ZACK'S STORY. HOW WE KICK A MAN WHEN HE'S DOWN... AND THEN KICK HIM AGAIN. AND AGAIN.

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.

THE FIRST BASE AGENCY FUNRAISING PAGE