For fifteen, nineteen, twenty-two and twenty-seven across I put: haddock, ruminant, frogspawn and Zatopek.
Then, with a blunt black fibre-tipped pen, I carefully drew a line through all the clues for the lines that I’d filled in. You need inspiration like that for the Guardian crossword.
I was admiring my work when a pair of hands fell on my shoulders. ‘Need any help?’ Sparky asked.
‘Er, n-no thanks,’ I stuttered, guiltily, ‘I, er, think that’s as far as I can go.’
‘Read the clue out,’ he invited.
‘Clue!’ I gasped. ‘Clue! Since when did we bother with clues?’
He’d come to tell me that the interview room was set up and Skinner and the duty solicitor were waitingfor us. We discussed tactics for ten minutes and went downstairs.
Skinner was smoking. We, the employees, are not allowed to smoke in the nick, but stopping our clients doing so would be to violate their civil liberties. I found him an ashtray. Sparky switched the tape recorder on and did the introductions. It was ten thirty a.m. and we had him for another twenty-three hours. I verified that he was Ged Skinner and his main place of residence was the squat.
‘Did you know Dr Clive Jordan?’ I asked.
‘Yeah,’ he grunted.
‘How did you know him?’
‘’Cos he was prescribing methadone for me.’
‘Why?’
He looked straight into my eyes and said: ‘’Cos I’m a fucking dope-head, ain’t I?’
I said: ‘I know why you were taking methadone. What I want to know is why was Dr Jordan prescribing it for you? He wasn’t your GP, was he? And as far as we know he wasn’t attached to any programme.’
Skinner galloped his fingertips on the table. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Sorry. I, er, met him about five weeks ago, at the General. The wife was sent to see him, by her doctor. Women’s problems. She was worried – scared – so I went in with her. He was good about it. Brilliant. Said she was pregnant but there was nothing to worry about, if she was careful with herself. Gave her some pills and told her to come back in a month. Then helooked at me and said: “That’s her fixed up, now what are we going to do about you?” I said “How do you mean?” and he told me that if I didn’t get off drugs I might not live to see my kid.’
‘Who told him you were on drugs?’
‘Nobody, I don’t think. He could see from the state I was in.’ He raised his arms and said: ‘This is sound, for me.’
‘Go on,’ I invited.
He folded his arms and sat for a few moments with his chin on his chest. ‘I’ve done all the cures,’ he began. ‘All the do-gooders have had a go at me. St Hilda’s, Project 2000, the City Limits Trust. You name it, I’ve done it. But nobody talked to me like he did. They’re all sympathy and encouragement and “I know what you’re going through.”’ He raised the pitch of his voice for the last bit and affected a posh accent. ‘There was none of that with the doc. He said: “Get off it now or you’re dead. D-E-A-D fucking dead!” He said he’d help me as much as he could, but he couldn’t do it for me. It was up to me. I said right. Let’s give it a go.’
‘So he started prescribing methadone for you.’
‘That’s right. One day at a time. He’d leave a script for me either at the hospital or, later, I’d collect one from his flat. I’m down to twenty milligrams.’
‘From what?’
‘From whatever I could get. ’Bout hundred milligrams, plus horse.’
‘And you were doing OK?’
‘Yeah. You don’t gouch out on it, but it helps you through the bad times, which is all the H does, when you’ve been using it as long as me.’
‘So when did you last see him?’
‘Day before Christmas Eve, ’bout half past six.’
‘At his house?’
‘That’s right.’
‘How long were you with him?’
‘Not long. Two minutes. We just stood on the doorstep chatting for a while. He gave me a script for two days and a letter to take to this GP in London.’
He was
Then, with a blunt black fibre-tipped pen, I carefully drew a line through all the clues for the lines that I’d filled in. You need inspiration like that for the Guardian crossword.
I was admiring my work when a pair of hands fell on my shoulders. ‘Need any help?’ Sparky asked.
‘Er, n-no thanks,’ I stuttered, guiltily, ‘I, er, think that’s as far as I can go.’
‘Read the clue out,’ he invited.
‘Clue!’ I gasped. ‘Clue! Since when did we bother with clues?’
He’d come to tell me that the interview room was set up and Skinner and the duty solicitor were waitingfor us. We discussed tactics for ten minutes and went downstairs.
Skinner was smoking. We, the employees, are not allowed to smoke in the nick, but stopping our clients doing so would be to violate their civil liberties. I found him an ashtray. Sparky switched the tape recorder on and did the introductions. It was ten thirty a.m. and we had him for another twenty-three hours. I verified that he was Ged Skinner and his main place of residence was the squat.
‘Did you know Dr Clive Jordan?’ I asked.
‘Yeah,’ he grunted.
‘How did you know him?’
‘’Cos he was prescribing methadone for me.’
‘Why?’
He looked straight into my eyes and said: ‘’Cos I’m a fucking dope-head, ain’t I?’
I said: ‘I know why you were taking methadone. What I want to know is why was Dr Jordan prescribing it for you? He wasn’t your GP, was he? And as far as we know he wasn’t attached to any programme.’
Skinner galloped his fingertips on the table. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Sorry. I, er, met him about five weeks ago, at the General. The wife was sent to see him, by her doctor. Women’s problems. She was worried – scared – so I went in with her. He was good about it. Brilliant. Said she was pregnant but there was nothing to worry about, if she was careful with herself. Gave her some pills and told her to come back in a month. Then helooked at me and said: “That’s her fixed up, now what are we going to do about you?” I said “How do you mean?” and he told me that if I didn’t get off drugs I might not live to see my kid.’
‘Who told him you were on drugs?’
‘Nobody, I don’t think. He could see from the state I was in.’ He raised his arms and said: ‘This is sound, for me.’
‘Go on,’ I invited.
He folded his arms and sat for a few moments with his chin on his chest. ‘I’ve done all the cures,’ he began. ‘All the do-gooders have had a go at me. St Hilda’s, Project 2000, the City Limits Trust. You name it, I’ve done it. But nobody talked to me like he did. They’re all sympathy and encouragement and “I know what you’re going through.”’ He raised the pitch of his voice for the last bit and affected a posh accent. ‘There was none of that with the doc. He said: “Get off it now or you’re dead. D-E-A-D fucking dead!” He said he’d help me as much as he could, but he couldn’t do it for me. It was up to me. I said right. Let’s give it a go.’
‘So he started prescribing methadone for you.’
‘That’s right. One day at a time. He’d leave a script for me either at the hospital or, later, I’d collect one from his flat. I’m down to twenty milligrams.’
‘From what?’
‘From whatever I could get. ’Bout hundred milligrams, plus horse.’
‘And you were doing OK?’
‘Yeah. You don’t gouch out on it, but it helps you through the bad times, which is all the H does, when you’ve been using it as long as me.’
‘So when did you last see him?’
‘Day before Christmas Eve, ’bout half past six.’
‘At his house?’
‘That’s right.’
‘How long were you with him?’
‘Not long. Two minutes. We just stood on the doorstep chatting for a while. He gave me a script for two days and a letter to take to this GP in London.’
He was
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