’t have the strength to fight him. He was ill, injured and weak.

There was only one way he could get out of that nightmare, but he had to act fast.

He breathed in and out a few times, gathering the last bit of energy he had left. Then, with his heart thumping madly, he quickly moved his hand to the door handle and pulled it.

“No!” George’s scream reached him as he rolled out of the vehicle and hit the tarmac. He heard more cracks coming from inside him and for a few seconds he lay at road side, wondering if he was really going to die, this time.

He lifted his head when he heard the screeching noise of George’s car coming to an abrupt halt and saw the reversing lights breaking through the darkness.

Yes, that was it. The end. Run over like an animal, crushed and left to bleed.

He closed his eyes and waited.

Continues in Part Five

Someone's Brother ~ Part Three

WARNING:  the story contains references to drugs,

scenes of a sexual nature and very strong language. 

Previous installments ~ Part One   Part Two

Ryan had quickly walked out of the motel and down the street, heart thumping madly in his chest, his fingers wrapped tightly around the stolen wallet, deep in his coat’s pocket.

He had never assaulted anyone to steal, before. Not that he felt guilty about it. George had got what he deserved, the disgusting perv that he was. Now he thought he could also get away with not paying the agreed price. Well, fuck him!

Ryan turned a corner and stopped.

The rushed walk had brought on another attack and he leaned against a wall while he coughed and spat, trying to catch his breath.

Perhaps George was right; something was wrong with him.

Heroin and the conditions he lived in had fucked his immune system, he knew it, and he didn’t even want to imagine what other shit could be wrecking his fragile body. STDs, HIV, hepatitis… everything was possible.

It was past caring, by now. He was constantly playing Russian roulette with his life, every time he injected not knowing what crap the dose he had just bought had been cut with, if what he was shooting would get him to overdose, if a customer was giving him a death sentence by not wearing a condom, or if the guy that picked him up in his car was in fact a maniac or a serial killer. There were so many risks he was taking, that getting ill with some cold or chest infection was the least of all evils.

He wheezed again and was suddenly overwhelmed by a feeling of impotency and anger, as the remains of his life lay at his feet with spit and catarrh. A knot was closing his throat and he gulped it down before hitting the wall with his fist.

You stupid cunt! What were you thinking, beating up your best customer? You’ve just pissed away two hundred quid a week! What do you care if he treats you like shit? He pays you! You said it yourself, feelings are a luxury you can’t afford.

He could not be fearful, disgusted or angry, he could not cry or laugh, hate or love. Not anymore. He was too numb and desperate.

Sometimes he struggled to remember how it felt to experience an emotion.

Occasionally he would get brief sparks, anger, mainly, shame and hate. But they would soon be put out, buried in that part of his soul that was slowly dying, together with distant memories of a boy who had disappeared long before, of a forgotten life and a young love.

Hailey was like him, just as lost and alone.

For months they had shared a squat with another half a dozen desperate losers, a filthy, cold, rat infested, boarded up building, the first dwelling Ryan had found when he had arrived in Brighton.

He was only nineteen and had been missing from home a year already, partly kicked out, partly runaway.

His story was text book, so lame, it wasn’t even worth telling; middle class kid doesn’t get on with his parents, rebels, mixes with the wrong crowd, starts with spliffs at fourteen, by fifteen is smoking smack and, less than a year later, heroin finds a way through his veins. He moves from academically promising to school drop out, gets in trouble with the law, steals from home, makes family life a nightmare, finally goes missing and becomes just another statistics in the crammed drugs files.

Dull stuff.

But at the squat no one was interested in his or anyone’s story. They could make up their names, invent a different past or have none at all.

Of Hailey he knew she was seventeen and she had been hooked on heroin for as long as he had. She was small and delicate like a child, with large blue eyes and ash blond hair tied in a short pony tail. She’d approached him the night he had arrived, asked him if he would sleep with her in exchange for drugs or money. But he had neither. She’d sat by him in silence and cried.

