JOSS

The dark street smells rank; a nearby skip overflows with boxes and refuse adds to the piss stench. I'm jittery, tensed and scouting out the area as I walk towards the high-rise block of flats.

Two kids sit in the dirty stairwell, smoking and drinking. Not even teens. Eleven years old maybe? They nod at me in recognition, but edge away as I pass them.

The fucking lift is broken again.

As I stomp past the kids and upstairs, I stare down at my dirty jeans and tattered black and white Converse. Thank fuck I have the energy to climb ten flights of stairs tonight.

My phone sounds and I pull it out, sliding nicotine-stained fingers across the screen. Aimee. Another in a long line of increasingly urgent messages asking me to call her.

I scroll through the recent ones; I'll reply to those worth my while later. Four flights into my ten-flight climb, I pause and place a hand on the stairwell. The rush in my bloodstream still misses something, and I pull a packet of smokes from inside my leather jacket.

One lit, and between my lips, I keep going.

I reach Aimee’s floor, step down the familiar hallway, which shares the same delightful sight and scent of poverty. Some doors look like they were kicked in recently, probably by the residents too.

I'm glad I worked my way out of this fucking hellhole.

I keep my finger on the doorbell, which buzzes incessantly. Half the time the fuckers are too out of it to hear me. Their loss because I'm not coming back again. They waste my fucking time; they can find another dealer.

I pull my finger away and rub at the indent the button left on the tip.

Fuck this.

I drop my cigarette butt to the floor and lean against the wall to check where I'm due next. Seriously, the arsehole who's supposed to do my run tonight had better watch his back, especially if he's stolen anything.

One more try.

I press the bell again, this time stopping and starting like an alarm.

Someone shuffles along the hallway. Normally she shouts but today, silence.

The door opens and Aimee regards me. I remember when she was hot, could pick and choose from the clients lining up. Now most of them come from me, desperate to feed her addiction, taking anything she can. Her gaunt face and over-dyed hair join her half-starved, addicted body.

"You're a fucking mess," I tell her. "Put some makeup on, for fuck's sake."

She's not scared of me, not anymore. She doesn't feel anything, I'm sure. She gave me her money, her youth, her life; Aimee is a shell of the girl I knew from school. I stare at her puffy face.

"You’ve been crying? What happened?"

"Chanelle." She wraps her thin arms around herself, wide-eyed like a trapped animal.

Instinctively, I step in front of the doorway and shove it closed behind me. "What? Did she leave? I warned her what would happen if she did!"

Aimee shakes her head and a tear flies across her cheek. "She's…"

“She’s what?”

Aimee points toward an open doorway.

I walk into the lounge room, trashed, a stolen TV in one corner and a stained mattress in another. The place is usually full of stoners, who’d be homeless otherwise. Not today. A girl is slumped on the sofa, on her back and a slack arm hanging over the edge.

Fuck.

I've seen this enough times to know what I'm looking at.

"How long?" I growl and stride over.

"I don't know," replies Aimee in a meek voice. "Is she dead? She looks dead."

I chew a nail. Fuck. “Maybe. OD’d? Does she have a pulse?"

Looking at the state of her, I'd lay bets there’s no maybe here.

"You know she's dead." I spin around at the voice behind and a guy stands in the hallway. Tall, hard face with a nose broken too many times. Tattoos cover his skin, on his neck stretching towards his cheek.

Gun pointing at my face.

"You killed my sister last week with your poisonous shit, you evil bastard. She was getting herself clean and you fucked her over."

I reach into my jacket and close my fingers around my gun, but this guy isn't here to negotiate, or waste his chance.

Gunfire sounds and the shadows swallow my life.