by V E Rooney
“The reason I’m asking,” says Sean, leaning in closer, which Simon mirrors automatically, “is that I’m in the position of being able to buy in bulk. I’m not talking a few hundred units here. I’m talking thousands. And because you’re the man with the right connections over there, if I could sort something out with your fella over there, I would give you a commission on that. Fixer’s fee, if you like.”
Simon’s eyes widen at this point. “Really…”
“But before I can do that, I need to know about costs. And whether the seller has the capacity to make what I want.”
Simon leans back and combs his hand through his unruly, floppy tangle of hair.
“Well, my guy in Holland knows his stuff. He’s been making it for years. I think he used to be a corporate chemist or something for one of the big pharmaceutical companies. His factory? It’s a proper manufacturing facility, he’s got all the production line equipment he needs. He can make Doves, Mitsubishis…”
“Mitsubishis?” Sean says, perking up but keeping his voice low.
“Mitsies? They’re the dogs’ bollocks, they are,” pipes up Lee.
“How much does he sell them for?” Sean asks.
“Well, last time one of my boys was in Holland, he was offered £2 a pill. But, like with all businesses so to speak, the more you order, the more the price comes down. My guy over in Holland can easily do thousands of pills, but it depends on the volume you’re thinking of.”
“Well, I’m not able to put a figure on volumes right now.”
“Sure, sure,” Simon says.
“Do you think it would be possible for you to introduce me to your fella in Holland? I’m looking for a regular supply at a fair price. I would definitely make it worth your while. For both of you.” With his pitch finished, Sean sits back in his chair. Simon is stroking his chin, looking at Sean. I see the beginnings of a smile creeping across Sean’s face.
Over to you, Simon.
“I think that can be arranged,” Simon says.
“Let’s say that you do a deal,” I say to no one in particular, more just thinking out loud. “How would you get them back here? What about logistics and distribution at this end?”
At this, Paul springs to life. “I know of some lads who’ve tried bringing them back in cars, you know, on the ferry from Holland. But the fucking sniffer dogs and cuzzies searched the cars and found the lot. Proper banged up now, they are,” he says, shaking his head. Sentences for smuggling Ecstasy or even just being caught with a few pills are unusually harsh, reflecting the somewhat panicked response of the authorities to this insidious youth movement that shows no signs of waning.
Simon nods. “Yeah. Even if you try and drive to Belgium or France, the border Police there are doing searches as well. And then there are the searches at the ports themselves. They’re really tightening things up. It’s getting too dangerous to do that. I even thought about doing it myself but when I weighed up the pros and cons, I couldn’t justify the risk.”
The idea is already taking shape in my mind. Surely not? Well, I mean, it’s not exactly innovative. But if Police and Customs are so intent on searching individuals and holidaymakers coming back from the continent, that begs the question. Who are the authorities more likely to search? I’m of the opinion that there’s no such thing as a stupid idea. The reality may point to it being utterly ridiculous, but with the lack of any viable alternatives, what’s the harm in trying to problem-solve?
“I may have an idea,” I say casually.
All eyes in the room turn to look at me.
25. TEST RUN
When I finish thinking my plan out loud, there is silence in the room. I’m waiting for someone, anyone, even Lee, the man with no brain, to ridicule my idea and to point out how fucking stupid it is. But there are no dissenting voices. Eyes are cast to the floor as everyone searches their brains for a reason as to why the plan cannot work. Sean is absent-mindedly wiping his hand across his face, scratching his stubble. Paul is sitting back on the sofa, staring at the ceiling and frowning. Simon is sitting forward, cradling his chin in his hands with a far-away look in his eyes.
I’m trying to come up with an alternative to the plan already, but then I catch Sean peering at me, and then I see him slowly nodding as he turns the plan around inside his head. He looks at Paul and Lee. As one, they both shrug at each other and then at Sean. Sean continues nodding.