He’d stayed with her all night, sweating and shivering too, holding her hand tight in his as they lay together, sick with craving.

Holding on to her somehow had made it less painful, not only that first night, but in the days to come. If it was love or desperation, Ryan couldn’t tell, but he soon had needed her as much as he needed the drugs.

He’d forgotten what it meant to feel loved, to know that someone cared if he lived or died. Hailey had given some meaning to his empty days, even if she only moved with him through that emptiness, sharing in his battles and in his defeats and in their impossible dreams. They had drawn them together, whispering in the quiet of the night, embracing under an old, mouldy duvet: all the places they were going to see, the things they were going to have, the life they were going to build.

Feelings… even then feelings were something he could not afford.

He could not feel pain the day he lost her.

He’d just stared at her cold face, at her skin turned a pale blue tinge, her open wide eyes, the needle still in her arm.

He’d stood there in a stupor, while the others were already splitting and pulling him away.

“She ODed, mate,” someone had told him. “She’s gone.”

He’d followed the group in a trance, not daring to turn back, leaving behind his last image of her and everything that had kept him alive.

Perhaps that had been the day he’d stopped to feel and life had become just survival, time simply a prolonged agony to a promised death that wouldn’t come.

Ryan stared into the orange light with which the lampposts coloured the night.

Hailey had peeked into his thoughts earlier, as he lay with George and the man talked to him softly, caressing his face, gently describing all the ways he would like to hurt him and make him cry for mercy, indulging in his sick, twisted fantasies. It was part of the ritual, Ryan didn’t even listen anymore.

Why had he suddenly ached, that night, longed for real caresses and for his lost dreams?

Feelings… where had they come from?

Fucking, fucking idiot!

He pulled George’s wallet out of his pocket and went through its content. First he checked the money and found a hundred and twenty pounds.

And the fucker was palming him off with forty.

There were old tickets and receipts; dry cleaning, a Chinese take-away, petrol. There were no bank cards, strangely, just the cash. He only found the Library’s and various business cards, restaurants, a taxi company, a gay escort agency.

Last, he came across an old black and white picture, a woman holding a chubby baby of about one, smiling at him as she pointed at the camera and the boy were about to cry.

It wasn’t difficult to recognise the baby as George and Ryan guessed the woman was the man’s mother, with whom George still lived. She too was a source of mixed feelings, of love and resentment. George’s mother had a powerful hold on her son. He had often scared Ryan with his ramblings on the subject, his desire to break away, his fear of letting go. Ryan had become part of those fantasies, where George would take him away from his low life to start a new one together, freeing Ryan from heroin and himself from his inadequacies and his domineering mother.

There had been more feverish talks that night, George had come across even more manic than usual, and without warning old whispers and dreams had come back to Ryan, the way two young lovers too had planned their escape, their future together. As he remembered, he’d felt it, the hole that was left where he once had love. He’d been filled with a desperate loneliness and Hailey had come to him.

But he could not afford to have feelings and he’d had to let go of her, pull himself back into the dusty, cold room, with George’s smell, George’s voice, George’s body…

Ryan replaced the old photo and sank the wallet in his pocket.

The cold, orange night was still with him.

He moved away from the wall and walked towards it.

Continues in Part Four 

Someone's Brother ~ Part Two

WARNING:  the story contains references to drugs,

scenes of a sexual nature and strong language.

Previous Installments ~ Part One

        The room had a rancid smell of cigarettes and rising damp, and the dust in the air irritated Ryan’s lungs, making him cough hard.

“You keep coughing like that. Are you sick?”

Lying next to him, George looked over with pity and Ryan moved away, shifting to his side of the bed.

“Just a cough,” he answered, dismissive.

“You’re not ill with some contagious disease, are you?” George sounded concerned.

Ryan turned to look at him. “Worried, are you?”

George lowered his eyes. He always did when Ryan stared directly into his face.

“Your idea not to use condoms, not mine.” Ryan sneered.

