Chapter 29

It was as though Sharon’s guts were in a tumble drier, and her blood was simultaneously being heated and cooled in a professional food preparation factory. Her brain scrambled as fighter pilots react to war. But in this war, the enemy was at the controls. She thrashed on the bed like a mad woman, similar to a fit, though this was not mental illness asserting its right over her body; it was man’s most addictive refined drug.

With most fights, there is a foreseeable end in sight. In most smart warfare anyway. The dangers to any armed force are fatigue, dis-information and lack of a willingness to go on. Sharon strained with weakening determination, like a dehydrated marathon runner quits on a scorching day bent over catching a breath. She was tired, worn and weak. Every hour stretched into the horizon, each seemed so far away, and those covered so far gone.

This war was a real one. It was plain to see to an observer that Sharon taking on an enemy that was heavily entrenched. The stress, the physical fight, and the pain involved were taking their toll. To many, what she was enduring would seem inhumane. But those same people will turn a blind eye to her thirty clients a week having sex with her so she could afford to fund her heroin habit. Some would suggest methadone which is harder to withdraw from, yet would leave her with nothing to do between hits.

As her body tried to cleanse itself in sweat, and she came in and out of consciousness she remembered seeing both Christine and David at her side. Her body took great pains to force its master to relieve it. Withdrawal involves pain. Because heroin, a highly processed derivative of morphine is essentially a painkiller with extraordinary inflated prices. It’s a money making scourge of our modern society that feeds on the apathy of the general populace. It serves its suppliers well. And which companies would be able to resist a ten thousand percent mark-up. For this reason, those who create it and supply it design it to be powerfully addictive. Its users worship it. And there is a tremendous brand loyalty, the all-important factor in any serious marketing enterprise. Addicts sell their soul for it; they rob, steal and destroy themselves and property to purchase it. Yes they are loyal customers. And they bow to the master.

Do-gooders and bureaucrats say they shouldn’t withdraw on their own. But it’s fine to overdose alone. They should go into therapy, and classical drug hospice units. But no one ever asks why these government-regulated centres exist and how they suit the heroin suppliers interests. For the heroin makers, these detox centres are temporary pit stops for the users, who in the majority of cases return to the master with greater dedication then before. Another federally funded detoxification unit was the prison system. With eighty percent of its inmates on drug related crimes, it was a place of rest, detox and re-gathering. There was a whole industry to protect thousands of jobs and billions of dollars invested each year to maintain the facade. No government could dare to be tough on drugs; the whole penal system would virtually disappear. With eighty percent of inmates coming from the drug trade, and seventy percent of heroin addicts having a past that included sexual abuse, paedophilia was an art form that needed protecting, for without it, our economy would collapse.

Sharon had more then a battle with her physical withdrawal on her hands. Going cold turkey wasn’t only demanding it was not politically correct. Healing oneself completely took away the need for therapists, doctors, hospitals and psychiatric drugs. There was another whole industry and billions of dollars invested in keeping her in the system. Go on swap from the illegal drug, heroin, to the legal one, methadone. But don’t you go and heal the cause of your wounds. Just let’s treat your systems. Let us run your life with prescription medication, and a pension. Let us use our resources, give us a reason to exist, and support our supporters until you feel the need to return to heroin.

Sharon had a battle on her hands. To give up. To heal and to recover from the impossible. She was a fighter. She had spirit. But right now she fought the beast physically, emotionally and spiritually. And it was hard. It wasn’t supposed to be easy.

She wondered from time to time, why she had decided to give the heroin up. She wasn’t quite sure of the reason. Hours before she had said the words that put this withdrawal in action, but the why of it now eluded her. Replaced instead, was a sense of foreboding and a sinking feeling.

One thing she did remember vividly though, was the visit she had received from Jesus. His hand, his tenderness, his voice that spoke directly to her soul. She could see his eyes, masking a pain, similar to Dave’s, and she knew he had an answer for her. She remembered the feeling of peace and happiness she felt in his presence and could see and feel the evidence of the healing in her body. She called on his name, from time to time, as her comfort was stretched to seemingly impossible limits. It was then that she felt his arms of love comfort her. She couldn’t fully comprehend the peace that surrounded her, she didn’t need to, and she just bathed in the feelings that washed over her.