“Could be worth a try. Not saying it’s gonna be easy, but it’s worth trying,” he says, before smiling at me.
The Es are manufactured in a dedicated facility a few miles outside Amsterdam. Simon, being the man who can, has offered to introduce Sean to the main man over there to see if a deal can be put together. This facility specialises in Mitsubishis or Mitsies, which are seen as the crème de la crème of Ecstasy for the discerning clubber, and which are easily identified because they have the Mitsubishi logo stamped into the face of the pill. For a couple of quid a pill, we can have as many as we can carry, so Simon says.
After Simon’s departure back down south, with tentative plans in place for he and Sean to link up in the very near future, Sean calls together some of the crew for a late-night business meeting in the back room at Scallywags, his jazz club on Seel Street.
Sean. Paul. Lee. Me. Gary, Baz, Rolo and Jaffa, Sean’s other enforcers. Mitch, Richie, Stanno and Colin, whose roles I am not sure of yet. My boys? Ste, John and Brian have not been invited. John and Brian are busy at the Kirkby farm while Ste is on the door at Scallywags tonight with some of Sean’s other bouncers. On my way into the club, Ste pulls me to one side.
“So? What’s happening?”
“Dunno,” I say, truthfully. “Think Sean just wants to sound everyone out.”
“And I’m stuck out here?”
“I thought you liked it out here?”
“You know what I mean.”
“Well, I won’t know what’s going on until I go in, will I?” I say, patting his arm as I walk past him. Scallywags is already buzzing tonight but I head straight behind the bar and into the back room, where various members of Sean’s crew are congregating.
Sean outlines my plan to those assembled.
“I reckon we could pull it off, you know. If it’s all legit upfront then the busies or the cuzzies won’t pay us any heed, will they?” says Paul, looking around the room. There are a few nods and hmms.
“Gotta be dead careful doing it that way, though. If they’re not packaged properly, if they rip open? Them fucking Alsatians will be all over them,” says Gary. I make a mental note to read up about the exceptional sniffing capabilities of canine noses.
“We could have a practice go. Wrap a few up and see if Tyson or Floyd can sniff them out,” Lee adds, nudging Paul.
“They’re not trained sniffer dogs, are they, you fucking blert,” Paul replies, looking irritated. Actually, that’s not the worst idea Lee’s ever had.
Conversations, questions and ruminations go around the room, with everyone having opinions on the practicalities, potential costs and very real risks of the plan. But nothing can be determined until Sean decides on one very crucial point.
“How many pills are you thinking of?” I ask him. “A thousand? Ten thousand?”
“Nah,” Sean says, rubbing his chin again. “A lot more than that.”
This sets off a chain reaction of everyone discussing hypothetical issues around volume, capacity and cost. Some of those present even offer to pool their money for a bulk order, although I can already surmise that Sean will be putting up the most out of anyone. He needs to decide how many pills he wants, and he can’t do that until he links up with Simon’s man in Amsterdam to get an idea of how many he can get.
The meeting ends with Sean swearing everyone to secrecy, only to be met with protestations of who, me? As if, lad. Behave. We file out of the room and into the throngs of jazz lovers crowded onto the dancefloor. As I’m making my way towards the club’s front door, guarded by a troupe of bouncers, I ta
p Ste on the shoulder.
“You alright?” I say.
“Yeah, sound. So, are you gonna fill me in on all this?” he says, in-between exchanging greetings and goodbyes to the various members of the crew.
“I can’t. Not just yet.”
“But you and Sean are doing a deal with Simon? And I’m shut out?” he says, furrowing his brows at me. He’s not exactly disgruntled but it’s obvious he’s a little hurt about not being included.
“You’re not shut out, Ste, it’s not like that,” I say in a placatory manner. “I don’t even know what’s happening right now. You know what Sean’s like, he keeps things schtum until he’s ready to make a big announcement.”
“Simon’s my mate as well, you know,” he says, sounding like a little boy and not the giant skull-cracker stood before me. “If there’s any deal to be done, why can’t I be in on it?”
