by V E Rooney
“Well,” he says as we all wait for his proclamation, “yeah, it’s alright. Nice little buzz already.” Thank you for your insightful, considered opinion, David.
Next up is Morocco. Although she’s good quality, this one has been a bit of a bitch to grow because it’s difficult to replicate the exact soil conditions over here and the artificial humidity in the warehouse is not helping her to bud as quickly as my other plants. I’ve tried mixing sand with the soil, using different fertilisers, watering more often and then less often but poor little Morocco is having trouble getting used to how things are done over here. Still, I have six viable plants from her that need to make way for more efficient strains so she’ll be sold regardless.
The boys complete toke number two. John leans back in his chair and closes his eyes. “Oh aye,” he drawls. “Oh aye indeed. That’s fucking lovely, that is.”
“The smoke’s heavier on this one,” nods Brian as he turns the spliff in the air and watches the blue plumes of smoke dance around each other before handing it to David. David takes a drag and stubs it out in the ashtray. He holds it for about five seconds and blows it out through his nose. “Oh yeah, this is the stuff you want to listen to music to. This is what Pink Floyd was made for,” he says approvingly.
It’s time for bachelorette number three, which I have bred from my existing West Indies strains and a hybrid strain that I’m trying out. I’ve got various prototype plants on the go in a small sectioned-off part of the greenhouse and they’re just coming up to budding. Each plant has a different strength grade and pungency.
This plant is part Sativa, part Purple Haze and my regulars are raving about it. Well, as much as stoners can rave, which is not much at all judging by the increasingly gormless expressions spreading across the faces of my three guinea pigs here. I thought this strain would be tricky to get going but it’s been the easiest and quickest of the three to grow. All that remains is the toke test.
John takes a heavy drag and scrunches his eyes up as the smoke hits him in the face. He splutters briefly before popping his eyes back open and leaning back in his chair, his face beatific like he’s just seen the face of God. “Wow. Wow.”
He passes it to Brian. Brian looks almost afraid and gingerly pulls the spliff to his lips. He takes a short drag and holds it. “Oh, fuck me, that’s strong,” he exclaims as he hands it to David. David’s verdict? “Ooooohhhh, Ali…this could float the fucking Titanic,” he says as he gives me the thumbs-up sign, the effort of which seems to take all the strength out of him. I quickly stub out bachelorette number three before they decide to have second helpings. Can’t let them get too monged, we’ve still got packaging to do.
The radio is tuned into a dance and house mix on Radio City, the lads have got cold beers stocked up in the fridge (orange juice for me) and I’m sat at the table counting off my incomings and outgoings while the boys are bagging up ready for the weekend’s deliveries. Demand is such that I’m pretty much 100% back-office now, concentrating on breeding the weed while delegating the front-end selling to the crew.
It suits me, the boys have got customer recruitment locked down tightly and no one needs to stress over money coming in because my produce is so good that word-of-mouth is enough to ensure a constant flow of buyers. As well as a steady stream of buyers turning up to collect on the hoof (not at the farm itself for security purposes), we are making deliveries all over the place – Kirkby, St Helens, Widnes, Warrington, Crosby, Formby and Southport. You know, woollyback land. Not the south side, though. Toxteth, Speke, Sefton Park way are definitely off-limits for obvious reasons. Meanwhile, the wholesale supply pipeline down south is also topping up the tills – Simon is upping the quantity with each order. The cash is coming in at such a rate that I’m having trouble figuring out what to do with it.
After all the running around we’ve done lately, I’m feeling more relaxed than I have done in a long time. Even though breeding is keeping me busy enough, I feel like I can sit back and enjoy the fruits of my labour by actually spending some money on myself. I’m even thinking about going on holiday, flopping out on some beach in Spain and downing some cocktails as the sun goes down. The proper last holiday I had was when I was eight, when Mum and I took the train down to Llandudno in north Wales and spent a wet weekend in some crumble-down B&B overlooking the beach. I’ve never been abroad so yeah, suppose I should get a passport sorted. It’ll be a fucker if I find out I’m scared of flying.
