CHASED BY THE DRAGON CAUGHT BY THE LAMB
The Incredible True Story of a Drug Addict Reborn
© Copyright Brian Morris 2012
Unless otherwise indicated, all Scriptural quotations are from theHOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Hodder & Stoughton, a member of Hodder Headline Ltd. All rights reserved.
12.00pm, Room 610
It was midday. The sun was streaming through the thin blinds of our Swansea hotel room, ushering in a cold December afternoon, but I was not interested in getting out of bed. I was going through ‘cold turkey’ because my supply of heroin had run out, and I didn’t know where to buy more. I was drifting in and out of a restless sleep. I’d begun to suffer hot and cold sweats two days before, and now my whole body was aching. I had chronic diarrhoea and could barely keep down anything I ate or drank for more than a few minutes. When I did manage to string together a few moments of sleep, I was cursed with horrible nightmares. Room 610 of the Forte Crest Hotel had become my own private torture chamber.
It had been three days since I had smoked the last of my heroin. I scratched my bald head and looked over at the snoring figure of my companion Ahmed, curled up under the blankets in the other bed. Would this be the day we would finally get out of this hell? Would today be the day we would sell the drugs and travel back home to Holland?
Suddenly the door burst open, and my heart nearly stopped in shock. Before we could move, a voice shouted to tell us not to. I looked up, and found myself staring down the barrel of a loaded weapon. This was a raid.
Several guns were pointing at both of us. I froze – stunned and devastated – yet somehow I was able to think clearly.
‘I’ll get ten years for this,’ was my first consideration.
I knew I had better not give them any lip, or they would use it against me in court, and that would mean more time. Then I took a deep breath, and something even more shattering dawned on me. The faces of my infant son and his mother flashed across my brain. Any chance of a relationship with them had just been destroyed as that door had swung open.
Knowing that any reaction, outburst or struggle could be written down and used as evidence against me, a compulsion to stay calm took over. I realised that my freedom was evaporating fast, if it hadn’t gone already. I remembered the time I had been caught with a very small amount of hashish twenty years earlier, and how the Police had twisted the evidence then because I had said things I shouldn’t have. So now I was determined to be in control of myself. I would not allow the situation to overwhelm me, though I knew the game was up. I was trying desperately to work out how I could cut my inevitable sentence by being as co-operative as possible. I knew this was the end of my drug dealing and I was terrified; shuddering; in a state of total despair.
Ahmed’s parents came as Turkish immigrants to Holland when he was only four, so he spoke Turkish and Dutch. He was 22, about five-foot-four inches tall with short dark brown hair, yet despite his size he was a confident young man. He had been dealing in drugs since his early teens, but this had been his first visit to the UK. It had been his persistence and his money that had enabled us to work out our plan, but it had been my long involvement in drug-dealing that had given us the necessary contacts to set it all into operation.
The Turkish dealers in The Hague allowed me to have drugs on credit, until I had built up a debt of 4,000 Guilders, about £1500 at the time. They were beginning to put pressure on me to pay up. Then unexpectedly, I got a visit from Ahmed. He had been the one who had originally supplied me with heroin for my habit, but he had risen up the ladder since then and had given the business to his younger mates, and it was on them that I now depended for a fix.
He turned up at my flat with a proposition. He asked me if I would go to Morocco, to bring hashish back to Holland – with the promise, ‘all your debts will be sorted.’ I wasn’t keen though – I had a young family to think about now, and didn’t want to dig myself any deeper into the hole that drugs had put me in. After trying a few times to persuade me with this plan, and getting nowhere, he came back with another one. This time he asked me,
‘Brian, will you take some cocaine to your country?’ But again I refused.
A few days later his mates called in and leaned on me a little. They told me that there could be a problem if I didn’t pay them soon. The pressure was mounting. I knew that these men could be very dangerous, so I changed my mind and agreed to do it before they decided to lean on me a little too hard.
