Pete Doherty was on his knees wearing a white t-shirt with the words "Exxon Mobil" emblazoned on the front in big block letters. The room was on the fourth floor of the Rembrandt Hotel in the Knightsbridge section of London, about a ten-minute walk from Harrod's Department Store. Doherty had an Executive Suite, one with a Jacuzzi in the bedroom. And that is where Doherty was at the moment, in the bedroom with the Jacuzzi a few feet from where the young girl was lying on the floor. The girl's name was Libby. Doherty did not know her last name, though it did not matter much. A first name and a body, that is all Libby needed. And Libby's body was sprawled out on the floor, in faded blue jeans that Doherty had opened and unzipped in the front. Libby was wearing a white t-shirt as well but with a photograph of the Statute of Liberty on the front. The t-shirt was ripped from it's v-neck down about a foot, exposing Libby's left breast as she lied on her back on the polished oak floor boards. From the bottom of Libby's blue jeans jutted bare ankles and two-inch black high heels. Libby's right leg was bent inward, the high heel on its side touching the upper thigh of Libby's left leg, which was out straight.
Doherty was holding Libby's left arm, which was white as the sheets on the queen-size bed at the other end of the large bedroom. He looked down at Libby. She was breathing heavily, her long brown hair disheveled, spread in all directions. Doherty looked at the photo of the Statute of Liberty. The photograph of the famous statue show a woman so covered in robes that you had no idea what kind of body she had. But it was clear to Doherty that Liberty was not a slight woman; she had strong features, but they were not really feminine. Unlike Libby, who was thin and slight and delicate, Liberty had meat on her. Libby barely had enough skin to cover her bones.
Libby was like Kate. Oh, Kate, beautiful Kate Moss. She was making herself scarce these days. Sending notes, text messages, emails, but her gorgeous frailness was not physically present. Kate Moss kept away. Kate was afraid of being with Pete Doherty these days. Afraid that she would submit to the temptations of heroin and cocaine and all the other goodies Pete offered whenever they were together. A Kate Moss and Pete Doherty day always started late, like around three in the afternoon. The wine and whiskey started to flow around tea time. The first pills around dinner time. The cocaine around eight. And if they felt up to it, the syringes came out around ten. And all along, the constant sucking on cigarettes, a haze of tobacco smoke mixed with booze gave Kate and Pete blood shot eyes by the time they passed out together.
But Doherty was not with Kate Moss. He was with Libby. And Libby would have to do. But Libby could not hold her drugs like Kate. Kate's metabolism had built up the enzymes that adapt the body to the onslaught of drugs and alcohol. But Libby clearly was new to this. The half bottle of whiskey and the pills were enough to knock Libby unconscious. But Doherty was good at this. He knew a small hit of hot liquid cocaine would wake her.
Doherty held the syringe in his right hand, holding Libby's left arm with his left hand. The underside of Libby's wrist was up, her left hand fallen back. Doherty spotted a nice thick blue vein in the middle of Libby's underarm. Doherty placed the needle slowly to the thin white skin and pressed. The skin did not seem to break so easily, which surprised Doherty. Libby's skin was like paper. He pressed harder. Doherty was not aware of his own dulled senses, so he pressed a little too hard, the needle pierced the skin and sliced through the blue vein, cutting it. Libby's red blood squirted out in a gusher straight out at Doherty's white t-shirt, creating a thick bold line of red across the black letters that spelled Exxon Mobil.
"Shit," said Doherty. "Shit, shit, shit."
Doherty was more pissed at the waste of good cocaine than the predicament of Libby. Libby would survive, at least tonight. But shit, the waste of good cocaine. Amateurs. Where was Kate Moss. He missed her. Doherty stood and sat on the edge of the Jacuzzi and watched Libby's blood ooze out her left arm onto the oak wood floor boards. Doherty lit a cigarette and remembered the first time he put a needle in Kate Moss’s arm. Her eyes rolled back into her head and she moaned. Oh, what a beautiful moan. A Moss moan is a thing of beauty. Doherty let out smoke that collected over Libby’s still body. The blood was still flowing from her white underarm. He wanted to muster some concern, but all he could think of was Kate. She’ll be back. He was certain. He was certain.