The area behind King’s Cross station was once a no-go zone. Addicts scored their bags of smack and other nicely named narcotics on those dark and dirty streets. Half of the stuff they bought was cut so many times that the highs got lower and lower. These daytime ghosts would do anything for a fix, literally anything, and were abused because they were weak and easy prey for the dealers and the punters. After giving their bodies and their dignity away, they went in search of a vacant alleyway in which to lose their minds. Once there, behind the overflowing refuse bins and the sad, stained mattresses, they injected themselves and slipped away.
Across the road, the ladies of the night and the rent boys wandered up and down after dark, looking for love and settling for cash. It was a dark plac
