Queen of Green (Queen of Green Trilogy Book 1)

by V E Rooney

  I nod and then hold out my hand. He takes it and we exchange a firm but friendly handshake. With no deal to be done, except for a few eighths, the pressure is off. He starts telling me about his operation down south.

  “It’s me and a couple of other uni buddies, we do pills and speed for the raves down south mainly, but we’re just really short on weed at the moment. Can’t find a decent supply anywhere, all the main guys have been taken out of action. And the quality at the moment is dire, I have to say. So when Loz told me about you and I tried a small sample, I reckoned it could be a great opportunity for the both of us. Still, never mind.”

  It would be a great opportunity. Let’s say Simon isn’t bullshitting me and that he really does want to do business. He gets a new supply line up north and I get a new customer down south. With that kind of order, I could focus on wholesale supply only, which would remove a lot of headaches. I supply and he sells. It’s definitely something worth considering. Numbers are exchanged.

  1990 was a turning point for me personally and also ironically Glastonbury itself. Because the festival was so popular and getting bigger every year, 1990 was the first time the organisers had hired professional car parking and security teams to keep out fence-breachers and interlopers, but this didn’t go down well with the thousands of new age travellers who were pissed off about being denied access and who had taken it upon themselves to loot the site as it emptied on the last day, culminating in what was called the Battle of Yeoman’s Bridge. It was quite a sight seeing the hippies and heavies going at each other and kicking seven shades of shit out of everyone, busies trying to work out who the troublemakers were before giving up and kicking shit out of everyone themselves.

  Funnily enough, there were echoes of the Toxteth riots – depending on who you talk to, what happened was some hippies began sifting through some of the rubbish left behind, you know, stuff like unwanted tents and shit like that, whereas some people said they were looting. Whatever. The trouble really kicked off when some drunk hippy decided to ram his truck through some bit of fencing, and the heavies moved in and did some damage to his truck before the busies arrived and carted him off. But the other hippies who had seen all this kicked off and went after the heavies and the busies with stones, metal poles, even a few Molotovs. I have to admit, the thought of peace-loving hippies going apeshit and kicking shit out of the busies was a very amusing one to me personally.

  Apparently over 200 people were arrested and £50,000 worth of damage caused to the site that year, which led to Glastonbury being cancelled in 1991 and the massive gulag-style fences being erected for 1992 and ever since. The violence there also had a knock-on effect elsewhere, because that’s when the government really began to crack down on unauthorised raves or public gatherings. Things were never quite the same afterwards. But fortunately for me, I got my timing right yet again because we managed to escape unscathed and untouched and around £6,000 richer.

  We arrived back in Kirkby just before midnight on Sunday evening, incredibly tired but happy after a very productive and profitable weekend. We had sold out and cleaned up. But now it was back to business, and possibly new business in the shape of Simon. Even if Simon didn’t follow through, I turned over the possibilities in my mind.

  Let’s say I managed to, somehow, find a place where I could put around 100 to 110 plants, which in the right conditions could produce the 20 kilos Simon was looking for. I was under no delusion that this was going to turn into some life-changing mega-deal worth hundreds of thousands of pounds. At most, with the volume he was talking about, 20k would be worth no more than £28,000 to £30,000 wholesale. But still, more cash on hand is more opportunities for me.

  I mull over the pros and cons. The pros are easy to determine. He gets a new supply line, I get a new customer base. I manufacture, he distributes. Yeah, he gets to sell it on at a much bigger margin, but if he comes through with a decent price to make it worth my while, then where’s the harm?

  The cons are easy to determine too, but throw in a whole load of unknown variables and then it could mean trouble, and trouble I can do without right now. The first con: who the fuck is Simon? All I have to go on is first appearances and what Simon says. Simon appears to be one of those middle class student types with a sideline selling to the student and rave scenes. I’m imagining him and his university pals concocting pills, speed and other substances in the comfy confines of their own manufacturing bolthole, with Bob Marley posters on the wall and Pink Floyd playing on the hi-fi while a stream of stoned and tripped out students come to and fro, doing deals and discussing philosophy essays and whatever.

