The Dark Part of Me by Belinda Burns Page A

biggest joint I’d ever seen, Muzza smiling with his eyes closed, his head tipped back against the wall. Kirstie had gone home.
    Scott locked the door again, pressed play on the stereo with his big toe and sat down on a broken swivel chair, feet up on the desk. The suitcase had been shoved half under the bed. I thought
about the photo, ripped to shreds down the side of the wall. There was nowhere to sit so I undid my strappies and sat on the floor with my legs stretched out, toes pointing in Scott’s
direction, not daring to look at him. I stared at a square centimetre patch of murky-green carpet. Awkward silence filled the room. I took a slug on my Coke-bourbon combo.
    ‘So, you back for good?’ I said, shooting him a sneaky glance.
    He shrugged, tipping back in his chair. ‘Hope not.’
    ‘You gonna get a job like your old man wants?’ Bomber sucked greedily on the joint, holding it in then opening his mouth wide as a goldfish, blowing smoke rings. His face swam in and
out of focus.
    Scott reached for the joint and Bomber passed it over. ‘I’ve got some debts to pay off. But I’m not staying in this shithole for long.’ He took a drag. ‘Tell me
what there is to do here except go on slurpee runs to the seven-eleven.’
    ‘Man, it’s not that bad,’ said Muzza. ‘You should check out the Valley.’
    ‘Yeah, Woody,’ Bomber added, ‘there’s a big rave next Saturday at Arena. Oblivion or some shit like that. They’re headlining some decent DJs from Europe. I can hook
us up with some A-class.’ Bomber thought he was the fucking business but he was just desperate to appear cool in front of Scott. But then, we were all a bit in awe of him just because
he’d been living in London for two years.
    ‘Yeah, maybe.’ Scott re-lit, toking hard to get it going. Before, he’d always been against drugs, even pot. I watched him inhale. No coughing or spluttering. Perhaps the Asian
chick had got him into it. I pictured him fucking her stoned, rolling around in some king-sized hotel bed, and it made the bourbon bubble inside me.
    ‘Give us a go,’ I demanded, trying to focus on a stubbly patch of his jaw.
    Looking straight at me, he took another puff, pinching the remaining stub between his thumb and middle finger. ‘Since when do you spliff?’ he said, exhaling smoothly.
    ‘Fair while. At work, mostly,’ I said, enjoying his attention.
    ‘The coffee shop?’
    ‘Yeah. Trish and me. When we’re bored or fucked off.’ It sounded like bullshit but it was the truth. ‘What about you? You never used to.’
    ‘Things change.’
    ‘We were wasted all the time over there,’ said Bomber, talking through the smoke. ‘Weren’t we, Woody? And not just weed. Every weekend, off our tits raving. It was
mental. And the chicks… ’
    I looked over at Scott but he was studying the carpet, picking fluff out of it with forced intent. I wanted to get up and shake him, until the truth about the Asian chick came tumbling out, but
I sat there, my eyes boring into the top of his sandy head.
    ‘Yeah, man. We had ourselves some prime pommie pussy.’ Bomber jabbed at the air with his rapper fist. ‘Muzz, you sure missed out, man.’
    ‘Yeah, thanks for reminding me,’ said Muzza.
    ‘If it was so good, why didn’t you stay, then, Bomber?’ I flared, knocking back some more bourbon.
    ‘Too cold for him,’ said Scott, looking up at last. ‘He might look like a hard man but he couldn’t hack the winter, could ya, mate?’
    ‘That’s crap. I was skint.’
    ‘Yeah, that’s your story and you stick to it,’ Scott grinned.
    ‘Fuck yers all,’ said Bomber. ‘Just remember who gets your gear, hey?’
    ‘It doesn’t matter. I’ve got myself a new supplier.’ Scott kicked me gently. ‘Hey, babe?’
    ‘Who?’ said Muzz, confused.
    Scott passed me his dying joint. ‘So, how good’s your shit?’
    I sucked hard on the soggy end but it was dead. ‘What? Yeah. Not bad. Pretty good.’
    ‘Great, ’cause