“I would have, if I knew you were-”

“It’s just a cough.” Ryan sat up and put his feet down on the rough old carpet. He shivered in the chill of the badly heated room, then recovered his clothes and started to get dressed.

“Are you going already?” George’s disappointed voice reached him from behind.

“I’ve been here over an hour. For what you pay me, long enough.”

“Money!” George moaned. “It’s all about money, with you.”

Ryan stood up to zip his jeans. “What did you think it would be about?”

Again he looked at George’s blushing face and noticed his eyes shifting behind his round spectacles.

It was difficult to believe it, but that little, unassuming, softly spoken, chubby, balding man, who, with his bow ties and jackets that strained across his stomach, resembled a children’s TV character, and always started their encounters with pleasant, friendly conversations, was an aggressive, at times even vicious dominator during sex.

They had met twice, sometimes three times a week for almost a year, now, and as much as Ryan disliked him, he could not sniff at the regular income that came from George.

Ryan stretched to grab his T-shirt and George seized his arm.

“Look at you!” His soft voice betrayed dismay. “You’ll have to inject in your stomach soon, to find a vein that is not hardened or swollen. Is this what I’m paying you for?”

Ryan pulled his arm away. “You pay me to fuck me.”

George shook his head. “You could get away from all this, if…”

Ryan slipped the T-shirt over his head and pulled it down, covering his pale, almost transparent skin. “If what? If I let you fuck me for free?”

“It wouldn’t be like that, you know it.” George was still avoiding his gaze. “We could-”

“I’m not gay, George. I told you many times.”

“But you screw men.”

“They screw me.”

“Same thing.”

“Hardly.”

“So you’re looking for pussies, is that it?” George’s voice was suddenly shrill, like that of a child having a tantrum. “Who are you shagging? Is it that monstrous tranny you live with?”

Ryan finished getting dressed in silence. He sat on the edge of the bed to do up his trainers.

“Well?” George was starting to annoy him with his petulant voice.

“You owe me eighty quid,” he replied, coldly.

“Is that what I’m worth to you? Eighty quid?”

Ryan gulped down the words that had come to his lips.

Worth?

What had worth got anything to do with all that?

George was still in full flow.

“What am I doing, talking to you about feelings?” He snapped. “What would the likes of you know about that?”

Again Ryan stopped himself from answering and squeezed his fist.

Pictures of the last hour were still playing like a film in his mind, the physical and verbal abuse, the insults, the put downs, the humiliations. Was this the same man, now, talking to him about feelings?

Ryan inhaled deeply.

The likes of him…

“I am a rent-boy,” he stated unemotionally, “and a junkie. I can’t afford feelings.” He paused to cough and felt George’s body moving behind him, the man’s face pressed on his back.

“You are playing games with me,” he said. “You do have feelings. I can tell when I kiss you.”

Ryan’s body shook.

“You laughing or coughing?” George tightened his grip on Ryan’s shoulder and Ryan turned to look at him.

“Man…” He struggled to find his voice which came out with a strange croak. “You pay me for this shit. You want me to kiss you, I kiss you. You want me to talk dirty, I talk dirty. You want to piss on me, you can piss on me. As long as you give me my fucking eighty quid, I do anything you want me to. I don’t give a shit about feelings.”

George shoved him violently, almost throwing him off the bed.

“Eighty quid!” He shrieked. “You think you’re worth that much?”

I’m worth nothing.

“I’m worth what I decide.” Ryan stood up and wore his coat. “I set the price.”

“You scum!” George’s eyes were shifting madly around the room, as if he were looking for an escape. “You filthy scum! You are robbing me, probably giving me some horrible disease. God! I need air.” He kicked the blanket off and got up too, looking strangely vulnerable in his nudity, now that Ryan was fully clothed.

“Don’t look at me!” He screeched.

Ryan shrugged.“ Just give me my money and I’m out of here.”

George had recovered his hideous white briefs and his checked shirt. He reached for his wallet and got a few notes out.

“Here.” he stretched them to Ryan, who took them and counted them.