She knew she was in a battle of sorts. It was a dangerous battle where the prize was her very life. Dark feelings tried constantly to invade her consciousness and entice her into contemplating death, whilst at the same time positive thoughts and God’s reassurance waited patiently, at the door of her mind, to be invited in to comfort her. She found more and more, without consciously being aware of it that she was inviting the comfort of God into her life, and shying away from the negative.

The battle switched from one tack to another. Suddenly scenes of past times and places flashed up into her mind. She could see Joanne, naked in her spa. Laughter rang into the air, and she saw herself hugging Joanne. She saw Joanne’s smile heard her infectious chuckle, all so wonderfully refreshing, so natural and self-assured. She cherished those memories now. She had to get up and get out of this addiction. She owed it to Joanne, just as she owed it all to those who came after her. Pushed by this thought she remembered more. The secret times behind closed doors; experiences they’d shared together, a laugh, a glimpse, all of the fragments of memory stood, exposed silently as a memorial in her mind.

That’s right get up Sharon. You can do it. You need to do it. Think of Mike’s words about being a counsellor. What better encouragement then one who overcomes? My raising myself from death gives you the power to raise yourself. Go on. Get up. Many depend on you. Remember Joanne. Use the pain, grow with it, and let it strengthen you. Set an example, and then I can use you.

The loss of Joanne had pierced Sharon’s heart. The thought of not seeing her alive again, was a thought too hard to comprehend. The pain of the loss seared her soul; grief threatened to overcome her. The hurt was hard to put into words, so unique and deep was the feeling. In Joanne’s death a very real and tangible part of Sharon’s being had taken flight. She felt more inclined towards death than to life itself.

Death had an uncanny finality about it. It was an enigma. Though a natural and unavoidable part of life, questions always remained as to its purpose. Questions regarding the meaning of life and the reasons why we live and breathe. Happily, death fosters re- generation and the beginnings of new life. Sharon had witnessed fire rip through forests and years later, the same forests seemed healthier for it. Perhaps there was a purpose in Joanne’s death. She agreed with the small voice that spoke into her conscious mind. She did owe it to others, to set an example. She had to try.

A small flame in her soul burnt now. The flame was warming her heart, becoming a balm to her wounds. As the trauma of Joanne’s death and the physical and psychological pain of heroin withdrawal pushed her to put another needle into her arm, a new spiritual flower of peace and assurance of life was starting to bloom.

In the midst of decay, and torment, a flower began to grow and open into maturity. It started to open it’s petals, whilst facing opposition. Weeds of doubt and low self-esteem tried to strangle its growth, and guilt, the strongest of all, almost succeeded. Without the knowledge to successfully combat the weeds, she did combat them without even knowing what she did. Every time a thought threatened to choke her, she quoted one of the Bible verses Jesus had spoken to her out aloud. Each time she used scripture the weed would shrink away, and soon another variety was growing. She found after a few such battles in her mind that the more she claimed as truth the promises Jesus had spoken to her, the more she felt the strength of the weeds diminish.

Dave had sat and watched Sharon in her withdrawal. At times his throat tightened with pain, as he felt for her. Although he didn’t physically know what it was like to withdraw from heroin he could empathise due to the fact that he’d seen others going through like struggles. He knew it was more difficult than giving up cigarettes, and psychologically probably as hard or harder than abstaining from alcohol. He could see the struggle Sharon was going through, and as he had watched he prayed silently that God would minister to her crying needs.

He’d seen withdrawal before. He knew it was near impossible for a junkie to kick the habit. Previous homosexual partners of his had tried, only to return to it shortly afterwards, due to personal difficulties. Like an alcoholic falls off the wagon, so a heroin addict seeks solace in the all-encompassing feeling of heroin. The sheer personal fortitude needed to climb out of the addiction was enormous.

*******

The day had been one of great anticipation for Peter. As he lay his head on his pillow sleep eluded him. Overcome with a rush, that familiar rush of having killed he closed his eyes. Had it been Sharon or Joanne to take the heroin?

He didn’t know if he’d be able to sleep until he knew. During the day he’d taken a train into the city. He’d watched a movie then sat for a time in the McDonald’s opposite Joey’s just sipping a coke. Both the coke and the movie were refreshing, yet neither of them could prevent him from thinking of the girls.