I was desperate to end the misery that my debt and addiction had caused. It had all seemed so easy at the time. If all had gone according to plan, we would have been back in Holland within 48 hours, and I certainly wouldn’t have been left aching and shivering in a damp hotel bed.
One big factor made the decision easier: I knew I had an outlet when I got across the Channel. Joe Roberts, an old school acquaintance from Wales, had been phoning me in recent months, asking me to bring drugs over to Britain. He was just over a year older than I was, of medium build, a little under six feet tall with fair, thinning hair. He was not married – maybe divorced, I’m not sure – I hadn’t really known him well since our teens. Joe dressed in a casual style: not scruffy, but not smart either.
We’d seen each other a few months before when I was on another dealing trip. We had been two old faces happy to see each other after so long, even though we had never been close mates in the past. I couldn’t remember much about him, aside from watermarked memories of us as boys, but I certainly hadn’t any reason to mistrust him. He had assured and encouraged me on the telephone that he could shift all the drugs I could bring. I told him I had finished with all that because of my new situation with the baby and my partner. He had let it go for a few weeks before he telephoned again, and this time, I was facing a crisis. I couldn’t see a way out of my situation. Again, Joe persuaded and encouraged me. ‘I can get rid of anything you bring,’ he assured. He sounded so convincing that I decided to give it one last shot. After all, how on earth would I find the money to pay of the dealers otherwise?
Joe had approached me in a local pub when I was on my earlier visit. He had known that I was doing business with Ricky, another old friend. Ricky was a short, well-rounded, stocky character who smoked menthol cigarettes non-stop. Over the years, this had caused him to wheeze heavily. He often had to use an inhaler to catch his breath. Sharp and streetwise, he was always on the lookout for a quick buck. However, I wasn’t intending to do business with Ricky again, after he’d stitched me up last time. Instead of sending me my proper share of the money, he had been greedy and hadn’t paid me in full, so I didn’t want him in on this deal.
After hearing from Ricky that I was in the drugs business, Joe had kept asking me to deal directly with him. I never expected to do any more high-risk dealing again, and so at first his pleas fell on deaf ears. But on the other hand, I never expected to be in so much debt. So then his proposal – given weight by the pressure applied by Ahmed’s mates – increasingly seemed the only option I had left to get out of the terrible mess I was in.
‘Okay Ahmed,’ I conceded on Ahmed’s sixth or seventh visit to my flat, ‘I’ll do it.’
That evening, early in the December of 1995, I phoned Joe and told him a deal was on. Ahmed arranged at first to bring a half a kilo of cocaine, but by the day before we left, he had managed to double it. I phoned Joe again to clear it with him. He sounded really happy with the prospect of more profit. He assured me that he and ‘Jeremy’ (his contact) had got his end sorted and could sell it all in a day, or maybe two at the most. It was all arranged; all we had to do was arrive undetected.
Intentionally, I gave Joe some false information on the phone. I had implied that we would be coming from Hook van Holland to Harwich. In fact, my plan was to come from Ostend in Belgium to Ramsgate in Kent. I figured that anyone listening to our conversation would be put off our trail – allowing us to arrive safely (The last thing a sensible dealer would do is speak of his plans on the phone). All the arrangements had been discussed in terms of ‘tapes’ for sale, and we took care never to openly mention drugs. The police know all the tricks, and tap in to listen to many unsuspecting people. If they were on to us, I must have come across as very stupid laying out my route on the phone. But this was all part of the plan, and we arrived safely.
We travelled from Ramsgate on the 3am train to London’s Victoria Station, then took the tube to Paddington for the Swansea train. When we finally arrived there, we got a cab to Clydach – six miles away. We pulled up at Joe’s house around half past ten in the morning. I knocked on his door while the driver was opening the boot to get out our luggage. Joe opened the door but seemed very surprised to see us. I could see that he was stuck for words when he saw Ahmed getting out of the taxi. It was as if he wasn’t expecting us, which I immediately thought was strange. He looked really spooked.
