Breaking Out

by Janice Nix

  But Nana wasn’t the only one who’d heard bad word on me and believed it. When Scully and I vanished from the street, ambitious smaller players moved in to fill the space we’d left behind. Many of them claimed to have worked with us – whether or not it was true – and grabbed the good name we had earned. Thanks to them, my reputation had been very badly damaged.

  I wondered how much longer I could carry on like this. I decided that I wanted to retire – just as soon as I could afford it. I started to look round, searching for a way to make the money that I needed to get out.

  Eventually, an opportunity came up.

  Not long after my release, Mummy died. She left me a small legacy. I used it to fly out to the Caribbean and talk to some contacts. I was introduced to Stedroy, an importer I’d never met before. He told me about a million-pound shipment of marijuana he would send every six to eight months from St Vincent to Southampton. Did I want in?

  A million-pound deal sounded tempting. It wasn’t just the money – this would be a chance to fix everything. Restore my reputation that the street had harmed so badly. Set myself up for retirement. Then go out on a high – as a winner in the game, not as a loser.

  It was my final throw of the dice. It would have to be the throw of a lifetime.

  Nadia told me she had no plans to return to England. She graduated from high school and started working. Then Emmanuel asked if I’d like to come back over to see her again. I was grateful to have a second chance – and we’d both had a bit of time to think. I hoped beyond hope that this time, we could make our relationship better.

  We spent the time doing ordinary things – some shopping, going out for meals. Nadia showed me the places where she hung out with her friends. I met some of them. Her life seemed a little less unknowable now, and I found that a comfort.

  ‘Let’s focus on the positive,’ I said to her, as we sat in a Taco Bell on Boston Road, a day or so before I was due to fly back home. ‘You’re doing well and my prison time is over. I know how hard it was for you, I really do. But I hope things can get better.’

  Slowly, Nadia stirred her coffee. Her dark eyes were fixed on the swirling circles in the drink. She watched them going round for so long that I started to wonder if she’d heard. Then she looked up.

  ‘Mom,’ she said suddenly, urgently. ‘Mom – you’ve got to promise.’

  She sounded eight years old. Behind this sophisticated young woman with her job and her car, I heard the voice of the little girl she’d once been.

  ‘You can’t go back to that lifestyle,’ she said. ‘You mustn’t. But every single day, I worry that you will.’

  I reached out to touch her hand, but she jerked it away. She bumped her coffee mug. Coffee splashed right across the table.

  ‘Dammit!’

  I jumped up and fetched a paper tissue. As we mopped, the tissue got soaked through and began to fall apart. I had to fetch another. When my hand brushed hers, I realised she was shaking. We looked at each across a swimming brownish mess flecked with bits of disintegrating paper.

  ‘No more jobs, Mom. No more drug deals. No more Nasty Girl business. Please stop. You’ve got to promise.’

  I wanted to give her the reassurance she needed. I wanted it so much. And there was only going to be one more job. Just one last time, and I was done. Then I would keep my word forever.

  ‘Darling,’ I said to her, ‘forget Mama J. I’m your mama first of all. And I promise.’

  I promise, except for this one job. Except for the biggest of them all.

  I knew that what I told her was a lie. But when I said it, I meant it to be true. My grand finale. Nadia would never need to know.

  OCTOBER 2015

  ‘Hello? Is that Janice?’

  ‘Yes, it is. Who’s speaking?’

  ‘It’s Laura. Isabelle’s mum.’

  ‘Hi there, Laura. Thanks for calling back.’

  It was the third time we’d spoken. She sounded just like Izzie on the phone. She had the same lightness in her voice. But right now, I could hear that she was close to crying.

  ‘I wanted to tell you – she came round here again,’ Laura said.

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘It was yesterday. I’m afraid that she –’

  Her voice cracked, and then the tears came.

  ‘Laura? What happened?’

  ‘She wasn’t here for long. She said she wanted a shower. I said okay. Then after she left, I realised –’

  I didn’t need to hear the rest. I already knew.

  ‘Oh, Laura. I’m sorry.’

