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After I’d put the phone down, I googled MDMA. I had a vague idea it was similar to Ecstasy. It turned out to be the same thing, only in a crystalline form. MDMA enters the neurons via the monoamine transporters and releases serotonin, dopamine and norepinephrine. Reported subjective effects are euphoria; heightened libido; a strong sense of inner peace and self-acceptance; feelings of empathy, compassion, forgiveness and love; improved self-confidence. Before it was banned in the US, psychotherapists gave MDMA to their patients as an aid to self-contemplation. Just the ticket, then, for a pint and a game of pool up the Crossed Keys on a Friday night.
The only possible downside to my taking it, as far as I could see, would be sudden death. This is a rare event, however. It is so rare, said one article, that while every death in Scotland from MDMA over a ten-year period was covered in the newspapers, only one in every 250 deaths from paracetamol, one in 50 deaths from diazepam, and one in every three from amphetamines got a mention. Another potentially negative effect of taking MDMA would be the maximum seven years in prison if I was caught in possession of the stuff, and Trev’s life sentence if he was caught peddling it.
The Wikipedia article even explained how to make MDMA. You need safrole, which is a colourless or slightly black oil extracted from the root-bark or the fruit of sassafras plant, the same stuff used for the manufacture of root beer. Demand for safrole, it said, is causing rapid and illicit harvesting of the Cinnamomum perthenoxylon tree, particularly in the Cardamom mountains of Cambodia.
Trev and I had 15 quid’s worth each. The dealer gave Trev his best bespoke service by delivering it personally to the pub in two little fag-paper wraps with his usual money-back guarantee if Trev wasn’t entirely satisfied. (He’d get a good slap as well, said Trev, if it wasn’t as nice as the last lot.)
I was standing at the bar ordering drinks when Trev came over and handed me my little package. Trev threw back his head and dropped his down his throat as the land-lady was handing me my change. She rolled her eyes at me in pantomime despair at the moral degeneracy of her customers and immediately forgot about it. I threw mine into my mouth as she turned away.
Then Trev parked his vodka and coke next to my pint and let the air out of his lungs with a vocal sigh of relief. From the moment he’d walked in this evening, he’d been cuddling women and glad-handing young minions and acolytes. Friday night up the pub is a kind of constituency surgery for Trev. At last he felt able to have a drink and a proper chat with someone of his own outlook and generation.
‘What’s all this I hear about you getting married?’ he said. ‘Oh, that,’ I said. ‘It’s all off.’ ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘What happened?’ ‘She said I smelt of BO, basically,’ I said. Trev leaned forward on the bar, his brow furrowed, to puzzle this one out. He knows women and loves them and likes to pass on some of the knowledge he has accumulated over the years. ‘Surely all she had to do was buy you some deodorant,’ he said finally. ‘She did,’ I said. ‘Loads.’ ‘Well, she must have been pretty fussy, that’s all I can say,’ he said tetchily.
Case dismissed, we spoke a little about his own love life. Then I said, ‘So is this MDMA any good, then?’ He looked me in the eye and held it. ‘It’s really, really nice,’ he said quietly. ‘You’ll see in a minute.’ He cocked his head to one side and briefly monitored his consciousness for changes. I did the same. ‘Same again, fellas?’ said a passing barman.
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