“What’s this shit?” He immediately exclaimed. “I told you, the price is eighty.”

George pulled up his trousers avoiding Ryan’s eyes.

“That’s what you’re getting,” he mumbled.

“Forty pounds? Are you fucking messing with me?”

George turned to look at him. For the first time that night he kept his gaze and Ryan could look into his small, dark eyes, filled with fear and contempt, with desire and disgust, all the ambivalence that George harboured inside.

Since their first encounter at Lola’s bar, Ryan had learned quite a bit about the man, when, at the beginning of each meeting, they simply lay next to each other and talked, following George’s wishes. They were far more intimate moments than sex, and made Ryan uncomfortable. He didn’t want to feel close to anyone, least of all that slimy little man struggling with his sexuality, forced to seek company by paying someone like him, fearful of his own desires and inclinations. He didn’t want to feel sorry for him. He didn’t want to feel anything. As he had said, he could not afford to have feelings.

It was difficult to feel pity for George, anyway, when he would suddenly stop talking and order Ryan to strip to then punish his young lover for all the self loathing he lived with, shouting at and abusing him to exercise that little power he felt was still his.

But now they were not having sex.

“Give me my money, man.”                                                               

George trembled, but didn’t move.

“I told you.” Once again he averted his gaze. “That’s what you’re getting. We didn’t enjoy ourselves tonight.”

“What the fuck are you playing at?” Ryan moved closer to him and George suddenly seemed smaller than usual. “Enjoying it? Just give me my fucking money!” He grabbed George by the shoulders.

“You want to beat me up?” George felt limp in his grasp. “Will you enjoy it, if you beat me up?”

Ryan pushed him away with such force that George lost his balance and fell, knocking over the night table. Ryan launched a punch at him and didn’t encounter any real resistance; he got hold of the man’s wallet, which he slipped in his coat’s pocket.

George’s body was shaking hysterically, Ryan couldn’t tell if by laughter, sobs or both.

He stood up and coughed and wheezed, before he was able to speak again.

“Enjoying it!” He spat. “You make my skin crawl, you fucking bastard! Don’t come looking for me again. I can do without this shit.”

He gave one last look at the pathetic figure crumpled on the floor, the battered face and bleeding lips. Then, he opened the room’s door and left.

Continues in Part Three

Someone's Brother ~ Part One

WARNING: This is the first installment of a story I wrote a couple of years ago. 

The protagonist is a young addict that sells himself as a rent-boy on the streets of Brighton. 

The content is therefore gritty and intended for an adult audience. 

It contains references to drugs, scenes of a sexual nature and strong language.

However it is meant to be a moving account of one night in the life of someone's brother.

       How had he got there, lying on a wet, dirty floor, breathing in the pungent smell of urine, the sweet, metallic taste of blood filling his mouth, aching as if every bone in his body had been broken?

Slowly, Ryan pushed himself up on his arms, spitting out blood.

He crawled to the wall and leaned his back on the cold, cracked tiles, pulling his worn out military green coat over his chest. He tried to move his legs and was relieved to discover that he could bend them without experiencing too much pain. The worst aches seemed to be located on the upper part of his body, his stomach, shoulders and face. His face felt swollen and hot to the touch, as his fingers explored it, wet with sweat, blood and tears.

He could feel them burning his eyes now, slowly rolling down his cheeks, reminding him he was a worthless dog that could be beaten up and left to bleed in a pool of piss, a vermin, a nothing. 
Just an addict.

He let go a loud groan, almost a desperate cry for help. Would someone come? Would someone take him out of that stinking, dark loo, buried somewhere in the back streets of Brighton, out of that hole he had fallen in, lower and lower, for the past five years?

He cried again and his voice echoed in the empty room like a distant sound, bouncing off the urinals, the cubicles doors, the worn out steps that from the outside pavement led down to the filthy lavatory.

He cried and knew that no one would come.

It was four o’clock in the morning and the streets were deserted and silent.