“If there’s a deal to be done, everyone will be in on it. You’re Sean’s crew just as much as I am. I got to sit in just because Sean wanted to meet Simon, that’s all. Ste, do you really think I’d fuck you off like that?” I ask him, genuinely wanting to know the answer.
“No, course not,” he protests.
“Listen. Stop fretting. If something’s in the planning, then we’ll get to know about it when Sean’s ready, alright?”
“OK. Sound.”
I smile at him and gently squeeze his massive bicep as I leave the club.
Over the next few days, I’m flitting between the Kirkby farm, Taylor’s, my Wood Street flat and Sean’s pad at the Albert Dock. I know he and Simon have been in contact over the phone but I am not privy to these conversations. I begin to wonder if Sean is even going to let me be in on this deal myself. It’s while I’m taking over the takings from Taylor’s to the Albert Dock that I ponder whether I’ve just been used to make the introduction between Sean and Simon, and that I am to have no further role in whatever it is they’re planning.
So far, Sean has not given me any indication about his plans. The thought of being shunted aside and away from any potential deal makes me indignant. And this is another way you get lured into his world.
Whereas previously, I made a conscious decision not to get involved with supplying E because of the hassle and risks involved, I find myself mentally underscoring all the ways that I could and should be involved. Without me, Sean wouldn’t have met Simon. Without me, there would be no deal taking place.
I find myself in a peculiar position. I find myself coming up with all sorts of justifications, even resorting to the good old British sense of fair play. It’s only fair that I should be part of this deal because without me, it wouldn’t be happening in the first place.
As I hand Sean the takings from Taylor’s, I decide to probe him.
“Sean? Can I ask you something? And don’t think I’m being cocky or anything.”
“You? I wouldn’t expect anything else from little Miss Smart Arse,” he says as he thumbs through the receipts and wads of cash from the club. “Go on, then.”
“Am I gonna be part of this deal with Simon?”
“You’re already part of it. Until I hear a better idea than the one you had, it’s your plan that the whole deal is based on. What more do you want?”
“I mean I wanna be a proper part of it. If this works, and it’s got a good chance of working, then I wanna put some money into it.”
“Oh aye?”
“I’m serious. Paul, Lee, Gary, Baz…they’re all putting their hands in their pockets, aren’t they?”
“Yeah, but it’s me who’s gonna be fronting up most of it, don’t forget that.”
“No, course not. But you said yourself, I don’t do that much with my money. Well, I wanna use some of it for this.”
“Do you now?”
“Yeah, I do.”
“And you do know how risky is this, don’t you? This isn’t shifting a bit of weed to your mates. This is proper, old-school drug smuggling across international borders, girl. And if you get caught? You won’t be getting a caution. You’ll be banged up for a few years in Holloway, getting fingered by some hairy dyke in the showers,” he says, chuckling.
“Win-win,” I say. “Look, I know the risks involved. It’s a risk I’m prepared to take. So?”
Sean doesn’t answer me or look at me. He carries on counting the cash, thumbing through the receipts, blowing his cheeks out and raising his eyebrows at nothing in particular.
“Tell you what,” he says as he finally makes eye contact with me. “Once I’ve nailed down the details with Simon, once I decide on the deal, you can chip in with a bit. Don’t be getting excited just yet, you’re not gonna be a millionaire off this.”
“No, but you probably will be.”
“All in good time, girl. Just be patient, yeah?”
I sigh. “Yes, boss.”
So Sean, Paul and Lee head over to Holland for a few days with Simon for a few meets and greets. I am not invited to these chinwags. I stay in Liverpool, carrying on as unofficial accountant and auditor, making tallies of who owes what to who, who is due to pay up, and who needs paying, getting the gophers to make drop-offs and pick-ups in the same way I was doing a few months back.
