"Practice," he said, his grin widening to show rotten teeth. "You're looking good, John. Really. Very… healthy. What made you think you could just walk back in here and stroll amongst us with your nose in the air? You owe me, John. You know you do."

"You want me to take you out of here, I'll do it," I said. "You want help, I'll get you the best there is."

"I don't want anything from you! Except to see you pay for what you did."

"What did I do, Carnaby?" I said patiently. "You broke the rules, John! You got out! No-one's supposed to get out of here. That's the point."

"I had help," I said. "Take my hand, Carnaby. Really. I mean it. The only one keeping you here is you."

He looked at me sideways, still smiling his unpleasant smile. "You got out, and now you're a big man in the Nightside. Oh yes, the news trickles down, even to places like this. Word is you're a rich man, too. So how about a little something, for an old friend? How about a hand-out, how about the shirt off your back, how about everything you've got!"

He was spitting the words out now, his whole wrecked body shaking with years of pent-up, carefully rehearsed spite and hatred. I sensed old Mother Connell stirring behind her table, and raised one hand to stop her. Because once upon a time the Wide-Eyed Boy really had been a friend of mine, had really had it in him to be the very best of us. Drugs don't just destroy who you are; they destroy all the people you might have been.

So I stepped forward, grabbed his bony head firmly with both hands, and held his gaze with my own. He tried to break away, but there was no strength left in him. He tried to look away, but I had him. I concentrated, and he cried out miserably as all the old scabs on his forearms broke open, and dark liquids oozed out and trickled down his arms. Everything he'd ever taken, every last nasty drop of it, ran out of him, and he cried like a baby at the loss of it. When I was finished I let him go, and he fell in a heap before me.