‘You can’t stay here, the place is being watched by cops,’ whispered Joe, obviously nervous. ‘You’ll have to take the stuff somewhere else until I get things sorted. It’s too risky for you to be here.’
Why should it be suddenly risky? It seemed dead around this house. I didn’t notice anything suspicious. Only the day before, Joe had told me on the phone that there would be no problem. The ‘tapes’ that we would be bringing would be moved on in a day and there was plenty of room for us to stay. Now we get here to find a completely different story. After a long and nerve-wracking – although ultimately successful – trip through customs, I couldn’t believe this.
I put my foot down: ‘We’re not going anywhere until we get some food, a shower and some rest.’
There was no way I was just going to leave Joe’s place yet. We had only just got there! Bringing a kilo of cocaine from Holland into Wales had been a massive undertaking. All the arrangements had been made and now, when we’ve finally arrived at our destination, we find that they’ve been changed at the last moment. It was not something that could be rearranged at a moment’s notice. Something was wrong but I was too tired to be suspicious.
Joe’s flatmate, an alcoholic named David, stashed the drugs for us. That bought us some time. David had been a neighbour of our family and was my brother Raymond’s best friend for years when they were kids. I trusted him completely. I sent my small supply of heroin with the coke to stash, just in case it was true that there were Police hiding somewhere nearby.
But I was an addict. A few hours later I needed some heroin badly because I was becoming sick without it. I asked David to get it for me on the grounds that I needed to stay focussed. There was no room for getting sick. After he came back I rushed into the bathroom. I could feel myself getting more sick, and fumbled with the packet in a rush to open it, spilling some of the precious brown powder on the floor. I ‘cleaned’ it up with the palm of my hand and licked it eagerly. But there was no instant high to be had from that, so I smoked some on silver foil as well. I felt the numbing effect begin to take control. The relief was incredible – the sickness disappeared straight away as my body perversely restored itself through this desperately unhealthy substance. I wrapped up the rest in cling film and stored it inside me just in case the police turned up unexpectedly. Now perhaps I could relax for a while.
I returned from the bathroom, feeling better through the combination of a freshening wash and a good helping of heroin, but was knocked off balance when I reached the living room. Sitting there, whispering with Joe, was none other than Ricky, the dealer who short-changed me last time I was over here. Why was he here, I wondered? Even if he was an old mate, I certainly didn’t trust him after the way he had let me down last time.
I looked across at Joe:
‘What’s he doing here?’ I asked. Ricky butted in:
‘You can’t keep nothing from me Brian. Me and Joe always work together.’
Nevertheless, Joe had assured me he would not be involved; that he wouldn’t even know we were coming. So how was it that he was there? I was getting an uncomfortable feeling. Something was going on – but what were they up to? I walked out of the room feeling a little guilty that I had tried to cut Ricky out of the deal.
‘Change money Brian, England money need,’ Ahmed explained in his broken English as he passed me on the stairs.
‘I’ll go and change money for you’ offered Joe enthusiastically.
Ahmed looked a little concerned so I reassured him that it was OK, then watched as he gave Joe a one thousand guilder note to change at the local bank.
‘I’ll be back in about half an hour,’ Joe shouted up the stairs to me. ‘Then I’ll make a few phone calls and sort something out.’ Joe and Ricky left together and Ahmed and I waited in the house. Joe came back alone with the changed money and revealed that someone was coming later to see the cocaine.
Later that afternoon, two heavy-looking skinheads, both around 30 years old, came to test a sample. These weren’t the contacts Joe talked about on the phone, I thought.
‘We haven’t got long, show us the gear,’ grunted the stockier of the two, who had a heavily-tattooed neck.
David, Joe’s flatmate, had collected some of the cocaine from the hiding place. I asked Ahmed to bring two grams for them to test. They used their own scales to check the weight. Then they went through the purification process, which involves burning off any impurities, to test the quality of the product.
‘It’s good stuff!’ they granted, finding it to be 80% pure. ‘We’ll be in touch very soon.’