  Simon wants to buy in bulk from me. Is this how he normally sources suppliers? He’s at a festival and hears about his mate scoring a nice bit of weed from some Scouse chick and on the basis of that, he wants to do business with me? That should be ringing alarm bells right there. I can’t help being cynical. I put myself in his place. I can schmooze this northern tart into supplying me with good gear at a rock-bottom price. Am I a stupid cunt who will believe everything he says? Will I even notice that as he’s smiling in my face, he’s fucking me up the arse?

  His market is down south, he knows the customers. I’m selling blind here. I don’t know Oxford, never been there and have no reason to be there. He’s the one doing the front-end stuff. And who else is supplying him? If I start supplying him, am I going to be indirectly treading on toes and putting noses out of joint? Will his regular suppliers get pissed off that he’s cutting them out in favour of me, and will I get a whole load of grief in return?

  And the biggest con? As always, it comes down to price. If he comes in too low, I know he’s taking the piss and no deal is done. If he comes in too high, then it’s too good to be true and he really is undercover plod and is looking to set me up. If he meets me in the middle? Then there is always the potential for a deal to be done. I can get the stock, I’m in charge of production and quality control and I know how good it is. I guess I just have to get rid of the variables through a process of elimination, and that process can only start if I decide to scale up operations.

  16. MANUFACTURING CAPACITY

  The week following Glastonbury is taken up with restocking and sorting out my seedlings. The batch of weed I grew for Glastonbury came from my 12 mature plants, thanks to a carefully coordinated growing cycle. I may have sold out of stock, but now I have to wait for the next batch of seedlings to thrive, which means I’m at a loose end for a few weeks and I have time to think seriously about my next steps.

  Would I have even considered ramping up production if I hadn’t met Simon? Truthfully, I don’t know. I didn’t have any ambitions to go wholesale but the issue would have presented itself sooner or later. In my case, it’s sooner. Another unexpected choice to ponder. Where will my decision lead me?

  Here’s what I need to consider. I cannot physically store any more than 30-40 plants in my flat. With Mum and Janice now out of the business, it’s down to me to look at viable expansion opportunities. Could I rent another place and use it as a weed factory? Theoretically I could but I’m reluctant to do so because of nosy neighbours and landlords.

  I could go on the hunt for an abandoned or derelict property elsewhere but then I run the risk of someone else discovering it and cleaning me out. The council could come and discover it. Or the busies. Too risky.

  I need a dedicated facility that is secure and which has the capacity to store the 100 or so plants I would need to go wholesale, along with all the associated lighting, lamps and assorted paraphernalia required for successful weed production.

  And I’m considering doing this in the knowledge that Simon may not buy from me after all. But…if I got it all in place and went fully wholesale, it wouldn’t be too difficult to offload it to other bulk buyers. It’s not like the boys and I are short of contacts. And it would eliminate a lot of hassle on the selling and distribution side. I’ve already sounded out the boys on this and the consensus is that it would be good for
everyone, although they’re not averse to selling in smaller amounts as and when it suits them.

  Business is going well, so well in fact that my trusted clique of customers gradually expands. But as time goes on, I have to spend more time on growing and less on selling.

  Of course, more demand necessitates more supply. It gets to the point where I’m struggling to grow the plants quickly enough to keep up. The time comes when every successful business needs to expand for logistical reasons. I’ve already ruled out using more residential premises to keep the plants in. Some dealers call in favours by getting associates to turn their lofts or spare rooms into makeshift cannabis factories. I can’t do that, not for the quantities I’m considering. I also can’t risk asking any of my mates to help me out in this way. Selling is one thing, but the time and care needed for cultivation can only be handled by me for now. I can’t leave it to amateurs. Too many things can go wrong.