Ste, Brian, David and John come over to where I’m sat and pick up the last wraps. I’m flicking through my notebook.
“Right, all done?” I say.
“Yeah, sound. We’re gonna head into town for a few bevvies, you coming?” Ste says as he puts his wraps into his holdall.
“Nah mate, I’ll get all my admin shit out of the way, fancy a quiet one tonight.”
“Alright girl, you can clean up the office while you’re at it, it’s a fucking tip in there,” John says, winking at Ste.
“How about I clean your arsehole with this knife, fuckface?” I say, holding up the penknife I’ve been using to cut the cellophane for the wraps.
“Oooh. Time of the month, is it?” John, you’re so fucking original.
“Why don’t I sit on your face so you can find out? Go on, fuck off,” I say, gesturing towards the door.
They amble towards the office, already bickering about which club to go to and where the girls are most likely to be pissed out of their minds already. Easy pickings for them. The door closes silently after them. I stand up, walk over to the radio and switch it off. I go to the fridge, get a carton of juice and return to my seat. And relax. I take a swig from my carton. I hear footsteps behind me. John’s forgot his keys or something.
“Forgot your Rohypnol?” I say before necking another gulp of juice.
Before I can swallow it, a hand grabs my head and slams it into the table. I spit the juice out as the table shakes and the carton goes flying out of my hands and onto the floor. I feel something hard pressing down on the back of my skull. I’m no expert but I think it’s a gun. Two more hands pin my arms behind my back while the first hand keeps the gun on my head. I can’t see who is behind me. Why didn’t the fucking alarms go off? A male voice I’ve never heard before, coming from whoever is ramming the gun into my head.
You fucking move and I’ll splatter your fucking brains all over this table, bitch.
Shouts behind me and the sound of David, Brian, Ste and John out by the office all shouting over each other.
Alright, alright, take it easy, lads!
Fuck! What the fuck?
Don’t shoot, please, I’m begging, don’t shoot!
A different male voice behind me, a bit further back.
Bring them in here.
More male voices now, shouting at my boys.
Shut the fuck up, you little twat. Get back in there.
Are you scared, pissy drawers? Yeah, you should be fucking scared, you fucking cunt.
Fucking state of this lot, eh? Didn’t even need to get tooled up.
The two males behind me, still holding me down on the table.
Can you fucking believe this? Fucking hell!
I know, mate, I know. Right little madam we’ve got here, eh?
The boys are being dragged back. Ear-splitting squeaks as the soles of their trainers drag on the bare concrete floor. The second male voice again, the one who wants them back in here with me. Deep and throaty. Deepthroat.
Stick them over the table there. Face down.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the boys are in headlocks courtesy of seven fellas all built like brick shithouses and clearly binging on steroids. Not that they need steroids because a few of these heavies have come equipped with some sawn-off shotguns, which they are jamming against the back of the boys’ heads. They drag the boys to the table, position them so that they’re facing me and slam their heads down with sickeningly loud thuds. More shouts.
Get down there, you fucking tiny
twat.
Eh mate, get onto that big bastard there, yeah?
Don’t you fucking look at me, you cunt. If you fucking even twitch, I’m gonna empty this gun up your arsehole.
Deepthroat again.
Tie their hands behind their backs.
My head is being pressed onto the table with such force that I’m scared my skull is about to get crushed. Ste is opposite me and is trying to look at me but every time he lifts his head one of his guardians promptly slams his head back down.
I said don’t fucking move, dickhead! Wanna take me on, big lad? Eh?
I can’t move, both my wrists are pinned behind my back and they feel like they’re about to snap.
Silence. Deepthroat again.
Well, well. Who’s the boss man of this little operation, eh?