He’d been at McDonald’s for a couple of hours after having arrived at half past four in the afternoon. He wondered why he hadn’t seen either of the girls. Finally, it dawned on him that it was their day off

He had a new swing on life, the type that comes with fulfilling destiny. It all revolved around his new novel. He was a natural. Born to kill, he was a walking nightmare. It made him so happy; it fulfilled him in so many ways, making him feel worthy, strong, in charge, empowered and wickedly smart. He especially enjoyed the adrenaline rush it created as he killed. The heroin was a great score. He’d got it months ago. That kill wasn’t in the book. Some things weren’t good for the public to know.

The new Peter had even flowed over into his marriage. His sex life with Doris had certainly improved. He’d found himself wondering how he was going to keep up the excitement. He found also that he was eager to complete the remainder of his chapter.

Whilst contemplating this, his wife awoke, stirred by his constant shifting in their bed.

"What’s up Peter?" she asked, still half asleep.

"Oh I’m just deep in thought " he replied, surprised. He didn’t want to alarm her, and he couldn’t tell her the real reason for his concern.

Happy with that, she turned on her side again and closed her eyes. " Well can you stop shifting about?"

"Okay." Peter replied. He didn’t mean to disturb her. He didn’t want her to take a day off due to him tossing and turning. After he’d thought for a minute or two, he decided to go downstairs to his study.

When he turned on the light above his desk he saw something that made his stomach turn over. There, held down by his penholder was a note written in large red letters with the words ‘WHAT IS THIS?’ An arrow pointed to a letter that lay beside it.

He gasped for air as he began to read. Questions bombarded his brain and he had to consciously block them out as he read the letter again:

Dear mum,

I know it has been years since I have contacted you, and I’m disappointed that I have to be writing this letter under these circumstances, yet I feel I must.

I work as a hooker in Kings Cross and last Saturday I took some heroin a client supplied that to me. Today I found out it had been given to me with the express intent of making me sick. Because it was a Saturday night, a good money-spinner, I still decided to work even though I was feeling very weak from the heroin.

A client, or supposed client, rang to make a booking, and I arranged to see him at seven thirty. After having a coffee with my friend Sharon as I normally do I went home at six thirty. I had decided to take it easy and make the seven thirty my first client. Within minutes of getting home, only about five minutes walk away, a knock came to my door. I opened it assuming it was probably my friend Sharon, who’d forgotten to tell me something, or wanted to borrow some clothes.

What confronted me was a sight I never wish to see again. I had opened the door to Peter, your husband, my stepfather, who when asked why he was there, replied that he was my seven thirty appointment. He pushed his way into my apartment and I told him there was no way I would sleep with him. At that point he withdrew a knife from under his coat and told me he’d have sex with me now, or he’d have sex with me after he’d sliced me up.

I lunged at him. He hit me and knocked me to the floor. I was groggy from the bad heroin, which he’d previously provided me with, through another client, so I couldn’t fight off his advances.

He approached me eagerly. He had a disgusting, sick look on his face, aiming once again to have his way with me. I closed my eyes and then he raped me...

Rape couldn’t describe the unspeakable act he did to me. The roughness and harshness of his actions left me broken inside and out. I was physically ill just remembering what he demanded of me.

I write this letter for a couple of reasons. I’m not sure that you love me anymore, and I know we haven’t got on so well since you married Peter. I know that you were aware of the incest yet I know you chose to ignore it. I appeal to you as a daughter who still cares for you to take a clear look at this man you call husband. His attack on me at that time, with that bad heroin in my system was no mistake. It was, planned and coldly brought to reality, by a man who is obsessed.

The second reason is that I fear for my life. I don’t know if he’ll attack me again. I’m not sure what his plans are, but I’m worried for my safety. I appeal to you as a mother, to help me in any way you can. Please talk to him, or even warn me if you think he is planning anything. Don’t get me wrong. I am not trying to make you feel guilty, or wreck your marriage. I’m not even sure yet if I will post this letter.

