Shooter: A Short Story

I am momentarily distracted by the request of another patron at the bar, and by the time I regain my train of thought, Adam and Sophie have walked out of earshot. It is, however, no great issue, as I am lifted from my slightly sticky spot on the bar and placed into a sink, under a running hot faucet. I can feel the barman’s hand washing the remnants of tequila off me before drying me roughly on a cloth that smells of beer and dampness. The crack in my side forges deeper, yet it is still unnoticeable to the naked eye. I am placed somewhat delicately on a rubber bar mat – I wish I could stay in this room, it’s quiet and I am treated with a lot more respect than I am elsewhere. I cringe as I am on the receiving end of the viscous, black, herbal liquid, and dropped into a glass of carbonated amber coloured liquid. I am surrounded on all sides, and I begin to feel claustrophobic, like I am drowning.

 

“I told you this bar’d be empty,” I hear a male voice. I think it comes from the person holding the glass that holds me, and we begin to move, back up the darkened staircase and into the strobing room, the humidity in which has reached the levels of an Amazonian rainforest. To me, surrounded by liquid, it still sounds as if the DJ is playing the same song he was five hours ago, and it wouldn’t surprise me if this were true. I expect to be taken to the centre of the dance floor, but instead, the man holding me traverses around the crowd and takes me into a well lit room, where I can hear the chatter of a few small groups of people. The music is still audible, but the sound becomes dull as the door closes behind us. I hear a flush, the running of a tap, the angry blow of a hand dryer, and I realise I am in the bathroom, surrounded by people.

 

“Come on Daniel, get that down you and we can get down to business,” another voice speaks out, and I feel myself tilting within the tumbler glass the liquids mix and fall into the man’s mouth. I hear his gulp, feel the pressure of his lips on the rim of the glass, and he sighs as he releases the tumbler, placing it down on a small shelf that lies just underneath a bank of mirrors. There is a small faux leather sofa along the back wall, and this is where the man sits – I can see the reflection of the room in the mirror above me. The man who drank from me looks vaguely familiar, perhaps I saw him earlier in the night – he sports a dark grey blazer, dark blue skinny jeans, and a white shirt buttoned right up to the collar. His dark blonde hair is short on the sides and long on the top, slicked back with gel, and his face is clean shaven. On his left wrist is an especially shiny gold watch that reads 02:43.
Daniel and his companion sit on the sofa for a few minutes in total silence, their eyes pan the room until the final straggler leaves. They are alone in the bathroom, and Daniel gives his friend a sly nod, before pulling an expensive looking leather wallet out of his back jeans pocket. He opens it, rifles through the overly ostentatious collection of twenty pound notes in the back, and pulls out a small plastic bag hidden somewhere in the middle. It is filled with a very fine, very bright white powder, and Daniel’s companion’s eyes widen.

“How much did you bring?!” he whispers, a hint of nervousness clouding his voice.

“Enough,” Daniel replies, his voice is calm, collected, and he taps a small amount of the white powder onto the plastic surface of the shelf upon which I am situated. He pulls a black American Express card from his wallet, and begins tapping it against the powder, forming it into a line. His eyes are lit up with a special kind of excitement, and I can’t help but wonder if this is his first dose of the powder tonight.

“Do you want first hit?” he turns towards his friend, who shakes his head. He looks wary, and I conclude that he is far less experienced in this than Daniel is.

 

Daniel leans over, a couple of his well-gelled hairs fall out of place as he holds his left middle finger tightly against his left nostril, before inhaling deeply, the powder lifting into him. As he reaches the end of the line, his head jerks back and he shakes slightly, a sick look of pleasure forms upon his face. He strongly exhales, smiling, before opening his eyes, tapping more powder out, and preparing another line of the drug. This time, his friend leans forward to take a hit. His reaction is less of euphoria than Daniel’s, and he sits back, shaking his head. He knows he is doing something wrong, but he can’t stop himself. They both lift their arms and absentmindedly wipe at their noses – Daniel uses his forefinger and thumb, his friend uses the heel of his hand.

“Fancy another?” Daniel asks, as two young men, around eighteen in age, walk into the bathroom. They both see the remnants of white powder on the surface, and begin to retreat back to the bar, but Daniel stares at them until they stop in their tracks.

“Want some, boys?” he asks, almost menacingly. I can tell from the looks in these boy’s eyes that they are far too scared to say no – this emotion, mixed with the curiosity of partaking in something they have never experienced before, causes them to join the two slightly older men in the corner of the bathroom.

“It’s gonna cost you boys,” Daniel’s friend speaks out, and the two recent additions to the party look at him with puzzled looks on their faces. “We don’t give it away for free.”

The taller of the two boys pulls his wallet out of his pocket and glances briefly inside it. “How much?”

“Give me twenty and you can both have a line,” Daniel responds authoritatively, and I sense a feeling of realisation as the wad of twenty pound notes in his wallet is explained. The tension in the room grows, and the boy pulls a twenty pound note out of his wallet, leaving the five pound note that remains there feeling rather lonely. Daniel taps two more lines out on the surface covered in water marks, and the two boys lean over and inhale the illicit substance. The smaller of the two seems to enjoy the experience, even going so far as to stare at himself with pride in the mirror opposite him. He feels as though he has experience some kind of rite of passage, feels more complete as a man than he did mere moments ago. His friend, however, turns pale, places his hand next to me for support as his knees buckle. His pupils dilate unnaturally, and he clasps a hand to his mouth as the high takes him too far. He stumbles to the nearest cubicle, and I can see the smirk on Daniel’s face as he listens to the boy wretch, groan as the taste of acid fills his mouth and is projected into the toilet bowl.

“Some people just can’t handle it,” Daniel laughs, sealing the plastic baggie and placing it lovingly back into his wallet, which he tucks safely into his back pocket.
The boy that remains there, standing in front of Daniel, quickly changes from looking concerned for his friend, to looking in awe at the drug dealer. He has never been remotely associated with someone he deems this important, and he silently wishes that Daniel will ask him to join them for the remainder of the night.

Daniel, however, ignores the boy, stands, looks at his friend, and starts towards the sink, jostling the boy as he does so. He has no time for these people – these people who think that sharing a line means they will become friends for life. He twists the stiff tap, collecting the cold water in a slightly cupped hand, bringing it to his face and splashing it against closed eyes in a vain attempt to banish the redness that surrounds his irises. He once more brushes his hand against the tip of his nose, then down the front of his blazer, not quite completely ridding the expensive fabric of small white grains. He does not look back, but instead holds his hand out behind him, and his friend grasps onto it tightly, his head bowed in some kind of show of submission.

“Let’s go, pet.”
I am once more abandoned, alone. The boy is still retching in the nearest cubicle, his friend now helping him. I can hear his reassuring tone, but not the words he is saying. I silently watch as people come and go, none as interesting or terrifying as Daniel and his ‘pet’. After a while, they all begin to look like carbon copies of one another, all dressed in the uniform of black jeans and shirts done up to the collar, all loosely holding a bottle of beer in their hands. I sigh, becoming tired of the repetitive nature that my night has become consumed by, and I tune out my surroundings, eagerly awaiting my collection by another club employee.