Social exclusion: Billy and Rolonde

I’m early and it takes a while for the door to be opened. Maybe Billy is checking me out on the security camera he’s set up in his bathroom window. When the door opens he’s apologetic, he’s overslept. His flatmate stays under the covers in the bedroom they share as Billy pulls on his trainers and finds his jacket. It’s ‘pay day’ and some of the pay is going on a fix. Photograph: Len Grant/PR

Heading towards the main road Billy is in a talkative mood, happy to answer my questions about his addiction. ‘I spend between £20 and £40 a week on heroin – two or three hits – out of about £60 or £70 a week I get from the dole. I’m probably what they call a Giro-junkie because I don’t thieve to feed my addiction any more,’ he says as we walk to the post office.
Photograph: Len Grant/PR

‘There are about ten dealers on my estate,’ he says after he’s popped into the chemist for fresh needles, ‘which is quite a lot for a small estate. If I went to town there’d be another thirty down there. Heroin is more freely available now than cannabis.' ‘You go ahead,’ he says as he steps into a phone box to call his dealer. ‘I’ll see you back at the flat in five minutes.’
Photograph: Len Grant/PR

Suddenly Billy is wandering around the living room with a thin syringe, half full of a brown liquid. He’s chatting the whole time, wanting me to feel comfortable in his home. He shows me photographs of his family: a group in someone’s garden; he and his brothers a year or so ago, Billy looking thin and drawn; a school photograph of him and his two brothers, from twenty years back, smiling together at the camera. ‘You better not photograph that,’ he tells me. Photograph: Len Grant/PR

As a ‘failed’ asylum seeker, Barbara gets what’s known as ‘Section 4’ support, given to those considered destitute. Her accommodation is provided and she receives £35 per week in vouchers. Barbara’s vouchers can be redeemed in one of the four main supermarkets. She can choose which supermarket’s vouchers to receive but that’s it: all the vouchers have to be redeemed in that one store. There’s no cash equivalent. Photograph: Len Grant/PR

Every Monday morning Barbara takes two buses across town to collect a £20 and a £15 plastic Tesco gift card and then travels back again. Today I am about to accompany her on that journey… I’m not a complete stranger to bus travel but Barbara advises me to get an ‘any bus day saver’ for £3.70 while she goes ahead and shows her senior citizen’s pass to the driver. Photograph: Len Grant/PR

… there’s a primary school somewhere close by with the reassuring cacophony of children at play, which almost drowns out the traffic noise on the main road. No black cars in sight today as we walk towards a four-storey residential building between some rusting haulage containers to reach a basement office. ‘You stay at the top of the stairs,’ suggests Barbara as she descends the dozen or so stone steps and disappears with several others into a doorway. Photograph: Len Grant/PR

A few minutes later she comes back up with her two Tesco gift cards and her friend Priscilla. ‘A lady cannot be expected to live off £35 a week,’ Priscilla says with a huge laugh, ‘What about your bras, your make-up?’ The two friends part company at the bus station in town – no shopping trip or chat over a cappuccino. They agree to meet up next Monday for the weekly journey to collect their vouchers. Photograph: Len Grant/PR

Today Allan has been off the drink for just two days. It’s the beginning of another dry spell. ‘I’ve abused my health with the drink. The only one it’s hurting is me. Now it’s either get off the drink or die. ‘I feel as if I’ve been given another chance, maybe my last chance. I’ve got to have the will and determination to do it myself. I think I can, but there is a bit of doubt there.’ Photograph: Len Grant/PR

He turns to me. ‘When my mam died there was a massive hole,’ he says. ‘I wanted to die. I’d lost everything. There was nothing to keep me here. It happens even now, even without the drink. I’d love to have her back but it’s never going to happen. I’ve got no-one.’ ‘Do you want to sit for a while?’ I ask. ‘No, I like to move on,’ he says as we walk back, ‘always moving on.’ Photograph: Len Grant/PR

I’ve placed myself strategically in the pew in front of Allan. I imagine a more seasoned documentary photographer might have their camera trained on him the whole time, ready for that moment… but I feel rooted to the spot. So I end up with not a single image that reflects the emotion I feel in that hall. Maybe I’ll feel less conspicuous in the buffet afterwards. I need to come away with something. Photograph: Len Grant/PR

‘Len, you know when I phoned you, I was suicidal.’ ‘You should have said.’ ‘I couldn’t. I didn’t want to bring it all on you.’ This is what I find difficult. To be able to follow some of Allan’s life I need to get to know him and he needs to be able to trust me. As well as the basis for a productive documentary these are also the principles on which friendship is built. Allan sees me as a friend and although I’m pleased he does, I’m not sure I can fulfil, or want to fulfil, all the responsibilities that go with it. Photograph: Len Grant/PR