  ‘She’d gone into my purse! She just came round to steal!’

  ‘Laura,’ I said, ‘it’s awful that this happened.’

  ‘I thought that things were better, after last time. You know – when she had that list with her? The five things she had to do.’

  Izzie had showed her mum my framework for her day. It listed the tasks she had to finish – the tidying, the shopping, the shower. It was part of my plan to put structure in her life, starting in the small ways first of all.

  ‘And she was doing it, Janice! She really was!’

  ‘I know she was, Laura. And she does, very often.’

  ‘So then why –’

  ‘I feel the same as you do,’ I said. ‘I want her to be better. If I could press a button and make it happen faster – I would. But recovery is always up and down. She’ll make progress, but then she’ll slip sometimes. We need to be patient.’

  Laura sighed. She knew she’d let Izzie down in the past. Her love was imperfect. What I wanted was for mother and daughter to discover that imperfect was enough.

  ‘Janice,’ she whispered, ‘I think you are the only person she listens to.’

  ‘I tell you,’ I said, ‘it doesn’t feel that way sometimes!’

  Laura gave a shaky little laugh.

  ‘Does she argue with you too?’ she asked me.

  Oh, yes. Izzie argued a lot. As her trust in me was growing, I used it to push back. She was telling me the truth about the things she was doing to get herself the money for drugs. And I was giving my opinion. The danger she was putting herself into, again and again – it was crazy, self-destructive. Why was she so determined to mess up her life?

  ‘I’ve got it under control, Jan,’ she’d mutter, staring at the ground.

  ‘Under control! Look in the mirror, and tell me what you see. Then tell me if you think that’s what being in control looks like!’

  She’d sink her head even lower.

  ‘I know, Jan. I know.’

  I didn’t tell her she looked beautiful or sexy or smart. I told her that she looked a hot mess. I took away the meaningless, manipulative flattery of Leroy, Mr B and Jay, and in its place I gave her the truth. She was learning that I wasn’t going to lie. It was because I wouldn’t lie that we were going to get her through this, and out the other side.

  ‘Ah, Laura,’ I said. ‘You know Izzie. Yes, she argues. But she’s a good girl. She’s making progress. On her list, every morning, she has to look at herself in the mirror and tell herself that she deserves happiness. The more she hears it, the more she’ll believe it.’

  I heard Laura draw a long, shaky breath.

  ‘Janice – please tell me the truth. Is this working, what you’re doing?’

  ‘Yes, Laura,’ I said. ‘Yes, it is. You just need to hold on, because it’s working. You’re going to get her back.’

  Stedroy used a reliable green channel from St Vincent to Southampton. ‘Green channel’ means an international pathway through ports or airports, docks and customs inspections, where the only checks on goods are carried out by people on the drug supplier’s payroll. The shipment goes through smoothly, no questions asked.

  I was the one asking questions. Stedroy reassured me that he knew what he was doing. ‘Don’t worry, Miss Jan,’ he said to me, ‘this product will be on your doorstep.’ He gave me the codename of Sandra. My real identity would be nowhere near the job.

 
; At the UK end, I used my old friend Diego. He and Mank had never let me down in the past. One of Diego’s guys – yet another new name to me, Vernon – would be my contact. He would take control as soon as the consignment left the ship in Southampton. He’d done plenty of business in the old days, Diego said, back before the airports tightened their security. Vernon’s mules used to bring in drugs through Heathrow and leave them in bins inside the terminal buildings. He’d had a payroll of cleaners there, doing his collections. Diego still vouched for him, though recently he seemed to have dropped out of sight. I thought that was okay. My consignment would travel from Southampton to London via a holding point in Leicester. The holding point would be a nightclub called the Apex. The Apex’s owner was on board. That sounded okay too.

  The consignment was a thousand ki of high quality weed. At £1,500 a ki, its total street value was a million and a half. I couldn’t pay my personnel up front, so everything was going to have to wait until the goods had been sold. Then, allowing for all payments and expenses, I would clear a million. A mill was what I needed to retire. That also seemed okay.

