Mr Whatever, Denise And Me by Ian Lewis Copestick

Brit Grit, Fiction, Flash Fiction, Ian Copestick, Non-fiction, Punk Noir Magazine

It must be getting on for 20 years ago now, but I’ll never forget it.

I’d just been to score some smack, there was a McDonald’s not far from the dealer’s house so I decided to get a burger and a coffee before I got a taxi home.

As I left the McDonald’s I heard a voice shouting my name. I turned around and looked, there was Denise, a girl I’d known for years, in fact at one time we’d been very close friends. No funny business, just good friends, as the saying goes.

Anyway, it had been a few months since I’d last seen her. She was with some guy, that didn’t surprise me, no offence to her, but Denise had been with plenty of men in the time I’d known her.

I walked over to the car that she was in, as I say there was a bloke I’d never seen before driving but I noticed a roll of foil in the back seat, so I knew that Denise was up to her old tricks. What could I say, so was I.

Her new beau had to go back to work for the afternoon, I’d not long finished a night shift and Denise knew easier ( maybe) ways of making money than working straight jobs.

Anyway, we decided that I would keep Denise company while her new fella was working. He didn’t touch the gear, whilst us two had been on the shit for years and years and years.

So we went back to this guy’s house, I can’t remember his name at all, but I only met him this once. I remember everything else about that day, but not his name.

So he went to work, Denise and I smoked our heroin off tin foil.

After a while I fancied a drink, drink always seems to cause trouble for me, so Denise and I walked to a pub that was just around the corner.

It was great, we both had plenty of money, so we both had plenty of drinks. I was on Guinness with Jack Daniels and coke for chasers, I don’t remember what she had, another thing from that day that I can’t remember.

So we got pretty drunk, then we walked back to the house ready for Mr Whatever to get in from work.

The problems started as we walked back, the heavens opened, it really pissed down. The rain was bouncing off the  pavement and small floods were running down the side of the streets.

So, obviously we were both soaked to the skin when we got back. I took my jeans off and put them over the radiator to dry out. We both had some gear left, so we.smoked and talked and laughed until Mr Whatever got home from work.

 As soon as he entered the house the atmosphere seemed strained, but Denise had told me that he didn’t really like her doing the gear, so I thought it was just that.

Anyway, he gave me a lift home, he seemed friendly and I forgot about it.

I picked up what happened later from a few different sources.

Apparently, after dropping me off, he started to give Denise a load of abuse along the lines of ” You fucking slut, I come home from work and there’s a guy there just in his boxer shorts. “

 Well this carried on for a while, from what I heard, but she managed to calm him down. Then he went to bed. While he was asleep, Denise got out the last bit of her smack, smoked it and passed out into a deep gouch.

Mr Whatever woke up early in the morning, went downstairs, saw her passed out with foil all around her and a foil tube still in her mouth.

When Denise told me that he didn’t like her doing the gear, that must have been a massive understatement. It all built up in his head, her doing drugs  ( he must have been paying for them ), me being in my underwear when he got in from work, whatever else was bothering him.

Denise woke up with a start, and with a screwdriver sticking out of her chest.

I can’t even begin to imagine how that must have been, to wake from a drugged sleep feeling pain in her chest. To look down and see the handle of a screwdriver poking from between her nipples.

The stupid prick was going to let her die, she was begging him to let her go to the hospital.

Probably realising that he’d be looking at attempted murder, Mr Whatever told her to shut the fuck up and die.

Luckily as Denise was begging for her life, the postman happened to come to the house and hearing what was going on called the emergency services.

Well, the dickhead Mr Murderer ( attempted ) got sent down for exactly that. It came out in court that he’d got quite the history of violence against women.

Denise learned a very valuable lesson, it took a while, but she has been clean and settled down for at least 10 years now.

As for me, I still get slagged off by some people for that day.

I really don’t think I did anything wrong, but I have learned to keep my trousers on in other people’s houses.

Bio: Ian Lewis Copestick is a 46 year old writer from Stoke on Trent England.
Although he started writing poetry in 2001, he only started sending them out for publication 8 months ago. In this time he has had over 100 poems and 5 short stories published. He is featured in print anthologies by Alien Buddha Press and Horror Sleaze Trash. His first book Detritus Of The Drunken Night is OUT NOW, published by Cajun Mutt Press.