Friday morning. Police radios crackle. Officers mumble in hushed tones. Someone is screaming – one never-ending, hysterical, heart-rending wail of grief, devastation and disbelief. Residents look away numbly as the body of the latest statistic is taken away. One more heroin overdose. This one didn’t get away with it. To the media, he will be ‘another’ – if his death is even deemed newsworthy at all. To someone, he was a son. A friend. A partner. His name was Michael. He was 19 years old.
Friday night. A small package and some crumpled money notes change hands. The teenager quickly pockets his purchase and slinks away, head ducked against the rain, without even a glance at the now ominously dark, silent house he passes.
What will it take?
It is so sad.I lived for a while in another B’mena estate where that happened in broad daylight. That was nearly 10 years ago. There must be members of the PSNI making some money out of the drugs trade, or too scared to do their job.
It’s when you see the young kids hanging around, too, and realise that if they’re not already involved, it’s only a matter of time – unless something changes. Scary.