I can arrange to have him professionally hit, and killed, yet I wouldn’t do that to you. I threatened him however, if he should try to see me again, that I would arrange for that to happen. I left your house six years ago, quite prepared to leave you in peace. I’m now not sure whether that can be so, because your husband has disturbed the situation.

My return address is on the back of the envelope and my phone number is at the top of the page.

Please write to me if you can and tell me what action you have taken, and what you feel I should do.

All my love Joanne.

PS I have enclosed this letter with my will, in case anything untoward happens to me in the meantime.

Pain streaked from one temple to the other through Peter’s head. This letter would become a real problem. If Joanne died this letter would be very incriminating evidence. He knew his prints were on the bag of heroin he left.

Sick with nausea he ran to the downstairs toilet. As he washed his mouth out in the bathroom he looked into the mirror. He saw that his grey hairs appeared white. His face reddened, his eyes withdrew in defeat and he splashed water on his face to shock himself back into the world of the living. When he looked into the mirror, he saw a reflection of Doris in the mirror. She had Joanne’s letter in her hands. As he looked at his wife, her image changed into that of a memory, and he saw his mother standing holding up a report card.

"What’s the meaning of this!"

He bowed his head and cowed away. He wished he could vanish. He wished he could undo his deeds. Not because he’d not achieved, but because he’d failed. He hated confrontations. He wanted so much for his mother to love him. Yet her words stung him, just like the blows that would surely follow. The physical pain didn’t worry him, as in a strange way he’d come to enjoy pain. It was her words. It was the way she shouted at him and the memories of the bad things she had said about him.

"I asked you what was the meaning of this!" Doris repeated.

Her voice shook him back to the present. It wasn’t his mother with a report card after all. It was his wife. But she was the same. She had the same tone in her voice. It was the same accusation that made him feel weak, small and a failure. Her mass bore down on him through those familiar-accusing eyes. He mumbled something quite inaudible.

"Speak up Peter. Spit it out." Her eyes drilled into him. Her condescending tone said it all. "Come on you coward of a man, is this true?"

He didn’t look up again. He just nodded. What else could he do? Given time he could have made up an excuse he was sure, yet time hadn’t swung his way. His whole life hung in the balance, and that balance was in the hands of Doris....

*******

Sharon cried out in pain. It shook Christine from her sleep in a sofa chair next to her bed. Her eyes adjusted to the dimness and she immediately went to Sharon’s side. Sharon saw her and responded with a weak smile as Christine took her hand. In the dimness lit only by the glow of a streetlight coming through the upstairs bedroom window, she could barely make out Sharon’s face on the pillow. She was beautiful to look at, even in the pain she was in. Her features were flawless, her skin shining with a glistening of sweat.

"Is there anything I can get for you Sharon?" Christine asked concerned.

"Get me a hit, Christine. Get me some gear man. I’m loosing the battle. I can’t do this cold turkey. I may have to do counselling and then try. Please! "

Christine knew this plea was coming. Now it had arrived, it was a sort of relief. So Sharon had thought her the most accessible to a cry for mercy. But she’d thought wrong this time.

"Sharon I’m here to help you, and the best way I can do this is to help you achieve what you decided to do. This withdrawal is what you wanted. This is why you are in my house. I care for you Sharon, and that makes me say, ‘no’. "

"Who do you think you are? It’s my life! " Sharon lashed out, "Let me make the decisions about what’s best."

Sharon went to get out of the bed and Christine shouted to Dave who was asleep in the next room. He joined her within thirty seconds and hurriedly pressed his body against Sharon’s to keep her in the bed. He could feel her strength as she pushed against him, yet he also felt her weakening. She stopped pushing, embraced him and started to sob.

"Help me David. Please help me. You understand me, you, more than anyone knows what it’s like to let go. I can’t make it David. Love me enough to help me. Please. " She sobbed in sheer desperation.

Dave had heard these words before. He’d said them himself. Just give me another drink and I’ll get over my problems and then give up. They sounded so good, so convincing, yet they were wrong. It was because he loved her that he replied. "I understand Sharon. Really I do. I know the struggle that’s ahead of you. Yet I know there’s a light at the end of the tunnel too. I’ve been there, and I want to share it with you. I love you Sharon so I’ll say this. I’ll give you what you need."

He felt Sharon relax, her hug seemed to lighten as she anticipated his response. She was about to say something when he continued.