  There was just one thing that wasn’t – a missing piece of vital information. On the last job, Adam, the nightclub owner in Leicester, hadn’t been paid – and he was angry. He didn’t know who’d robbed him, but he wanted to find out. All he knew was – it had to be the person who had set up the green channel.

  All the time I was making my plans, no one told me this. If I’d known, I’d never have touched the job at all.

  I presented my visiting order at the prison gate. It was late January 2001. At HMP Swaleside on the Isle of Sheppey in Kent, Scully was just over nine years into his sixteen-year sentence.

  I knew I wouldn’t find him too downhearted. Scully was prepared to do his time because he knew what he had. When his sentence was over, his future was worth having. He was patient. He knew how to ride the storm.

  In through the two security doors with intensive checks and searches. My photo was taken. My bag and coat went into a locker. All I could take into the visiting room was the locker key and small change for drinks and snacks at the WRVS counter in the corner. I found my numbered chair. In five minutes, they would let him come and see me. I looked around and patted my hair.

  The visiting room was large and noisy. Its lights were high and harsh – that endless prison glare I remembered so well. The buzz of many voices and the sound of kids crying were magnified by echoes. The sound would make a screen.

  As soon as I saw Scully, I couldn’t help but smile.

  ‘Hello, princess,’ he said. ‘Y’alright?’

  As we sat down at the table, I reached out and took his hands. He closed his eyes and smiled while he listened to me talk. When I’d been chatting for a while, he opened them and said, ‘But Janice, what else?’

  We had a vibe connection. He’d always sensed when I was planning something.

  ‘What d’you mean, what else?’ I said, trying not to smile.

  ‘Janice, what you up to?’

  ‘You’re right. I’m doing one more thing. It’s planned for March.’

  His eyes narrowed.

  ‘What’s one more thing?’

  I told him about the green channel and my set-up with Stedroy, Vernon and Adam. The longer I explained, the more deeply Scully frowned.

  ‘I’m not good with this, Jan,’ he said to me.

  ‘It’s calm, babe, it’s calm. When the stuff comes off the boat, I won’t even be in England. I’ve fixed to be abroad. I’m hands-off. There’s no connection with me.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ he muttered. ‘These guys. Stedroy, Vernon, the nightclub owner – what was his name –?’

  ‘Adam.’

  ‘Who are they really? You don’t have that information.’

  ‘But I was out of the game for five years. Sure, I don’t know all the links. But it’s cool. I got personal recommendations.’

  ‘I tell you, babe,’ said Scully, ‘it’s not good.’

  This wasn’t what I’d wanted to hear. I found myself becoming defensive.

  ‘Look, I got space between me and the job. And these guys are okay. I can trust them.’

  Scully laid his hand on my arm. I’ll let you think on that, he’d always say when he wasn’t sure I was following the right course of action. But not this time. I’d never known him be so direct before.

  ‘No, Jan. Don’t go for it.’

  Up to now, I’d been confident I’d made the right decision. The grand finale – the final role of the dice. But when Scully wasn’t with me, I couldn’t help but feel a shiver of unease.

  ‘Babe,’ I said again. ‘It’s okay. I’ve done my homework.’

  Scully sighed.

  ‘I know you. You’ll do what you want, not what someone else says. Not even what I say. But I’m warning you – not this. This don’t feel good.’

  When I’d told Scully I was going to be hands-off on the green channel deal, I had meant it. Ten days before the shipment was due to dock in England, I caught a plane. Being out of the country reduced the risk that I’d be linked to the job even further. I’d left no paper trail, held no meetings in England, made no phone calls. I was certain there was absolutely nothing that could tie me to the goods.

  The consignment arrived in Southampton. It cleared the port without a hitch. Next day, a driver took the two crates of weed, each one about the size of a two-seater sofa, up to Leicester for storage at the Apex. Payment for the transfer was £25k – danger money. Moving merchandise is always the point of highest risk. The journey went smoothly.

  Once Stedroy confirmed that the consignment was in Leicester, I flew back to Heathrow. I was close to the finish line now. It was time for Vernon, my contact, to do his job.