Who cared what would happen to him? If he lived, if he died… no one gave a shit, him least of all.

He had no life left to live, trapped in a whirlpool of empty days, fixes and withdrawals, brief moments of euphoria followed by sickness and cravings, hellish nights made up of self loathing and desperation, the sense of defeat that for a moment beat him each time the needle made another hole in his veins and in his soul.

At times the way out had seemed within his reach: there was the door, there was the station and home was only a few hours journey away.

But she would not let go of him.

As soon as he had thought of escaping, she would pull him back, shaking him, punching him, hitting him with a desire of her he could not be freed of.

He could feel it coming on now: the chills and shivers, the nausea, the cold sweat. It would all be with him shortly and then the shame, the anger, the pain of the beating, everything would be banished from his mind to make space for one thought and one thought alone: where and how to get another fix.

He knew where and as for how… well, it didn’t matter anymore.

He had stolen, he had sold himself on the street, he had no dignity and no morals left. It was all just a mean to an end.

Now it was early morning and he had been robbed.

A night’s work worth of money was gone and he had none left to pay his dealer.

It was going to be a long, painful morning.

He could, of course, try his luck again, go back on the street, hope for another perv in search of easy sex to come along, but at that time, most punters had folded in, alone or with company, and there would be nobody left for him.

He had already given a blow job in a car, followed a customer to a cheap motel, and had been approached for a quick one down the public toilet. Except the guy was another desperate loser. He didn’t want sex. He had an accomplice hiding in one of the cubicles. They had beaten the crap out of Ryan and run off with his money.

Painfully Ryan pulled himself up in a vertical position and managed the few steps to the sink, where he washed away the blood from his face and rinsed his mouth.

He tried to catch his breath. The stench lingering in the air and the tightness in his chest were making it difficult for him to inhale. He coughed that dry, persistent cough that had been rasping his lungs for the past few days, and held his ribs as they shook. Maybe they were broken, after all.

How was he going to make it home? He could hardly stand, let alone walk.

Perhaps he should just sit there and wait to die. It would be a fitting place for him to end his twenty-two year old life.

Ryan coughed again.

God! He was not going to die. He was going to go through hell, if he didn’t find some money and get another dose soon.

Normally, he would be meeting his dealer, now, get the stuff and walk home, the small, damp, messy flat he shared with Lola.

It would be the spoon, the candle, the syringe, before a dreamless sleep lying on a stained old mattress on the floor, some food, another fix and time sitting with Lola, transfixed by her six foot three figure, her enormous, manly, immaculately manicured hands, her long jet-black hair draping like curtains on the sides of her face, her deep voice softly lulling him into a daze.

She was good, Lola. She let him use the box room virtually for free, only taking money whenever Ryan could pay. She even shared with him her junk, letting him inhale too when she smoked it.

All she wanted from him was his company and a bit of help around the flat, the occasional washing-up, a few trips to the grocery shop to get food and booze.

He would wake up around three in the afternoon and on the kitchen table, among the unwashed crockery and leftovers, he would find a list waiting for him: “get milk, bread, teabags, eggs, bacon and a bottle of vodka. On account, as usual.”

It was always on account. Lola would not trust him with money and she was right. He had already nicked and sold her mobile phone once. After that, she had chucked him out and for a few days and nights, Ryan had lived on the street, until one day she had walked into the greasy spoon where he sat sipping a weak tea, desperately trying to get warm after having slept on the pavement. His sunken eyes and ill appearance must have moved her, because she had taken him back in, but from that day on, she had been very careful not to leave anything of any value in his grasp, locking her bedroom when she left for the gay bar where she worked as a singer.

Occasionally she would let Ryan go with her, when her boss wasn’t around, and he would be able to get clients without walking the streets, which was not only safer, but also better business. Although he would still end up being fucked by some stranger in the back of a car or, at best, in some seedy hotel, on bar nights the money was guaranteed.