"What you need Sharon is understanding, and someone to look out for you. You won’t find any answers in the heroin you want. You know that. That’s why I’m here, and that’s why I’ll be with you until this is over."

Christine watched and listened. Dave’s answer was remarkable. He understood her ploy to twist him, and yet redirected her attention to her real needs. She thought for a moment, as she watched Sharon sob into his loving arms, that he would make a powerful counsellor one-day. What would make him so powerful was the fact that he’d been there. He understood life in the gutter, because he’d lived it. He understood the down and outs, because he’d paid his dues. The Dave she saw in action before her today had an answer that was real. His life brought hope to the hopeless. Indisputable hope, because the changes in him were so evident that you couldn’t argue against them.

She’d heard Sharon address him as David. That really surprised her. No one was allowed to call him by that name, not even herself with all the effort and tears she had invested in his life. She understood his reasoning behind it, and wasn’t offended that she couldn’t call him by that name, yet hearing Sharon call him that, confounded her. It meant that Sharon, in the short time she had known Dave, must hold a very special place in his heart. And for that she was pleased, both for Sharon and for her David.

Christine left the room shortly after and went to her bedroom to sleep with her husband. It was 3 am in the morning and she knew that if she didn’t get any sleep she would be useless in the morning. Pulling back a sheet she climbed silently into bed.

"How is she?" Nathaniel asked, as she settled in.

"She’ll be okay." Christine replied, more confidently than she believed.

*******

Peter fell to the floor. His legs had given way. The same old feelings of his childhood washed over him, yet today as a grown man half a century later, he knew he wasn’t a boy anymore. He was a killer, and his wife, it seemed, was on to him. From behind her back she held up his new manuscript and asked, "What’s this all about?"

Peter, like a trapped beast of the fields, launched himself in attack. The pure instinct of survival overwhelmed him as he rose to his feet and tackled her. His actions were one of frenzy, uncontrolled and certainly not premeditated. He slammed his fists into his wife’s face. Her screams mingled with those of his own, yet he was determined. Her condescending voice would stop. His mother’s voice, Doris’s voice, would stop. Everything would stop, and life for them would cease to exist.

As his fist pummelled her face, her chest, and her body, the rage inside him, instead of decreasing, actually increased. The harder he hit her, the more he enjoyed it. Her blood started streaming over his hands and his face as he continued. Her nose was broken in several places. A gurgling sound came from the back of her throat, yet he couldn’t hear it. Her body jerked in spasms, involuntarily, his murderous rage increased with each blow. The blood, the sheer brutality of the abuse started to mellow his rage and it changed into excitement.

As the excitement flowed through his veins, he carried her boisterously to the kitchen. He wasn’t cowering anymore; he was speaking up for himself. He was shouting at her. Yes, he’d done it and it thrilled him. "I’m sick of you, you sleazy bitch!" he yelled as he removed a knife from the kitchen cupboard with one hand, while holding her unconscious body by the hair with the other. One quick slash across the throat and that was it. He’d killed her. Her nagging voice had gone forever.

He was surprised at his own coolness. Twenty minutes ago, it had seemed that his whole life was ruined. Now, as he sat, perched on a stool next to the phone, drinking the coke he’d poured on top of a scotch with ice, he felt like David after slaying Goliath. Instead of guilt, he felt relief, instead of pity he could taste his triumph.

He sat sipping slowly, on his scotch and coke, pondering for a few minutes. It was great really, a bit of suspense for his novel, a quick change of plans and within hours he’d be off to another country. Asia would gladly welcome his first novel, the masterpiece that it was. The second was becoming better as it progressed; though the major plot needed some revision. He had become the character he was writing about and from this moment on, every move he’d made would be that of his character, and every move of that character would be his. He had become his creation and as he poured himself another drink he said aloud.

"I’ll drink to that!"

Four hours later in the early dawn of a new day, Peter’s international flight to Bangkok flew upwards from Sydney’s International airport. He’d only renewed his passport a few weeks ago, and yesterday his second stage superannuation rollover had fallen due. It would be close, right down to the wire, yet in Bangkok, with fifteen thousand Australian dollars, and a best-selling manuscript already written he was sure to survive another season.