The Gray Institute (The Gray Institute Trilogy Book 1)

Chapter One

I love the smell of London; always have, always will.

Smoke, fast food and rank pollution carries on the wind across Piccadilly Circus, a familiar scent; the scent of home.

More recognisable to me now than my own face.

When it rains in central London, it's as if the city itself comes alive; filled with the hustle and bustle of thousands of people hurrying through the wet streets, shrouded by umbrellas like ants, filling the pavement in their droves.

The lights on the towering billboards refract in the raindrops, the tyres of the big black taxis crunch over wet tarmac, the performers and street sellers call out to the public, demanding attention but going unnoticed in the nameless, faceless crowds.

No, I have never been anywhere quite like London.

I was born here, so it seems more than fitting that I should die here.

The wind is sharp and cold on a vicious October night and my cheeks are raw and tender, bathed in a mixture of rain and tears. Even huddled in my doorway beneath a blanket, I'm as cold as ice and my hands shake so uncontrollably I fear I won't be able to get the job done. Every now and then a stranger walks by, some see me, some don't, but the ones that do pretend they don't.

It's easier that way, I know.

Occasionally, I hear them mutter under their breath, things like
junkie scum-bag
or
waste of skin
, but I'm used to that – it stopped bothering me long ago.

The cardboard boxes beneath me are soaking up the rain, drenching my worn jeans and squelching uncomfortably around my thighs. As litter blows past my feet, I check the empty cigarette packets for a forgotten fag; a force of habit. I'm distracting myself – perhaps deliberately – from the task at hand. I know that I must stop side-tracking, face my fears and do what I set out to do over two months ago.

I pull the drawstring bag from my shoulder and tip its contents out onto the cardboard, careful to choose an area that's still dry. I have all the equipment I need and, for a split second, I feel a surge of pride. For once in my life I've managed to achieve something. Planned and organised myself in order to succeed in an endeavour, though – I admit – not quite one to be proud of.  

I line my tools up neatly and uniformly within arms reach, ticking them off my mental list:

1 teaspoon I stole from a café in Camden Town,

1 long wooden coffee stirrer from Starbucks,

1 full bottle of water,

1 dirty, yellow Clipper lighter,

1 strip torn from a plastic carrier bag,

1 clean, brand new syringe,

5 small folded squares of lottery ticket paper.

I'm particularly careful with the lottery paper squares, shielding them with my cupped hand from the rain water. Displayed before me are the very items that will take away my pain forever, leaving me with no shame and no regrets.

It's been a long time since I saw these instruments grouped together – six months is a long time for any recovering addict – and I feel a ripple of excitement and anticipation. These past six months have tested my willpower to the limit and it feels liberating to be able to let go of my self-control and finally allow my body the thing it so badly craves.

It's taken me a while to gather the supplies I need. The teaspoon and other everyday items were easy to steal and pilfer, but the little wraps of fine brown powder took far more of my time and energy.

When I began this journey, when this idea first formed in my mind and I started to plan, I swore I wouldn't do anything else to degrade myself in order to acquire it. I'd degraded myself far too much already at the mercy of its vice-like grip. But begging on street corners doesn't pay well – and I was more desperate this time.

Eventually, I was forced to use faster, far more sinister practices in order to get paid. I knew another addict, a woman a few years older than me, who sold herself to feed her habit. She'd once offered to show me the ropes and I'd politely declined – I still had morals back then, if only a few. But after weeks of begging and earning hardly anything, I'd gone back and taken her up on her offer.

That was my lowest point. I knew then I had truly hit rock bottom, which only steeled my resolve.

I have no idea how – or indeed if – my plan will work. I haven't been near a phone, let alone a computer, in months so unfortunately I couldn't look up the exact effects overdosing will have on my body. All I can do now is hope. Hope for an end. Hope for an absolution that will probably never come.

For a moment, I pause, stopping to take in my surroundings. I close my eyes to breathe in the scents, to hear the sirens of police cars and shouts from the local pub, the nearby traffic and the quick, urgent footsteps of passers by.

Since it's nearly the end, for the first time in almost a year I allow myself to indulge in memories of home; of my mother with her pretty Scottish accent, my father with his firm but kindly face. The smell of our living room, the dull hum of the television, my mother clattering in the kitchen, forever asking if anyone is hungry.

I miss her so much it crushes my heart, forming a hard, uncomfortable lump in my throat.

The worst mistake of my life was leaving her.

I furiously blink away the tears, cursing my weakness at this vital moment, and pick up the first small paper square. I unfold it slowly and carefully, leaning far back into my doorway so the wind doesn't blow it away. For a moment, I just stare at it, taking in its appearance. For so long now this precious brown powder has felt like a person to me. A being with its own character and personality; sometimes my friend, sometimes my enemy. The hold that it had over me felt like a physical force, like the substance itself was controlling me on purpose, compelling me to take it. But now I see that it was me all along. Just me. That this substance I hold in my hand is only that: a substance.
I
chose to abuse it.

I smooth the paper out and tip the powder gently onto the teaspoon. Calmly, I reach for the bottle of water, pop the cap and drizzle a tiny amount into the mixture, using the coffee stirrer to blend it into a thick paste. This process is acutely familiar to me, as easy as breathing – though usually I'd only use one of the paper squares – and I reach for the second to repeat the method, adding a little more water for dilution.