He didn’t have great difficulties pulling customers: he was a good looking young man, with delicate features that gave him an almost androgynous appearance, well proportioned despite his height, straight dark hair contrasting with his pale eyes. His addiction gave him a ragged edge that only added to the allure. Heroin-chic.

Bar nights were good nights. He would make enough money to pay for heroin and have some left for Lola. It was an unspoken agreement between them: she’ll take him to the customers, he would pay her the rent.

Selling his body for sex had become routine, something he could easily switch off from, his mind firmly focused on the brief euphoria he would shoot up his arm, but it hadn’t always been like that.

When he first had arrived in Brighton, almost three years earlier, he had lived off the more usual means of thefts and burglaries. Two months inside had cleaned him up, and on his release he had thought it could have a go at a different life, but his good intentions had lasted less then forty-eight hours and he had spiralled down, falling into her arms once more

It had been almost by chance that prostitution had opened up for him, one night that he leaned by a lamppost, desperate for money and drug. A car had curb-crawled by him and a well spoken man had invited him to get on board. They had ended up in a badly lit alleyway, where Ryan had his first experience as a rent-boy.

It filled him with shame and self disgust, but it earned him easy money and soon he had found himself doing it again.

Two years on, he had become numb to everything.

Most clients would go straight down to business, taking him or asking him to perform oral sex. He had had his fair share of violent encounters and abuses, finding himself bruised and humiliated on various occasions and had soon learned that they came with the territory. He was prepared to take the risk every time he followed a stranger in his car or to a room somewhere. He never knew what was in stock for him and just had to hope that he would come out of the experience alive and in one piece.

He had become more and more reckless, accepting to be tied or to use no condoms. For money and for her he’d do anything, these days.

For the most part, they were casual encounters, men he would never meet again, or at least who had not embedded themselves in his mind enough for him to recognise them. Faces tended to become a blur very quickly.

But he had also come across regulars who would seek him out, like the fetishist that wanted him in stockings and suspenders, and made him wear make-up, or the shy gay man looking for company and someone to talk to, as well as sex.

Regulars were good to work with, regardless of their habits or requirements: he knew what to expect and how to behave.

At least most of the time…                                 

Continues in Part Two

Going Cold Feet - an Interview with Sarah Louise Smith

Sarah Louise Smith was here earlier this year to talk about her first novel, Amy & Zach and I’m very pleased to have her back for another chat.

Hallo Sarah, and welcome again to the blog. Since the first time you visited, you have published your second novel, Izzy’s Cold Feet. Tell us a little more about the book.

Thank you for having me back again Michela! Izzy’s Cold Feet starts one week before Izzy’s wedding day, and, as the title suggests, she has cold feet. She’s not sure about her fiancé and keeps thinking about the men she loved before she met him. She then takes the reader on a journey through her past relationships, analysing each one. By the time her wedding day comes, she’s even more confused that ever. In addition, her sister went missing a child, so there’s some additional mystery there.

Amy & Zach followed two people coming from different cultures and was mainly set in Boston, a city you got to know through your work. What are the settings for the new book and why did you choose them?

Most of Izzy’s Cold Feet is set in London, where Izzy lives. I chose London as I could picture Izzy living there, moving around over the years the novel spans. She also visits several places on her travels including France, Switzerland and Italy – the places she goes to are all holiday spots I’ve enjoyed.

In Amy & Zach we had a lost father, in Izzy’s Cold Feet, a missing sister. Estranged/broken families appear to be a recurrent theme. Is family important to you?

Yes... I have a very large family, lots of cousins, step-families, in-laws... Many of my family are also close friends. So I suppose that’s why families and the issues they bring feature heavily.

Which of your characters do you identify mostly with, Amy or Izzy?

Both, a little. Probably Izzy more. I think Amy is quite selfish at times and perhaps represents a younger version of myself. Izzy over analyses everything, which I tend to do. I like and dislike traits in them both.

In the new novel, Izzy has not just one, but four love interests! What makes the perfect chick-lit hero, in your opinion? Have you got a favourite?