He sounds about 30ish, same age as these gorillas look to be, doing the muscle work on his behalf. The ensuing lack of response tells him the answer to his question. He starts laughing.
Fucking hell. You, go have a mooch, let’s see what we’ve got here.
Whoever he was speaking to crosses my small line of vision in a blur as they go through the polythene partition. It feels like time has stopped. Then I hear a shout from the man.
Fuck me. Jesus, mate. There’s at least 150 plants in here, mate.
Deepthroat again.
Oh aye? Sounds like we’ve got a proper little outfit here. Let’s have a little chinwag, eh?
I can feel his hot breath on the side of my face as he leans down, his gob an inch above my left ear. I can smell cigarettes and that fucking Kouros aftershave that’s all the rage right now.
You’ve been a very naughty little girl…sit her down.
I’m hauled off the table and slammed down into the chair. I grab the back of my head and look up. Standing next to me is the spare cunt who was jabbing the pistol into my head, which is now aimed at my face and another man, the one who was holding me down. Standing directly in front of me is Deepthroat.
Deepthroat’s about six foot, well-built, mixed race black and white, short cropped hair, designer stubble and he’s wearing a white open-necked shirt, a dark suit jacket and trousers and a pair of smart polished dress shoes. Looks to be late 20s or early 30s with a face still smooth enough to get away with looking younger but with the crow’s feet and the mouth lines to suggest he’s been round the block a few times. He looks like a bouncer with a fondness for designer clobber. He pulls another chair from the table and sits opposite me, his face about two feet from mine. He’s got this fucking Mona Lisa half-smirk on his face and his eyes don’t leave mine as he reaches into his right jacket pocket and pulls out a pack of ciggies and a gold lighter.
“Do you know who I am?” he says as he sparks up and takes a long drag.
Now, I could give several answers to this question. Right now I am swallowing the fear, the panic, indignity and bile that’s rising in my gut in response to this intrusion. For a second I’m tempted to ask if he’s a professional Marvin Gaye lookalike. But it’s hard to be cocky when I’ve already sussed that he and his crew are definitely not the busies and that they’re here to check out the competition. The question is which crew he’s with, and the other question that’s screaming around in my head is how much shit I’m in. Is this the prelude to us being wiped out? Is this the inglorious end to my short-lived career?
I’ve been as careful as I can be in establishing trusted distribution channels with long-time clients, I’ve put more man-hours into research and development of my product than I have in actually selling the stuff, and in the space of two minutes it’s all about to come crashing down around me, and the odds are that once this lot have cleaned my stock out, me and the boys will end up as a pile of charred skeletons in the burning rubble of my farm.
Cannabis is a scalable business. The thing is that I don’t have a true benchmark to measure myself against. Obviously I know I’m one dealer amongst many in the area. There are the small-time single-plant dealers who sell to their nearest and dearest and there are the semi-pro growers with a few plants here and there who have their own clientele in place. Then there are people like me who are full-time, full-capacity professionals 24/7. We may have shared clients, we may have even crossed each other’s paths in the pubs and clubs and parties but there are no professional partnerships in place. I’ve tried to keep things discreet and out of sight. My operation is tight, it’s self-contained and it’s successful. And success is a double-edged sword. It’s that word-of-mouth thing again. Clearly some lips have been looser than others.
If you have a product with appeal, word gets around. People looking for the product will ask who’s product is the best, and if it’s higher quality and at a lower price, you’re gonna ditch whoever you were buying off before, which means their volumes and profits go down. Rival dealers who experience a significant drop in demand will want to know who is this new fucker in town who’s undercutting them and showing them up for selling the piss-poor shite that passes for weed. My operation has clearly caused someone’s coffers to go down. The question is, who owns the coffers? By the skin tones on display in front of me, and the softer lilt of their accents, I’m guessing someone on the south side. And that is fucking bad news for me.
