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‘Dag.’
All drug workers have names like that. I asked what his or her surname was.
‘I don’t know. They don’t give surnames out. She’s just known as Dag.’
I phoned.
‘Hello, Heroin Line.’
‘Hello, I’m Dr Dalrymple. Do you have someone working with you called Dag?’
‘Yes we do.’
‘Could I speak to her?’
‘She’s not available.’
‘Why not?’
‘She’s in a training meeting.’
‘Can’t you get her out of her training meeting?’
‘No. She can’t come out.’
‘Why not?’
There was a shocked silence. The thought of it! Bateman could have drawn a cartoon of the situation.
Dag was found in the end, but she wasn’t very helpful. I moved on to the next patient. He too had a common law. I asked him how he came by the cut on the bridge of his nose.
‘My common law skimmed a plate at me.’ He imitated someone throwing a frisbee.
‘Why?’
‘Because I’d gone to the hairdresser’s, which is next door to my oldest daughter, so she assumed I was having it off with my ex.’
‘Your daughter’s mother?’
‘Yes.’
‘And were you?’
‘No, I haven’t seen her for at least a month. I’m telling you, my missus is a psycho.’
‘Why do you stay with her, then?’
‘I love her. Besides, I’m being bribed with our child. She says that if I don’t stay with her, I’ll never see the child she’s had off me ever again.’
‘Why is she like that?’
‘The whole family’s like it, doctor, they’re all on the brown.’
‘You mean heroin.’
‘Yes. And all they talk about is sex and stripping. It’s disgusting, in front of the f—–g babby ’n’ all.’
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