When all the paper squares are empty, the teaspoon is almost over-flowing and I hastily grab the lighter, pressing down on the wheel to spark a small flame. My hands are numb from the cold, my body aches with exhaustion and I struggle to keep the fire alight as I hold it beneath the spoon. I put the lighter down and use the stirrer again to carefully mix my ingredients before reaching for the plastic strip.

I slide the sleeve of my jumper up to my armpit and tie the plastic around my arm, just above the elbow, using my teeth to pull it tight. I wait a moment, until the throbbing blue vein rises beneath my pale white skin. I reach for the syringe, break it out of its packet, and retrieve the teaspoon from the floor before inserting the tip of the needle into the dirty brown liquid. I pull back on the plunger and watch the solution slowly fill the clear plastic tube until the spoon is empty. It's hypnotic and satisfying, knowing all the work I've put into this, all the time, all the effort, is right here in this syringe.

With my left arm outstretched, brazenly displaying the old puncture marks which are now bright white scars, and the syringe in my right hand, I take a deep breath. I should be focussed, determined and ready but instead, all I can think of are my parents. My poor, doting parents. How badly I treated them and yet I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that they would welcome me back home with open arms, no questions asked.

I had been back only once to spy on my mother through the kitchen window as she made some tea. She looked exactly the same as when I left her two years before, five foot two and petite with a short, black bob kept in immaculate condition. It was her eyes I missed the most, sparkling emerald green, identical to mine yet completely different. She didn't see me, I didn't intend for her to.

It was a stupid mistake and one I didn't repeat.

Many times I have considered returning home, but how could I ever go back now?

Eve Ryder, the straight-A student; destined for wonderful and exciting new things, now a class-A (recovered) addict with no home, no friends, no job and no future.

No, I would not let my mother see me this way. Better she remember me as the sixteen year old I was, a little wild but perfectly ordinary with big dreams and a bright future.

Slowly and with shaking hands, I touch the needle to my skin, praying for the courage to press down. The vein is twisted and ugly, damaged by previous abuse, the faded puncture marks dotted along it like a warped child's drawing. I choose a spot I've used many times before, right in the middle of the vein, and insert the needle through the scar. A tiny trickle of blood slides along my forearm and I shudder. I never did like the sight of my own blood, a rather inconvenient phobia for a junkie, I'll admit.

I breathe shakily in and out, trying to steady my hands – and my nerves. I can't back out now; I've committed to this. I've planned it and now I must execute it.

I will not be a coward this time. I will not give up this time.

Before I can deliberate with myself any longer, I press down hard on the plunger, shooting the rust-coloured liquid into my vein. I remove the needle quickly, throwing it on the floor where it lands with a clatter, and lean back against the shop door, waiting.

The effects are almost immediate; a colossal, euphoric rush followed by a flush of warmth beneath my skin before my arms and legs begin to feel heavy. I tilt my head up towards the sky and close my eyes, basking in the feeling of total relaxation. The aches and pains of sleeping rough on the concrete fade away along with my worries and cares. At first I don't think about my mother, my father, my past, present or future. All I think about is this calm tranquillity. How I've missed this feeling. 

But slowly, my mind begins to haze, my thoughts blurring until I can't think any more. I can't feel my body now, couldn't move if I tried and I'm feeling drowsy. Very drowsy. I don't think I've ever felt quite this drowsy before, though it could be my mind playing tricks on me. I can't seem to sort fact from fiction as colours and patterns swirl beneath my eyelids.

A distinct yet hazy fog borders the motion picture playing in my mind, a clear indication that these images are not real, yet not a dream – they are a memory.

I watch the events unfold before me; the figure of a teenage girl with dark hair, razor cut strands brushing her shoulders. Her green eyes are wild, pupils dilated as she paces manically around a dimly lit room. She selects certain objects and tosses them carelessly into a black duffel bag, her movements jerky and uncoordinated, her face twisted in an ugly sneer of anger.

Clothes, make up, a notepad and toothbrush are shoved roughly into the bag before she picks up a phone charger, pauses for a moment to consider, and then discards it. 

She touches the tiny ballerina ornament poised on her dresser; it's the one her grandmother gave her before she passed away. She wants to take it, but she knows it'll most likely break. At least here it will be looked after, and besides, she doesn't need it. Its value is only sentimental.

She glances over at the matted teddy tucked in between her pillows. She's had it since she was born, it was a gift from her parents and as a child, she couldn't sleep without it. She feels a silly sense of betrayal leaving it behind, like the teddy is watching her and knows she's abandoning it, but she can't take it. What would her friends think? She's already the youngest of them and to take a teddy with her would give off an impression. The wrong impression.

With her few chosen belongings packed, she zips up the bag and hoists it onto her shoulder. It's light and she has no trouble carrying it as she climbs precariously onto the single bed and reaches up to slide the window open.

The street below is quiet, curtains drawn tightly across the windows of the other houses; in the dim lamp light, she leans over to study the ground beneath her.

She can't jump straight to the floor, she'd undoubtedly break both her legs in the process; but she could ease herself down onto the tiled roof of the porch below and make the jump from there. It's at least a six foot drop but she could ensure a landing on the grass.

She tosses the bag out first, drawing a breath as it hits the ground with a loud thump. She pauses and waits for movement in the next room, but the house remains silent, her parents' bedroom light off.