“I’m guessing you’re not the busies,” I say once I’ve recovered some semblance of composure. My skull feels like it’s been a vice. Deepthroat’s gorillas start chuckling at each other, amused by my ignorance. I wonder if he’s trained them, sat them down in front of a whiteboard and held a seminar on how to intimidate his hapless targets. “Laugh at this bit, let her know you think she’s a stupid cunt.”
Deepthroat takes another drag on his ciggie. “No, I’m not. You’re gonna wish I was the busies, though. Fucking hell,” he says as his eyes leave mine to scan the premises, shaking his head. He exhales a couple of smoke rings before his gaze returns.
“I’m not the busies, girl. And you do not have the right to remain silent. Believe me on that. You,” he says, pointing at me with his ciggie, “are gonna tell me every last fucking detail of who you are, from whose cunt you came out of, right down to what you had for fucking breakfast. Understand?”
I stare at him. It’s not like I have any other options at this point. “Understood.”
Deepthroat takes another drag, chucks his ciggie onto the ground and grinds it dead with his fancy shoe. “I’m Sean Kerrigan. And you are?”
***
I go through the newspaper reports, court records, Police files and interviews with various officials and associates that I’ve already conducted. The information I’ve gleaned so far builds a picture of Sean Kerrigan that is far from complete. Law enforcement sources are only too willing to attribute various nefarious acts to Kerrigan, citing his arrest record, which includes his involvement in a long list of criminal activities and violent altercations with fellow criminals, stretching back to his teenage years.
From being a teenage weed and heroin dealer selling £10 bags on street corners in Toxteth, Kerrigan moved steadily through the criminal ranks, gathering around him a loyal ring of long-established friendships and criminal associates, all willing to do his bidding with no questions asked.
As Kerrigan reached his early twenties, he had already committed several armed robberies throughout Merseyside and beyond, had already organised several small-scale drug deals and was beginning to propagate a reputation of someone not to be messed with. By all accounts, Kerrigan inspired a tremendous amount of trust and loyalty amongst those who knew him, having demonstrated a level of intelligence and cunning that elevated him above his peers.
I ask Reynolds about her first impressions of Kerrigan, not just as one of Liverpool’s most feared gangsters, but also as a man.
Reynolds looks skywards as if she is asking for permission to speak about the man who brought her into his fold. She smiles, closes her eyes and shakes her head.
“All I knew about the hard men in Toxteth was hearsay, really, all the stuff I’ve alr
eady told you. And the stuff about the riots as well. I never actually went into Toxteth until I met Sean. That was the one part of town you didn’t venture into, not unless you already knew someone there. They can smell outsiders, the Toccy lot. They will have you sussed out in seconds. And that’s where Sean was born and bred. So yeah, anyway…you’d hear all these tales about local hard men, but it was hard to tell fact from fiction, you know? Something happens to someone else and it gets retold to other people, they start exaggerating things as they’re retelling it and pretty soon you’ve got yourself an urban myth, right? So I’d heard about some of these hard men in Toccy. But I’d never heard of Sean before I met him. It was only afterwards when some of these urban myths began falling into place…”
***
So I’m sat facing Sean, with his heavies dishing out the occasional slap and punch to my boys in case they’re thinking of coming to my defence. Well, I don’t have any fucking choice but to give him my autobiography, the full works. How I got started, all the way through to how I now find myself sitting in front of one of Liverpool’s most notorious gangsters.
As I talk, his eyes don’t leave mine, he doesn’t even blink. The effect is very unnerving, I’ve got to admit. It’s like he’s drilling right down into my very soul, like he can see things I don’t want him to see. When I finish giving him the odds, he’s silent for a long time. He looks down and pulls out another ciggie. There’s a frown on his face.
“See, I used to do what you do, doing my own homegrown, although,” he says, gesturing around the workshop, “not to this level. No fucking way. Thing is, girl, you’ve made a rod for your own back.”
Don’t I fucking know it, sunshine, sat before you with no choice but to listen to your spiel and indulge you in your little Godfather act here.