Diary of a Drug Fiend

198 The Diary of a Drug Fiend What’s-his-name in The Wrong Box when he had to have a false death certificate, and wanted a “ venal doctor.” It annoyed me that it was daylight, and I didn’t know where to go. Suddenly, out of nowhere, there came the name and address of the man who had helped Billy Coleridge out of her scrape. It was a long way off, and I was horribly tired. I was hungry, but the thought of lunch made me sick. I felt that people were looking at me strangely. Was it the scar by my eye? I bought a thick veil. The girl looked surprised, I thought. I suppose it was rather funny in September, and might attract still more attention; but it gave me.a sense of protection, and it was a very pretty veil —cream lace with embroidered zig-zags. I took a taxi to the doctor’s. Doctor Collins, it was, 61 or 71 Fairelange Street, Lambeth. I found him at home; a horrid, snuffy old man with shabby clothes; a dingy grimy office as untidy as himself. He seemed disappointed at my story. It wasn’t his line, he said, and he didn’t want to get into trouble. On the other hand, he was frightened of me because of what I knew about Billy. He promised to do what he could; but under the new law, he couldn’t do more than prescribe ten doses of an eighth of a grain apiece. Four or five sniffs, the whole thing! And he wouldn't dare to repeat it in less than a week. However, it was better than nothing. He told me where to get it made up. I found a cloak-room where I could put the packets into one, and started. The relief was immense. I went on, dose after dose. Cockie could get his own. I should tell him I had drawn blanks. I felt I could eat again, and had some light food and a couple of whiskies and sodas. I felt so good that I drove straight back to Greek Street, and poured out a mournful tale of failure. It