But as I said, these were not the guys Joe had told me about on the phone before Ahmed and I had left Holland. It seemed like they were a last-minute replacement – perhaps no more than a diversion organised to keep us sweet. We waited and waited until evening but they didn’t come back. Joe told us that we would be given a lift into Swansea to find a place to stay. But my mind was going into overdrive, wondering what all this garbage was about. Why wasn’t it sorted like he told me it would be? Nobody was saying that it was bad gear, so if that wasn’t the problem, then what was?
Joe had organised a lift for us to find a room in Swansea – we took the cocaine with us of course. Because I was irritated by the complications we’d encountered, I decided to be a bit cheeky as we passed the four-star Forte Crest Hotel:
‘Let’s stay here man,’ I said. There was a special offer banner on display that said the price for a twin bedroom was £75 a night instead of the normal £100. Ahmed had brought a few thousand Guilders with him and I took advantage of the fact. So, that’s where we had checked in.
After settling into room 610, I wandered up the stairs for a nose around for somewhere to hide the coke. I found a narrow door with a warning sign on it. Checking to see if the coast was clear, I tried the door. It was open! Fumbling in the dark, I found a light switch. A very dim light came on, and I could see a steel staircase about six feet high. I climbed the dusty stairs and put the cocaine behind a large boiler which I found at the top. I was very careful to check that no one was about before I left the boiler room. I hurried back downstairs and was soon back in my room without being seen.
My supply of heroin would last for another 24 hours. After that, I knew ‘cold turkey’ would set in. Where in Swansea could I buy some more? After a shower, I took a walk around some Swansea pubs and bars, but I didn’t have the nerve to go in to any of them and start asking questions. I was in a terrible state. It would not be wise to talk about that sort of thing with strangers, as I would almost certainly have brought unwanted attention on who I was and what I was up to. With each passing hour I was getting more desperate, knowing that I would soon start to deteriorate. All I could think of was getting more heroin, because I couldn’t function properly without it.
On the morning of the second day Ahmed and I travelled by taxi back to Joe’s to see what was happening. We were hoping to clinch the deal, but nothing had developed at all. I asked Joe to get me some heroin to relieve my rapidly deteriorating condition, but he told me that he had tried a few contacts for me, and they didn’t have any. After a long wait at his house, by which time I was becoming delirious and drifting in and out of sleep, I did manage to get 50ml of methadone from an addict who had called in to see Joe. It was enough to bring me some much-needed relief for about ten hours.
We returned to the hotel, and the following day I persuaded Ahmed to go to Joe’s again by taxi to check out the score, as we were both anxious for results. I was too sick to go myself. Of course, it was my job to put the deals into operation not his, and understandably he was angry. He didn’t take drugs himself, only sold them – a very smart dealer indeed. He had every right to be livid at me, but we couldn’t just wait and hope. He came back from Joe’s in the evening, saying he had a chance to sell some and wanted me to retrieve the cocaine from the hiding place so he could weigh out a couple of ounces. I staggered up the stairs to the boiler room, checking that no one saw me on the way. It was very hot in the little room and I was worried that the heat might have damaged the cocaine. Checking again that no one was about; I brought the drugs down to our room. I opened the wrapping carefully, shaking through a combination of drug deprivation and fear. I was terrified that the package would be damp and messed up, and so I was mightily relieved to find that it was still in perfect condition.
The two guys that brought Ahmed back from Joe’s place were Ricky’s son Ryan and a guy called Skewen John. It was all getting out of hand with too many strangers involved. By this time though, there was nothing else we could do, so we just hoped and trusted that there would be no problems.
Then another guy turned up – the fellow who was supposed to shift the whole kilo in the first place. This was Jeremy, the contact that Joe had told me about a number of times on the phone, and the reason we’d come over here with the drugs. He arrived while Ahmed was getting the ounce ready for the men waiting in the car. He was a wiry figure, about six feet tall with long black hair. A shifty, creepy looking character, his eyes were too close together for my liking. He bought four grams for a sample and promised that he would be back soon. He didn’t come back again.