He’s not strictly chick-lit (he’s way too posh!) but my favourite romantic hero is Mr Darcy as I’m a huge Jane Austen fan. I also really enjoy the heros in all of Paige Toon’s books – she makes them sound so alluring and charming, even though they have their faults, too. I guess a hero needs to be romantic, funny, kind, handsome...

Last time we chatted, you told me you love cooking and experimenting. Is that a theme you might like to explore in a romantic setting, perhaps?

Funnily enough, Jason, one of the men in Izzy’s Cold Feet, is a Michelin star chef, so there’s a piece of my own interest shining through! I’d quite like to write more about food in my books and the one I’m writing now my protagonist is a keen cook (as is Izzy... do you see a theme?!)

So, what’s next for you, in terms of writing?

I’m writing my third novel. Progress is slow, I’m taking my time with it a bit but I think it’s going alright so far.

Finally, a few random questions:

-         Tea or coffee?  

      Neither. Water!

-         Paperbacks or e-books?  

      E-books (my 25 year old self would hate me)

-         City or country?  

      Country, always.

-         Home or Away?  

      Away, usually.

-         Who would play you in a film about your life?  

      Ooh...someone gorgeous... Zooey Deschanel. I have a girl crush on her.

-         What’s your desert island book? And record?   

      Pride & Prejudice and Shine by Take That (I can hear you cringing Michela, haha!)

-         If you could go back to any time and place, what would it be?  

      I’d go and meet my hero, Jane Austen.

-         “My favourite item of clothing is…”  

       my pink pyjamas

-         “I couldn’t live without…”  

       my husband... my dog a close second ;)

-         “My favourite quote is…”

 “The secret of health for both mind and body is not to mourn for the past, or to worry about the future, but to live in the present moment wisely and earnestly.” – Buddha.

Thanks for chatting to me, Sarah, and best of luck with Izzy’s Cold Feet. Look forward to seeing you again for your next book! 

Thanks for having me!

***

 Sarah Louise Smith lives in Milton Keynes, UK, with her husband, two cute cats and a loopy golden retriever. She has an extremely lovely step-daughter and spends most of her free time writing, reading, cooking, and taking long walks.

She’s the author of two chick-lit novels: Amy & Zach and Izzy’s Cold Feet, both published by Crooked Cat. Read Sarah’s blog at: www.sarahlouisesmith.com.

You can find Sarah on Facebook and Twitter

  Izzy’s Cold Feet

  

One bride to be. Three ex-boyfriends.

Izzy is engaged to Greg, who is everything a girl could want.

The trouble is – all she can think about is the men she loved before she met him: 

sexy Ewan, the first love of her life; 

dependable Jason, who loved her more than she deserved; 

and irresistible Dexter, who broke her heart…

Then there’s the fact that her sister has been missing since Izzy was twelve. 

After such a traumatic childhood all Izzy wants is a normal, happy, settled life, 

but love is never simple.

In the week leading up to her wedding day, Izzy is forced to ask herself who she loves the most. 

And, given the choice, who would she want to spend her life with?

You can purchase the paperback or e-versions from all the usual online book sellers

Amazon UK and Amazon US

 Sarah's first novel, Amy & Zach can be purchased at Amazon UK - Amazon US

Breath of Africa by Jane Bwye

Following in the book settings theme of recent guest posts to my blog, I'm delighted to have Jane Bwye, author of "Breath of Africa" - thirty years of Kenyan history and a lush read. Here Jane takes us through the fabulous landscapes that make up the fabric on which the novel is woven.

***

East Africa’s volcanos, lakes and wildlife are a major character in my novel. Breath of Africa was written as a catharsis when I relocated to the UK twelve years ago, after living for fifty-five years in Kenya. For me, the storyline was secondary to the nostalgic memories I nursed. But thanks to professional advice, my readers have found the book “hard to put down.”

            

African scenery was etched in my soul from the time I wandered up a stony path as a six year old schoolgirl, with the forest-topped rim of Menengai Crater brooding over me. I paused, spied a dandelion head and puffed it away with one blow. My wish was to travel the world - which I achieved by my 60th birthday – but my heart was in Africa.

