The Crack House at the End of My Street

There’s a house at the end of my street that, when I pass it, triggers my pace to slow and gaze to linger on its tired, flaky exteriors. Its windows are covered with worn kitchen rags, and a subtle but unmistakable odour hangs over its front porch – a unique, almost incomparable scent in the vicinity of bitter, burning chemicals, garnished with stale pub urinals on match day. A bin bag overflows on its front steps, spilling scorched hollowed-out mini whiskey bottles blackened by jet lighters and burnt fluffs of steel wool. While most might see it as just another derelict house in need of some TLC, it’s easily identifiable as a crack house for those with hungry eyes, blindly searching for bottom-of-the-barrel highs – or in my case, those who once were.

My introduction to houses like these came when I was around 16. My best friend Jay and I had reached the profound understanding that nothing was physically forcing us to attend school. “Why bother?” had become our binding mantra after being individually expelled from anywhere that would have us, somewhat to the disappointment of our families, schools and the occasional officer. We had tolerance with disappointment, though, it was swiftly mellowing to background noise at this point. Jay and I would spend most of our days together in the park consuming whatever highs or downs we could get our hands on – predominantly low-grade weed, cheap hallucinogens and speedy talcum powder dressed up as coke, which all seemed easier to obtain than booze at that age. The longest relationship I’ve ever had is with drugs and alcohol, and this was our honeymoon period. It was the beginning of Jay and I discovering the mouth-wateringly poisonous world of powders, pills and smokables.

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One day, while tripping up Kensington Gardens, we strolled across “Mental Matt”, a high-energy, larger-than-life character in his late 20s who revelled in his nickname. Although his crooked grin and manic aura were somewhat intimidating, Mental Matt had a remarkable warmth and the rare ability to ache bellies with his crass humour. He was also one of the most prolific drug dealers in west London.

Matt worked out of a basement in his family’s home, Misty River Hotel, which by no means served as a functional, bookable hotel. His entire family were full-time addicts, completely isolated from the rest of society, and it was the ideal smokescreen for hard drug use and selling. If you’re picturing a run-down house in the dodgy street of a suburb, think instead of a grand, six-floor Victorian building – passed down through generations and worth around £35 million – sandwiched between two embassies, and overlooking Kensington Palace. I remember its depressingly soulless, once-plush-but-now-worn-out interiors and the vastly changing stenches throughout. But from our very first step onto its blackened, damp carpeting, it felt like Disneyland to me and Jay.

In comparison to the other tenants of Misty River, Mental Matt was a good egg. He was born into a hopelessly dark setting and wanted to make money to flee his dead-end fate. He sold everything bar crack and heroin (to us anyway), and this harder stuff could be found by journeying further up the hotel’s crumbling steps. Matt always tried his best to discourage us from spending time up there, but although we loved Matt, we loved getting off our faces more. It wasn’t long until we found ourselves knocking on the door of his mother’s attic flat.

Back view of Essex Police officers executing County Lines drug dealing search warrants across Essex and London

The attic was a void in space and time, predominantly occupied by half a dozen of the same lifeless junkies around the age of 50-pushing-80. They were all just bones and pupils. Many of them were small-time rock stars back in the 80s, with one mediocre record, and they wouldn’t let anyone forget it. This played hugely in my and Jay’s favour, though, as still to this day I’ve never seen more raw talent than Jay with a guitar. They were mesmerised by his ability to pluck an old five-stringed acoustic so effortlessly – one of the few things the heads coming in and out of the attic had in common. I’d spend week-long, chemically fuelled sessions there with homeless people, celebrities, doctors and Lords.

Jay and I would sit on the dusty floor scattered with fag butts, drug paraphernalia and cat litter (but somewhat distressingly no cat), while scavenging and pleading for scraps of pipe ends and foils. Unsurprisingly, we didn’t have much money, but it’s remarkable what obsession will drive you to. I became dishonest, manipulative and, most crucially, convincing. I stole, permanently “borrowed” and ripped other users off as a middleman, as time went on.

Looking back, the saddest part to me is how these fully-fledged adults put up no resistance in showing kids how to use these dark substances. It was as if they were doing us a rite of passage, like showing us how to shave or tie a tie.

Jay and I spent a lot of our youth in the soulless shells of the hotel and its identical counterparts throughout London. These drug-fuelled houses are the secret but un-exclusive members clubs, unbiased of age, occupation, class and race. Once you know what to look for, you realise you’re never more than a stone’s throw away from one – no matter how prestigious you believe your postcode to be.

It’s hard to pinpoint the moment I became a regular in these dens, and it’s even harder to pinpoint why. It’s far too simple to think if I hadn’t crossed the hotel, I may have gone on to be an upholding member of society. The simple truth is, I had an itch and sadly chased the wrong scratch. I had a desire of detachment from the discomfort of my own skin, with no convenient blame of nurture or trauma to point to. Dwelling on the “whys” can be a pointless obsession in recovery anyway, and an unproductive diversion on what’s really important. Think of it like this: If you were to find yourself in a nose-diving plane, soaring closer and closer to an explosive end, it’d be wise to focus your search on the parachute, not the Black Box.

Both Jay and I tried to get clean the last few years. I don’t count myself hard-working or special for succeeding so far, just miraculously lucky. It’s with colossal heartbreak, I have to add, that Jay didn’t. After a brief stint in rehab last year, obsession got the better of him and he cracked, returning to one of the all-consuming basements to score his final bag. My oldest and dearest partner-in-chaos, dead at 29.

I’ve tried to blame the old addicts who showed us how to light dynamite before running for cover. I’ve tried to beeline all my resentments to their being. But really, they are me – or rather, a fate that could’ve easily awaited me. They are the few addicts who remain unburnt by both death and recovery, the people who’ve managed to ungracefully swerve the odds on making it to middle age – albeit physically presenting like they belong in a hospice. Someone once showed them how to light the fuse, and since then, they’ve miraculously kept their wick lit for decades, in an isolated underground existence just below the pavements of everyday society.