Ahmed went with Ryan and the fellow named ‘Skewen John’ to sell the ounce. Meanwhile I was shivering and feeling progressively weaker. I called room service for some beers on Ahmed’s tab. Then I ‘cooked’ up some crack cocaine by heating it like the two skinheads had done. I sucked eagerly at the smoke, desperately hoping to feel relief but only ending up feeling sicker than before. I was a heroin addict, and ultimately I needed heroin to make me feel better, not a substitute. Nothing would help except heroin, and I badly needed some now.
So now it was the fourth day, and we were still sitting on the rest of the drugs. Ahmed had become increasingly angry as the time passed, telling me that I was a ‘useless stupid junkie’. He was right of course, but then how could I have known that Joe would not do what he had told me he would?
Of course, we should have changed hotels each day, and I’m sure I would have smelled a rat if I had not been in such a mess. No junkie is in full control. All I could think about was smoking some heroin on some silver foil, known as ‘chasing the dragon.’ The heated fumes are ‘chased’ by sucking the anaesthetising smoke through a tube. Not as potent as injecting of course, but once heroin has you in its vice-like grip, you become its slave and will take it any way you can. But with no heroin available to me, and my drug-dealing escapade going seriously off course, something suddenly became very clear to me.
I wasn’t chasing the dragon any more. Now the dragon was chasing me… and it wanted my life.
12.01pm, Room 610
Suddenly the door burst open, and my heart nearly stopped in shock. Before we could move, a voice shouted to tell us not to. I looked up, and found myself staring down the barrel of a loaded weapon. This was a raid.
It seemed like the end of the world. I looked over at Ahmed in his bed. He was looking as shocked and dumfounded as me.
‘You idiot Brian’, he grumbled loudly in Dutch. ‘Crazy Wales people don’t know how to do business.’
‘Shut it!’ growled one of the cops. ‘Get out of your beds.’
You don’t argue when there are guns pointed at you. Almost a kilo of cocaine was in the case next to my bed where Ahmed had left it the night before, after he had weighed up the ounce. For three nights, it had been stashed in the boiler room on the floor above, but I had not put it back in the hiding place, as I should have. When Ahmed had come back at around 1am, a cocktail of cold turkey and laziness stopped me from getting up to re-stash it.
Numb from shock, I pulled back the blankets.
‘Slowly does it boys, so where’s the drugs then?’ one of the police asked, matter-of-fact.
‘There, in that case.’ I pointed to it on the floor next to my bed.
‘Whose case is it?’
‘Mine.’ I admitted.
One of them picked up the plastic bag in the case and asked. ‘What’s in this bag then?’
‘A kilo of cocaine,’ I answered straight out.
He grinned and chuckled triumphantly at the others. ‘Had trouble getting rid of it, did you boys?’
I kept my mouth shut. I felt an urge to snatch the bag and fling it out of the window, but there were too many of them. It would not have been a good idea. They would have grabbed me as soon as I made a move; might even have shot me. No, I decided I would rather live. One of them cautioned us and then on went the inevitable handcuffs. The cold steel pressed painfully against the bones in my wrists.
‘Ik geef je 60,000 Gulden als ji zegen tegen die politie dat ik niets mee te maken met die zaak heeft, en dat ik alleen bent gekkomen om to boodschappen voor die Kerst, ja brian?’
‘Shut up!’ said one of the cops as they fastened our wrists tightly with the handcuffs.
Ahmed had pleaded in Dutch for me to cover for him and say that he had nothing to do with the drugs; to say that he was only on a Christmas shopping holiday with me. He offered me £25,000 pounds to say this – a very tempting offer indeed.
But not knowing what to do and thinking that only the truth could help me now, I could only answer, ‘I don’t know.’ Making up a story on the spot means you’ll need a very good memory in court. They had found us together in the room with the drugs, and would convict the both of us whatever our stories. That was my reasoning, anyway. Again as we conversed desperately in Dutch, we were told to shut up. It must have irritated them that they couldn’t understand what we were talking about. There were about ten cops; some kitted out in black SWAT-style gear. It all seemed like a bad dream because of the withdrawal symptoms I was going through, but this was not a dream, but solid, down to earth reality. It was the most painfully sobering experience I’d had in years.