Menengai, the third largest crater in the world, played a part in the book’s budding romance:

“As evening fell, grey clouds crept along the crater depths and swirled up the cliffs, snatching at them with wispy fingers, as the wind caught and tossed the vapours into nothingness among the trees.

“…A sudden movement distracted them. Brian turned off the track, parting the long grass in front of him.

‘Careful of snakes!’ Caroline warned.

“She followed, treading in his footsteps. As they approached the thrashing, it increased, and she saw the soft brown hide of a female impala,its eyes wide with fright. One leg was caught in a loop of wire.

‘It’s a trap, but the wire hasn’t tightened too much. I’ll see if I can free her.’

“Brian caught hold of the leg, and the animal stilled. She seemed to know they were trying to help. He struggled with the wire and eased it over the hoof. He let go. The doe stood there for a second, then moved her leg and took a small step. She bounded away and the grass closed behind her. It was as if it had never happened.”

           

Ngorongoro Crater in Tanzania was another scene, which progressed the relationship between Caroline and Brian. I went on a memorable safari there in the mid-sixties, and Caroline’s feelings as she first laid eyes on this wonder were my own.

            

“A thunderstorm was progressing along the opposite wall, its deep purple clouds contrasting with the faint browns and greys of the sunlit plain far below. On the left glimmered a lake, behind a tiny patch of forest. Caroline let her eyes wander round the vast rim of the crater. The great canopy of sky overwhelmed her, she breathed in deeply, savouring the immensity of the scene. The breath of Africa filled her being. This was her country, her home.”

Towards the end of the book, as Caroline approaches the evening of her days, she visits Richard Leakey’s famous desert camp on the eastern side of Lake Turkana in Kenya’s northern district. Here, a romance is nipped in the bud. These pictures were taken on my safari there in the 1980’s. Central Island, where I am sitting, features in the book, the pink rim round the lake totalled 3,000 flamingos. The desolate site of the petrified forest is not far from Koobi Fora.

And the dramatic climax of the book takes place at a sand river in the extreme south of Kenya near a soda lake.

“A second roar, more disturbing than the howl of the Mau Mau, filled his world, moving, rocking, spinning. He was flung from side to side, bruising painfully against the gear lever. His head bumped on the roof, his nose banged the windscreen; water everywhere. He couldn’t breathe…”

I don’t have a photograph of this desolate region, but here is one of what the place might have been like, in the aftermath.

***

 

Jane Bwye has been a businesswoman and intermittent freelance journalist for fifty years, mostly in Kenya. She cut short an Oxford career to get married, was widowed in her early twenties, and left with three small children – but was lucky enough to remarry. Now her six children and seven grandkids are scattered over three continents, so she’s developed a taste for travel. She has “walked” round the world, buying a bird book in every country she visited.

She has edited a cookbook, “Museum Mixtures”, in aid of the Kenya Museum Society, and is working on a short History of her local church. Her first novel, Breath of Africa, which is dedicated to the youth of Kenya, had a gestation period of thirty years. The plot and characters are fictitious, but the story draws on Jane’s experiences in a country going through the throes of re-birth.

You can find out more about Jane and Breath of Africa on her site and blog

BREATH OF AFRICA

Thirty years of Kenya’s recent history unfold through the lives of Caroline, a privileged woman from the fertile highlands, and Charles Ondiek, a farm labourer with dreams of an Oxford education.

Charles’s love for Teresa, daughter of a hated settler farmer, leads to a drama of psychological terror fuelled by Mau Mau oath administrator, Mwangi, who is held in detention for six years.

On his release, Mwangi forces Charles and Teresa apart, then turns his attention to Caroline… Against the backdrop of Kenya’s beautiful but hostile desert, the curse is finally broken. But when Caroline discovers the hidden reason for Mwangi’s hatred, she wonders if she’ll ever, really, belong in the country she loves.