We
need to talk about Zachariah. Oh, we really do. Not that he's called
Zachariah of course. Who is? Not any more. The Zachariah's have long
gone west along with the Mildreds and Getrudes and Ebenedezers. So,
fine. He's not really Zachariah. Or Zack. His name has been changed
at his own request. Which of course is fine by me.
There
is something about his demeanour which prompted me to reach back into
Dickensian times to choose a changed name. I can easily picture him
as a trodden down clerk putting in fifteen hour shifts at a high
desk: smart as paint in the same tweed suit he has worn every day,
six days a week since getting the job at the age of fifteen. Thin as
a rake. Diffident. Quiet spoken, every sentence speaking of a sharp
as a tack brain. Instinctively polite.
In
another life, he could have been a small town solicitor with an
unimpeachable reputation for fairness. Right. Another life. I guess
we'd all like one of those. But we don't get one. All we get are the
cards we're dealt. Some of us play our hands for all they're worth.
And others? Well, not so much so.
Zack
called me up to see if there was anything we could do to help. I took
in the basic facts and started to get angry. We meet lots of people
who are getting screwed over. Not many who need a food parcel haven't
been screwed over in one way or another. But sometimes the screwing
over is so off the scale it demands particular attention.
Maybe
it is best to kick off with the back story. The opening chapters in
Zack's tale of woe. His journey all the way through from bad to
worse. At 16, I can picture an impish character. Never in any
particular bother, just mischief. Probably the class joker. Pretty
good at maths without being deemed a swot. Sports? Not so much.
At
sweet sixteen Zack discovered ecstasy. And his mates discovered
ecstasy. Big weekends amidst the thumping, brain rattling base.
Supplies were needed and Zack was the one with the brains to sort it.
I didn't get the particular details, but over the years they have
become sadly familiar. A hook up with a dealer from the wrong side of
the tracks. Everyone chipping to the weekend kitty. A buy made on
everyone's behalf. A narcotic version of getting a round in.
The
Misuse of Drugs Act has never been big on the difference between hard
core dealing and buying for mates. It all goes under the well worn
banner of 'possession with intent to supply'. And so it was that Zack
exchanged the banter of the classroom for the cancer seriousness of
the Scottish Prison Service.
And
then the sky fell in. A warder at the cell door. Come along with us
lad. A chair in a soulless room. And news which uprooted him.
Destroyed him. Sorry lad, bad news. Your mum has died.
Dazed.
Broken. Inconsolable. His cell mate was a dealer from the wrong side
of the tracks. Not a buying for mates sort of guy. A sell on the
corner sort of guy. He'd just received a consignment and he could see
Zack was hanging by the thread. So he did what he considered to be
the decent thing. He tried to help. Here you go, mate. Try a bit of
this. You'll feel better. You'll feel nothing. A one way ticket to
the world of Pink Floyd's comfortable numbness.
And
so it was Zack emerged blinking into the light a few months later
with a fully fledged habit. After a few years of the usual dismal
chaos, he saw the writing on the wall and read it carefully. He got
himself onto Methadone. He weaned himself off the smack. He turned
things around and left town for Glasgow. Pastures new. People new. A
new kind of future.
And
for a while things were good. He got himself a good degree and made
himself employable. A circle of pals. A life different to small town
Dumfries. A long term boyfriend and the heroin left far behind.
And
then the sky fell in again. His partner fell ill. His partner died.
And Zack was once again destroyed. Everyone was worried about him.
All of a sudden the second city of the Empire seemed big and bad. He
returned to Dumfries to be closer to his worried family.
A
flat. A quieter life. A lonelier life. A life with loss and grief as
a centre piece.
And
the sky fell in again.
A
long forgotten clot in his leg detached itself and headed for his
heart. The clot morphed into septicemia and all of a sudden Zack
slipped into a four day coma. His blood pressure plummeted and his
family were summoned to his bedside and told to expect the worst.
Fifty, fifty was probably over optimistic.
Zack
beat the odds and re-emerged. After a few weeks in hospital, he was
back in the world. His health was so bad the DWP actually deemed him
to be ill enough to warrant sick pay. You usually need to be in a
pine box for such a thing to happen.
And
life went along. Universal credit. A flat in a place with older
neighbours who he liked and who liked him. A one room sanctuary of
sorts. Not much, but a handful of square feet to once again start out
on the process of building a life.
And
you've guessed it. Of course, you have. On a wet afternoon last week
the sky went and fell in again. He reckons it must have been about
noon. Maybe one o clock. He was on the High St. A slight figure with
a slightly odd gait care of flat feet.
Two
uniformed figures from nowhere. From the past. From a shop doorway.
Bored. Counting down the minutes to the end of the shift.
"Excuse
me, sir. You appear to be walking erratically. We are going to
undertake a search under the Misuse of Drugs Act...."
"Do
you have to do it on the High St with everyone watching? Could we go
somewhere less public?"
Into
an alley. A search which found nothing. His details taken and run
through the system. Ah.... Oh dear.
"Are
you aware you have an unpaid fine sir? From 2013? From Glasgow?..."
He
was. He'd swept it under the carpet. An old problem for another day.
And now here it was, snarling in his face like a rabid dog. Time for their hard choice. Pay up now or go to jail. Do not pass go. Do not
collect £200.
His
monthly Universal Credit payment had landed in his account that very
same morning. If he used the rent money, he could take Option 1.
Pay the £500 and stay a free man.
He
could face the idea of jail so he paid up and went straight to his
landlord and promised to catch up the rent when his next Universal Credit payment
arrived. Sometimes we are lucky enough to find a Good Samaritan when
our lives arrive at a crisis point. But Zack had no such luck. The
landlord chose to hit him with an eviction notice.
No
more sanctuary. No more harbour in the storm. Instead, a date to
haunt him. 31 December 2018. New Year's Eve. The last knockings of
the year. And then? Then nothing.
And
he was confused by it all. Surely being decent and polite should
count for something? Well, shouldn't it?
Of
course it should. But it doesn't. Not for the likes of Zack. Two
bored cops on a slow, wet afternoon was all it took to tip his life
back into darkness. And for what? I'm damned if I know. I have tried
to get my head around this kind of bullshit for fifteen years and I've never gotten anywhere close.
It
seems abject cruelty never goes out of fashion.
If
you are minded to help First Base to carry on doing our best to
support the likes of Zack, a couple of quid is always welcome. You
can follow the link below to our online fundraising page.
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