My mind drifted, but I wasn’t so far gone that I couldn’t realise what a fool I had been. Joe had been so convincing on the phone. But why had I trusted him? And then, why hadn’t I taken the coke back up to the boiler room? This is the end of the line Brian boy, I told myself. You took it too far and now you must pay the price for the life you chose.
I felt drained and humiliated as we were led past the Police to the lift. It was even worse as we passed through reception. We were exposed – laid bare – and I felt ashamed, not knowing where to look as the cold, intense gazes of many guests and staff pierced right through us. We were led to a car and taken to the Police Station just around the corner. Inside five minutes, we had been locked up in the dark, cold, filthy station cells.
The next three days were the most sobering days of my life. In between questioning, I managed to see a doctor, but he wouldn’t give me anything stronger than Paracetamol to ease my pain. I curled up under a smelly, coarse blanket, shivering one moment and sweating the next, retching constantly. Later another doctor was a little more sympathetic. He gave me 15ml of methadone, but it only slightly eased my condition.
Alone in that cold little cell I had something else to worry about, or rather, someone. When the police raid first took place, he was one of the first things to come into my mind. Now I couldn’t stop thinking about him: my two-month old son, Sonny Ray.
I had met his mother, Marie Claire, at a flat above a drug spot where I occasionally bought heroin. She had been lodging there with an English coke dealer and his wife. Needing money, Marie Claire had asked me if she could come and clean my house for 25 guilders a time. She was a very good-looking girl, and at 25 guilders it was a bargain, so I barely hesitated before agreeing. On her second cleaning visit, she didn’t want to leave. I was really hoping she would stay but I was fourteen years older than her and thought better of pushing things in case I got the brush-off. Finally I became tired and didn’t know what to say. So I just took a hope-fuelled shot in the dark:
‘I’m going to bed, just make yourself at home.’
I got into bed and there was a silence for about five minutes before I heard her shouting from the living room.
‘Can I sleep with you tonight Brian?’ she called.
I could not believe my ears. I had not had a girlfriend for about five years!
I pictured her in my mind now, with her beautiful wavy hair and melting brown eyes. Five foot eight inches tall with an amazing slender waist, her high cheekbones and thick dark eyebrows – from a mix of Moroccan and Dutch ancestry – enhanced her beauty. She spoke Dutch, English, Arabic, French and German – so she was beautiful and smart! What I would have given to be back in Holland with her.
What would become of her now, I wondered, with our child to care for? What a fool I had been to leave them alone with all those hustlers about. How would she cope? She had psychiatric problems, needing the strong antidepressant drug ‘Haldol’ to control her moods. I’m sure she had once suffered a nervous breakdown. Now she was very vulnerable and in danger, and here was I in the cell of a British police station, staring down a long stretch. I’d had dreams of us travelling together, especially since with her around, we’d never have a problem with languages. I had longed to help her to get off all drugs. I’d longed to get myself clean too. She had pleaded with me not to go on this trip, but I told her that this was a chance to clear my debt, even though I had vowed to stop using and selling drugs. If I could pull off this job, I said, we could start to think about the future. I wanted to look after them, after all, and with the debts clear, I’d really be able to. In reality of course, I couldn’t even look after myself.
Just two months earlier, Sonny Ray had been born six weeks premature and had been put on a drip for a week. At the time that she became pregnant, Marie Claire was addicted to smoking crack cocaine and I to smoking heroin and crack, and to snorting coke. When we found out about the pregnancy, I started to undergo a detox programme with methadone, a heroin substitute. We both did our best to stay off drugs for a while. I had been addicted to heroin for about two-years, but not heavily. I didn’t inject it; I smoked it on silver foil. Cocaine had been my friend far much longer, for fourteen years in fact. While Marie-Claire was pregnant, we made a decent fist of bringing down our drug intake.
