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As I opened the glasses case in which I carried my syringe, solution, filter and spoon I watched this man in sunglasses who was sitting opposite me and smiling. He was wearing a tweed suit reminiscent of one that my father used to wear on high days on our country estate in Shropshire. Crumbling the fine white powder into the spoon I noticed that this man’s feet were bare and his toenails long and dirty. I poured the solution onto the powder and saw that his smiling lips were cracked and sore. As I struck my lighter aflame and heated the underside of the spoon I decided that he was no stranger than anyone else down here and that I should concentrate on jacking myself up. The powder and liquid bubbled and spat alittle as I stroked the spoon with the flame. The heroin was as pure as I could obtain it and dissolved in a matter of moments. I balanced the spoon on my folded knee, put down the lighter and picked up the hypo and filter and carefully pulled the solution, through the wadding and into the chamber. It was the work of a blink of an eye to rip off my belt and tighten it around the bicep of my left arm. Despite the need for serenity when in the same city as even a single vampire, I could not help my heart beat quicken as I poked the needle into an engorged vein. Just as I was about the shoot up, a tap on my shoulder.

“Allo, allo, allo.”
“Ah, Constable L’Actose. How the devil are you?”

“Okay. I am on official bisnis. I suspect dark rumblings in Gay Paris Bruce. I am looking for Antonio. Or maybe Freida.”

“So was I Sami, so was I. There is noone here. Come sit down. Share your fears. I suspect they are the same as mine.”

“Très bon, très bon. Is that in your hand, how you say, junk?”

“Oui.”

“Ah.”

“Fancy some?”

“Why certainly Bruce. How kind you are!”

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