Okay, time to start blogging.

Becca’s Story

I’ve been avoiding recounting the story of Becca because it’s a memory still very painful to me. Becca was one of the first friends I made when I landed at Alpha House rehabilitation centre not far from Portsmouth. She came from London and, like myself, heroin was her chosen poison. She’d also been introduced to hard drugs in her teens by those who were supposed to be her carers.

We shared a love of guitar and singing, although I was much farther along the road than she simply due to my age, repertoire, and greater experience of playing to audiences; I was thirty-five years’ old while she was twenty-something. Becca had long blonde hair, bright blue eyes, an infectious enthusiasm, and a presence which lit up the room whenever she showed up.

We’d often meet in the laundry and hang out together while the machines washed, rinsed, and tumbled around noisily beside us. It was one of the few places in the house where we might not be disturbed. She’d bring her guitar along and I’d show her chord shapes, teach her tunes, and give her plenty of encouragement. She was a fast learner and her enthusiasm reminded me of my own when I’d first picked up guitar. It’s upsetting today looking back on the short time we shared together.

We became friends during my first couple of months of group meetings, one-to-one counselling sessions, image-breaking exercises, and general rehabilitation practices - a strange world to be suddenly confronted with. Becca had already been resident for a few months so she knew the drill whereas I was completely wet behind the ears.

Our friendship grew steadily as we came to know one another and the passing of the guitar from Becca to myself and then back again along with the daily exchange of musical knowledge soon found us completely relaxed in one another’s company.

Throughout the day we’d work in our respective departments (either the office, gardens, kitchens, or works depending on where we’d been allocated) and then sit together at meal times to swap favourite artists and bands - from David Bowie to Bob Dylan, Cat Stevens to Neil Young, Roy Harper to the Rolling Stones…shit our parents had danced to. In many ways she helped me find my feet and reciprocated my musical encouragement with encouraging me to stay whenever I felt the pull of my old neighbourhood dysfunctions calling me to abscond. She was very aware a Crown Court judge had given me a condition of residence and that my leaving would earn me a five-year prison sentence for fraud and deception charges; I was on a form of probation. Our friendship blossomed over several weeks and we’d seek one another out whenever we had free time.

Residents were obliged to write a diary entry every evening….entries which were read by and commented upon by duty staff members after being handed in and were therefore written accordingly. We’d often create these fabrications huddled together just as we did in our guitar-playing sessions. We planned on supporting one another throughout the duration of our treatment and spoke of meeting after our release and continuing our friendship.

Regular visits from family members were encouraged at Alpha House and were considered part of the rehabilitative process. In many cases these visits were the initial steps towards patching up relationships with mothers, fathers, partners, siblings, and children, relationships which had often been stretched beyond all reasonable boundaries. The house was filled with residents of varying ages trying to overcome extremely addictive behaviours which invariably left a trail of emotional debris in their wake - family members being stolen from and lied to, the repeated failed attempts at quitting, regular police visits to front doors bringing shame and knowing looks from neighbours, repeated prison sentences: a long and horrible list of disappointments which in some cases were beyond redemption resulting in zero visits, or the terrible sound of, “This is your last chance,” whispered with a weary voice.

Becca had been looking forward to her mother and her boyfriend coming to see her all week long. She’d mentioned it to me several times while we practiced together and as the weekend drew closer I could see her enthusiasm and excitement gain in intensity. On the Saturday morning we sat together at breakfast and I could see she was beaming with anticipation. The day had finally arrived. She went upstairs to get dressed up and make up her face and then came running down the stairs asking me, “How do I look?”

“You look beautiful,” I told her.

She headed for the common room and waited patiently for her visitors to arrive.

A few hours later I was outside in the gardens playing guitar and singing. The sun was shining warmly on my skin and I was half squinting due to its glare, and making the most of not having anything particular to do. I became aware of another resident, Angie, approaching and she asked me, “Christian, have you seen Becca anywhere?”

“No, I haven’t. Isn’t she still with her visitors?”

“Nope, they left an hour ago and Becca hasn’t been seen since. Everyone’s looking for her.” Angie walked off back towards the main house and I soon found I couldn’t concentrate and followed suit.