I’m already in on the deal anyway, given that I came up with the method of transporting the pills to England and have laid out around £10,000 of my own money to get infrastructure in place. I have already set up another phantom company to handle the import of refurbished white goods. There are some 12 washing machines, 15 fridge-freezer units and four deep-chest freezers I have sourced from a cheap goods warehouse near the Dutch/Belgian border which will be carrying the precious cargo.
These goods will be transported in a lorry that will arrive at the Amsterdam facility, where the goods will be expertly disassembled, filled with pill bags, and assembled again before being loaded onto the lorry. The lorry then heads to Rotterdam port to catch the early morning ferry to Felixstowe, which is where we take over. If all goes well? My £10,000 investment should reap a return of around £100,000, maybe even £150,000 if the pills are top quality.
I’m poring over bank statements in the Taylor’s club office when the pager buzzes. International number. I head out into bustling noise on Victoria Street and into the phone box on the corner. Sean’s voice comes through loud and clear down the other end.
“Alright?” I say cheerily.
“Sound, girl,” he says. He sounds happy enough.
“What are the tulips like? Any good?”
“Oh, top notch, girl, top notch. Got a good deal on 200, that should be enough. For now,” he says. I can almost feel him winking down the phone. 200 is 200,000 pills. “Everything ready at your end?” he asks.
“Yep, all set. Got all the paper stuff in order. Ready when you are,” I reply. By this I mean the shipping and import/export documents needed to bring imports over from mainland Europe – bills of lading, technical certificates, invoices, all the official stuff that Customs would expect to see for a lorry-load of white goods coming into the UK from the continent.
“Nice one. Tomorrow looks like a nice day,” he says casually. This is his way of saying he’ll be heading back from Amsterdam tomorrow where we will get the full brief on the logistics.
“Cool. Enjoy.”
“Later, girl.” With that, he hangs up.
The next morning, Sean holds a crew meeting at the Albert Dock apartment. All the lads are here, except for Paul and Lee who have remained in Amsterdam with Simon to keep an eye on things over there, although Sean is confident there won’t be any problems.
Everyone is in a good mood, excited by the possibility of a massive payday. For others, it’s not so much the money but the buzz of putting a deal together and outwitting the busies that is the attraction. Sometimes I have trouble distinguishing whether it’s the former or the latter for Sean.
I am greeted like I am one of the lads. There are no more smarmy or sleazy remarks, indolent sneers or open contempt directed at me. Although
one lad in particular has got the right fucking hump that I’ve been welcomed into this previously male-only club.
Richie Drysdale is a mid-thirties boy racer and the go-to driver for getaway jobs both large and small. He’s been in and out of detention centres and prison for car-related offences (mostly involving stealing other people’s cars, with a bit of youthful joy-driving) since he was in his early teens and he has been part of Sean’s crew for well over a decade.
When he isn’t stealing top-end cars to order for jobs, or burning rubber on the busies, he’s stripping cars down and putting them back together again for fun. And he isn’t taking kindly to me busting into the mystical testosterone-fuelled world of cars and crime. Richie is one of the less-evolved members of the crew in how he views the opposite sex, and that really isn’t saying much. Less-evolved as in while the rest of the crew are all battling with each other to become the beta gorillas to Sean’s alpha, Richie is the gorilla that got dropped on the floor one too many times by his mum.
As far as Richie is concerned, women are only good for cooking and fucking, and he has neither use nor interest in them outside of that. Because I don’t possess the looks, the figure or the low self-esteem required to copulate with an ape like him, I am barely visible to him except when others make a point of giving me attention. He may not want to fuck me but I’m still just tits and arse to him, with a head full of pink fluffy stuff and kittens. As we sprawl out on Sean’s custom-made sofas, Richie cannot even bring himself to acknowledge me. I’m not complaining.
The 200,000 pills, worth £2.4 million on the street, are packed inside the white goods using tightly-sealed metal foil bags to throw off the Customs sniffer dogs in both Rotterdam and Felixstowe, should there be any.