This is an account of someone who used heroin in the North of England. While the substance wasn’t tested, it’s likely to have contained some type of nitazenes, fentanyl, or a combination of both synthetic opioids.
I wake up in a panic. Where’s my bank card? In my sock, thank fuck.
It’s early morning, 8am-ish and no one is going to be awake at this time. It’s Saturday August 2nd 2025, I’m lying on some cardboard, blanketed by some coats and jumpers I took from the back of a charity shop the night before. I think that I’ve done well for myself; I’ve woken up in worse situations.
I feel relieved that I’m alone and not with a bunch of guys I don’t know. I look around and I cannot find any drugs from the night before. I had promised myself that I would save some. I start mentally scrolling through all the dealers I know, trying to think of who would be awake now with the best gear. Most of what I’ve been using is shite. I need some pregabalin and Valium on top of a few beer cans just to get my head down.
I am addicted to heroin, and that is what I want.
With little success, I head into town to see if I find anyone. I spot a couple of lads walking somewhere with a spring in their step: they look like they’re going to go score. I decide to follow them. We chat. They’re after crack, but tell me their dealer has gear.
In the back of my mind, I’ve got a growing anxiety: I’ve never heard of this guy. I know all the dealers around here. I have no idea what he’s selling.
But I’ve used class A drugs for 40 years – I’ve been and used it all. It might kill me, but it probably won’t. Plus, I’m ready for what I want. I’ve got foil and a full lighter. I’ll find a quiet place somewhere where nobody will see me curled over, open-mouthed, drooling – although I’d need a lot to be left like that nowadays. Heroin just isn’t as strong as it used to be.
Swirling round
This guy is taking the piss. We’ve been going round in circles, looking everywhere for him. I’m starting to get angry, feeling the withdrawal creep in. I’m getting desperate and just need to use – after that I’ll be fine again.
The dealer finally arrives on a nice mountain bike. We banter for a bit, with money and product changing hands in a blink of an eye. I get his mobile number to add to my list. Gone is any animosity or frustration. We leave with smiles on our faces. Everyone’s got what they want.
I know a place across the road: it’s a concrete stairway leading to a disused carpark. It’s filthy, stinks of damp, has used condoms, underwear, used needles, spoons, filters and all sorts laying around – but it’s quiet. It’ll do. I head on over, both of the lads coming too.
I tip-toe around, looking for a clean spot to sit down. I just want to be alone and away from the others. I find a clean spot. I make a tube, get my gear ready and stuff the rest in my sock. I take a deep breath to steady my hands. I run the lighter under the foil.
That’s weird. I expected the powder to slowly turn thick and oily. Now it just looks like crystal sugar – it smells and looks strange.
I take it in. It tastes off. I take off.
Lights out
Everything goes dark. My heart slows down. It’s stopping.
Maybe a couple of minutes pass. I’m not sure.
I feel some rustling around my legs. Someone’s trying to move me. I’m still sat, but almost nodding off. My body feels weighed down, my eyes fight to stay open. I’m getting scared. I look around and see one of the lads there, head bent over his knees. The back of his head’s gone purple. Is he dead? Where’s the other? I need to get going, I’m going to die if I don’t stay awake.
I grip the railing, dragging myself up. One step at a time, passing by the other slumped body. Is he dead? I look around. His crack is gone. I remember hands feeling me up, in and around my pockets. The other guy must have tried to rob me. That’s what woke me up. I don’t even care anymore, I just want to get out of here.
Is he dead? Fucking hell he’s dead. Fucking hell he’s dead.
I find the guy outside the carpark. We find a phone box. We need to call an ambulance, but he doesn’t want to. But we need to get someone to come help his friend. We call them. We tell them what happened. He does the talking. I’m barely standing, he’s holding me up and I’m begging him not to leave me.
Please don’t leave me alone.
We didn’t ever speak about who was left behind. I hadn’t even met these two before today, I didn’t even know their names. But we agreed to meet later on. We go our separate ways at the bus station. I don’t want to be seen in this state, but I’m too scared to be alone. I’m still in and out of it. I just want to go to that place where everything is safe and warm, but I can’t. So where do I go?
I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay, just keep moving, don’t sit down, keep your eyes open, just keep moving. But every step is a burden, I keep getting pulled down into this darkness. If I close my eyes and just sit here, I can get real comfortable. A part of me just wants to do that: let me just go into the deep end and end this madness. There’s a lot of reasons to stay alive, I know it. I’m just too tired to think of them right now. I can barely stay conscious.
What the hell did I take to make me like this?
What the hell did I take?
In the early hours of Sunday morning I go back to the same place I slept the night before. I’m starting to feel more normal. I’m starving. I head back into town for something to eat, but there’s blue lights around. The police are here. They say that I’m not in trouble, they just want to speak to me. They say that there’s CCTV footage showing that I was one of the last people around that lad. He had overdosed and died. They told me his name, but it meant nothing to me. They say they need to speak to me more about the guy. I give them my phone and email.
The police say there’s a bad batch of heroin going around cut with nitazenes; I had heard about this but hadn’t found any of it yet. That there’s been a few people dying from the stuff. Things are starting to make more sense. They ask me if I took some too. I say I did. But it hadn’t been a bad batch; it had been super strong.Over 40 years of heroin and I had never felt that way.
They ask if I wanted to go to the hospital. They probably see me still struggling to stay upright. I say no thanks. They look me up and down, and try again; they think it’s best I see someone. But I’ve got gear in my sock, and I don’t want to get whacked with naloxone and go straight into withdrawal. They keep looking at me. They give me a number I can call; I tell them I will. I won’t.
For the next two days, I stay behind some shops nearby, experimenting with the heroin I have. I can’t remember how many times I almost die, how many times I have to get up and walk around to do something, anything to stay conscious. It’s now Monday afternoon. I’m tired, hungry, cold, shivering, scared, terrified of dying. But I’m out of gear again, and what am I going to do? I need to score. Am I going to end up like that lad, whose name I can’t even remember? Is this how I’m going to die?
I text some friends, and thankfully, they come through for me. By the evening I’m in a safe place, warm and out of this spiral. I speak with a drug service that fast-track me, prescribing me buprenorphine. There, I do some drug tests. I test positive for fentanyl, xylazine and nitazenes.
I think back to that poor lad, no face, not using heroin, just head slumped.
That could have been me.
It’s been three months since this happened. I’m still surprised that after 40 years of using heroin, I’m still learning about all types of new synthetic opioids going around. Being homeless and falling through the gaps of health and social systems means you’re more likely to use and die from them.
We need people to have the chance to check what they’re using, and be supported to stay alive, not pushed to use in places where no one will find them.