Entering the house, I could hear shouts of, “Bec-ca,” being called so I guessed she was still missing. Very strange. Despite Alpha being a large house it would be impossible to not hear many people calling out one’s name.

Dinner was called so all residents entered the dining room where there was still no sign of Becca. The general consensus in the room was she’d received some bad news on her visit and had absconded. If that were the case, she’d be fucked – “Down the road” with no chance of reinstatement. Shit, after so many months of working towards recovery.

Dinner ended and most of us had to take part in the dreaded KS – kitchen standards, which involved cleaning and polishing everything in the kitchens to a standard rarely seen outside royal palaces. Next everyone headed for the common room where one of the residents would decide on the evening’s activities. Reading was chosen, which left me feeling relieved as it could’ve been board games, image-breaking, charades, or any number of…

There was a sudden commotion outside the common room, raised voices in the hall before the staff offices. A resident opened the common room door to see what it was. Becca was there and the staff were telling her to leave the building, that she wasn’t allowed back in. A member of staff told us residents to go back into the common room and to stay there.

We did, but then all ran to the windows to watch the unfolding drama. I couldn’t believe it. What the Hell had happened to Becca since I’d last seen her? It didn’t make any sense to me. Then I overheard a staff member outside speaking to Becca and I knew she’d fucked everything up.

“Becca, you know neither alcohol nor anyone who’s drunk alcohol is allowed in the house. You have to leave.”

“But where do I go?” Implored Becca.

“That’s no longer our concern, Becca. You’ve completely forced our hand by drinking alcohol and that’s that – you have to leave the grounds or the police will be called to remove you. We must protect the other residents.”

“Fuck,” I thought, “this is serious. Becca’s gone.”

But she didn’t go, despite different members of staff ordering her to leave. She was now outside the front door of the house which had been slammed closed to prevent her entry and I saw her heading towards it. She began to hammer on the door but it wasn’t being opened and then I heard the sound of glass being broken. All of us residents in the common room could only sadly look at one another, each of us aware this was beyond repair and something we had absolutely no power over. Becca had apparently sealed her fate by her own actions and was being evicted. But why? What could have happened? Why and how was she drunk outside the front door?

A member of staff came into the common room and explained exactly what we’d already overheard and surmised, but then added Becca’s wrists had been cut when smashing the front door windows and that an ambulance had been called. Jeez, one thing is always guaranteed when recovering addicts fuck up – they fuck up seriouslyand then the floodgates open.

There was no possibility of continuing with reading at this point so we all sat and chatted in small groups while awaiting the arrival of an ambulance. Its arrival was soon announced by a sweep of blue light brushing through the trees along the drive, and then it parked outside the front doors and we saw Becca being helped into the back of it by one of the attendants. That was the last we all ever saw of Becca.

We heard over the next couple of days Becca had smuggled in some cash during her visit and had then headed down to the local shop and bought a half-bottle of vodka. I guess, like most of us recovering misfits, she’d been struggling with temptation and, having some cash in hand, couldn’t resist trying to alleviate the pressure in the only way she could think of; there was certainly no smack to be found in Droxford.

I guess it was a week later during the morning meeting when the house manager, Roy, announced he’d received a letter from Becca’s mother. He said he wanted to read it to us all while we were all gathered in the same place. Drawing a single sheet of paper from an envelope, he began to read. We could see tears slowly rolling down his face as he read the lines before him.

“Dear Roy, it is with a heavy heart I must tell you my daughter, Becca, was found dead in a night shelter yesterday morning. She died of a heroin overdose. We’re told by the police she’d turned up there the previous evening rather than return home to us.

“She’d managed to find some heroin and had injected herself while others were sleeping and in the morning the shelter staff tried to wake her but to no avail. She was pronounced dead by the first responders when they arrived.

“Yours sincerely, Mrs. ………

“I’m sorry I have to pass this terrible news on to you all. I’m also sorry we had to turn Becca away last week but, as you’re all aware, the house rules are here to protect you all…until you’re ready to leave and not before. Now, let’s spend a moment thinking on Becca before we start our day.”

There followed a terrible silence while each of us absorbed this news. I could see Becca in my mind’s eye, smiling gleefully as she reached the final chord of a song I’d taught her to play in the laundry.

Roy slowly folded the letter, slid it back into its envelope and left the room.