Despite our addictions, we had managed to get everything ready for Sonny Ray’s birth. We had a cot, clothes, pram, bath and more. His bedroom was lovely. We had bought the most expensive wallpaper and curtains, and for a while it felt like a fresh start. But soon after he was born, it all went out of control again. Our intake of drugs had increased while Sonny Ray was in hospital. Marie Claire would tell me that she was going to visit her grandmother, but instead she would go to a crack cocaine house where she would hang around for days at a time. At other times she would bring some crack cocaine home and I couldn’t resist it. I would join in. Then we would take it in turns to go and purchase some little white ‘rocks’ of crack a few streets away. We hadn’t got the situation sorted at all like we had planned. We were weak, pathetic junkies. We tried to stop so many times, but things only got worse.
Then Marie Claire began to disappear for ages at a time. Much of my time was spent looking for her. Worrying and hoping she would call caused me to miss my prescription when the ‘methadone bus’ came. It would stop in a certain area every day distributing this so-called wonder drug to The Hague’s addicts. It was supposed to help free me from my addiction to heroin, but twelve hours after missing my prescription, heavy flu like symptoms would take hold and in desperation I would call the Turkish dealers. They would arrive at my flat on a moped within fifteen minutes. Trusting me was no problem for them because they had always received payment in the past. They allowed me five grams at a time on loan for 200 guilders (£90), which was very cheap. However, having such a lot increased my temptation to smoke more. Eventually, it lasted me only about three days, instead of fourteen as it had done before. It was there, it was easy, and I stayed hooked. Now the detox programme was lost completely.
I had been a small-time cocaine dealer for about ten years, but then a new habit had gradually developed. Every time I bought some new cocaine, I would test it for purity and in the process I was left with crack. Smoking crack was something I usually avoided, but I had done it repeatedly when I bought some new coke. It was a quick-sure way to use up all the profits and get heavily addicted. Now that my heroin intake had increased, my participation in smoking crack with Marie Claire had grown as well. Not only that, but I also smoked 50 cigarettes a day and drank a lot of cheap alcohol. We were too heavily drugged to see it, but we were both on a downward spiral toward death.
Our debts had been increasing and our health deteriorating. I knew that if I didn’t repay the money soon we would be in serious trouble. The Turkish dealers don’t mess about, as I’ve already explained.
And so I had been forced into agreeing to do this job. I was promised between 5 and 10 thousand guilders (about £2,000 – £4,000 at the time) as payment, and it seemed that our problems would soon be over. However, a lot still depended on how much we could sell it for. I had hoped to not only make enough to get out of debt, but to have enough over to move out of the drug addict area of The Hague. We could attend the detox programme again, get married and bring up our son. That had been the plan.
But it had all gone wrong. I was on my way to prison. What hope had I now? I felt like ending it all. The cold, stark reality of my plight in that dark, lonely police cell was heavy upon me and I was full of despair, self-pity, guilt and shame. My concentration drifted and my life began to play before me like a film.
I was going to have a lot of time to think. About my mistakes; about my young family back in Holland; about everything that had brought me to this disastrous point. The dragon had chased me into a very tight corner. What possible hope could I have for the future now?
PURCHACE THE BOOK FROM THESE LINKS
for Amazon Kindle Edition:
CHASED BY THE DRAGON
CAUGHT BY THE LAMB
By Brian Morris
German English Danish
It is available as a paperback and an E-BOOK in English and can be purchased via the links above.
Staring down a police gun barrel and sick with cold turkey, Brian Morris had hit rock bottom. His life was in tatters, and a long spell in prison lay inevitably ahead. Yet somehow, this moment proved to be the turning point that saved and changed him for ever. Join Brian as he gives a full and entertaining account of his life as an international drug dealer and long-term prisoner. Sometimes funny, sometimes shocking but always gripping, ‘Chased by the Dragon Caught by the Lamb’ is the amazing story of a man who finally found satisfaction in his search for the ultimate high.