Money Makes the World Go 'Round

A trembling pair of hands, a couple of fifties, a few twenties, and a fiver. Exchanged for a packet of white powder. Angel Dust, they called it. The shaking stopped in anticipation of the next fix, and the money was shoved into a filthy pocket alongside a few soggy cigarettes, a condom wrapper and a mobile phone.

Days later, the fiver was still in there. In the grimy pocket. In the crumpled, low-riding jeans. In his bedroom, on the floor. In his musty apartment. In the dark end of Sydney, where everything seemed constantly damp and mouldy. That’s where the fiver was, days later.

Until the jeans were lifted off the floor, shaken out and put back on.

A fumbling hand deep in a pocket until the fiver is clenched between two fingers and drawn out — “Poor bastard” — and dropped into a quivering paper cup. Exchanged for a grateful grunt.

A trembling pair of hands, a collection of tens, and the fiver. Exchanged for a packet of white powder. Angel Dust, they called it…