  The phone in my flat rang very early in the morning. Not the mobile. The landline.

  ‘Is that Janice?’

  ‘Is that Vernon?’

  I could hardly believe it. He started to speak, but I cut in.

  ‘So Vernon – this is my landline. Why don’t you call back on the mobile?’

  I hung up on him. Too late, though – the call had been made and it was traceable. It could link us together. What a stupid, unnecessary risk. I thought this guy was meant to be sensible.

  He called me back, and things got even worse. The shipment, he told me, couldn’t move today. The driver had a problem with his licence. Fair enough – I was taking no chances, so using a driver who didn’t have a licence would be foolish. But why was I hearing this? Vernon was my contact – it was his job to sort these problems out. Why hadn’t he arranged another driver? I asked him where the weed was being stored while we waited for the transport to London to be sorted.

  ‘Uh – it’s waiting in the Apex. In the foyer.’

  Surely I hadn’t heard him right.

  ‘Uh – who’s waiting in the foyer?’

  ‘The shipment.’

  ‘What do you mean – it’s in the foyer?’

  ‘There’s two big crates. They won’t fit in the storeroom.’

  ‘A thousand ki of weed and it’s sitting in the front hall of some nightclub? Are you insane?’ I yelled into the phone. Vernon coughed and muttered.

  ‘And you’ve got no other driver – is that right?’ I demanded.

  More muttering. This guy just wasn’t up to the job. Instantly, I made a decision. There was only one way that this problem would get fixed.

  ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘I’ll get the transfer done myself.’

  Ninety minutes later I was ready to go. I’d rung a mate and quickly rented a van.

  ‘I’m going up country. Should anybody visit, you don’t know nothing,’ I told him.

  ‘Okay, Jan.’

  The only way to run any underworld business is to be open and honest. Always tell a colleague exactly what’s going down. That way, if there’s a visit from the law, the colleague knows how to deal with it. And you’ve been on the level.

  I paid my mate in cash. I took no credit cards, no
driving licence, no ID at all. I left my phones at home. I picked up Vernon, who didn’t have much to say for himself, and we set out to drive up to Leicester. At Watford Gap services I stopped, found a payphone and rang the Apex nightclub.

  ‘Hello? Who’s this?’ said a voice that must be Adam’s.

  I noticed it immediately – this guy is wired. I could understand why – he wanted the shipment gone from his premises. Holding on to product is the biggest risk anyone can run. I’d be angry too if there’d been an unexpected delay. And I was pretty wired myself. So I didn’t focus on the tension in Adam’s voice.

  ‘Adam? My name’s Sandra. I understand that you have something for me.’

  ‘Are you Stedroy’s sister?’ he demanded.

  I thought the question was strange. No one had told me that Stedroy had a sister. I thought quickly. Most of all, I wanted Adam to trust me.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I am.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said. He still sounded annoyed. ‘Right then. I expected Stedroy. So it’s your operation?’

  I don’t like all these enquiries.

  ‘Yeah, yeah, it’s mine. You ready?’

  ‘Yeah. I got something to collect here.’

  ‘That’s good. I’m on my way.’

  ‘How long you going to be?’

  I’d had enough of questions. I put the phone down.

  Fifty minutes later we drove up to the Apex in the centre of Leicester. When Adam saw us, he was astonished. He hadn’t been expecting us for hours. He seemed angry that we’d arrived so early. When I rang from Watford Gap and told him I was on my way, he’d thought that I was setting out from London. But so what? A couple of hours here or there didn’t matter. Some guy’s bad mood about it wasn’t my problem. Being on the road, involved in transport – the riskiest part of the whole operation – made me desperately impatient to get the transfer done.

  It took three of Adam’s guys to load the crates into the van. While they did the lifting, I stayed behind the wheel. Adam hung around me the whole time – he kept asking if I fancied a sandwich, a coffee, a cold drink … he just wouldn’t let me alone. All I wanted was to leave and be on my way to London. But still he kept on talking, putting questions, trying to find out who I was.