  No matter how loyal or enthusiastic some people may be about keeping schtum for a sum, my sense of self-preservation just won’t let me trust them to do that. There’ve been countless busts of some gormless twats who’ve been rounded up by the busies and found to be tending plants with some implausible excuse as to how they got there. Or some nosy landlord who’s come round snooping and finds his lovingly renovated abode gutted and stripped back to make way for an industrial-scale dope growing operation. Or some poor unfortunate bastard who gets barbecued when his carefully cultivated dope factory goes up in flames because of some dodgy wiring. No, that isn’t going to happen to me. I have to think bigger than that. Be more professional.

  I don’t know why it never occurred to me before in all the time I had lived in Kirkby, but it isn’t until I make one of my trips to see Mum and take a stroll around the area one morning that I really take notice of the industrial estate.

  Kirkby Industrial Estate is a sprawling site stretching over thousands of acres. It used to be the site of the old World War II munitions factories. These days, it’s packed with warehouses, factories, shipping container yards, storage units and lock-ups, most of which stand empty at any given time. Bordering the Industrial Estate you have my Mum’s residential estate on one side, and fields and wasteland on the other sides. It sits at the edge of the East Lancashire Road, which stretches from Liverpool to Manchester, and is also close to the M57 motorway, which itself links to the M62 and M56 motorways.

  I could slap myself for overlooking it. Here is the perfect location, just a couple of minutes away from my old place. During the day it’s populated by haulage lorries making countless journeys to and from the M57, factory workers, office workers and tradesmen of all descriptions. Once 5.30pm comes around, bar a few of the factories which run night shifts, the place is deserted. You would even be hard-pressed to find any security guards mooching about.

  I decide to do a special reccy one evening. Around 6pm I quickly walk up Moorgate Road and then up Admin Road on the perimeter of the estate, past the snooker hall, taking one of the side roads leading directly into the maze of various buildings and units. Many of these buildings are in reasonably good condition, even the long-abandoned ones. The council and other local authorities had embarked on some big regeneration programme in the mid-1980s, trying to tempt businesses into the estate with ultra-cheap rents and lease deals, but I don’t think the estate is even half-occupied at any time. A lot of these units have never been occupied at all.

  I’m very familiar with this industrial estate. When I was little, sometimes Mum would have a cash-in-hand job in one of the factories and she would take me with her to see where she worked. We would navigate the maze of roads and I would stare in wonder at all these massive buildings, looking at all the grown-ups in their special uniforms and overalls.

  It was the shipping container yards on Charley Wood Road. They were what fascinated me. I would beg and plead with Mum for us to take a detour past them on the way home. I just loved looking at them. They were like giant Lego sets. Behind the high metal fences and the barbed wire and anti-intruder measures, there they were. Row after row, stack upon stack of mysterious, metal corrugated containers stood there like mini skyscrapers. All different colours. Some shiny and new, some aged and decrepit with rust. I was mesmerised by them. All of these metal boxes, with different languages and strange markings from all over the world. Containers which had come all the way here to this little shithole in the northwest from faraway countries like China and America. I imagined all kinds of pirate treasures hidden within those containers. I imagined families of little animals making homes inside them. I imagined hidden portals to faraway worlds. I would gawp at the loading and unloading of the containers and would sometimes even have a crying fit when Mum would inevitably get bored with me looking at a load of static metal boxes and drag me off home.

  I was so fascinated by the shipping container yards that one Christmas, Mum even bought me a toy Lego-style shipping container yard. It had little bright yellow plastic containers and it even had the loading platforms and cranes which moved the containers. I played with it for hours and hours, making beeping noises to mimic the lorries and the sound of the lifting mechanisms.

  I won’t need anything too big, maybe a mid-sized lock-up or workshop unit or something like that. Windows aren’t a necessity. Just somewhere where I can have plenty of space for all the lamps and equipment and I can leave the plants there without any worries about the electricity bills flagging me up. Security can easily be notched up with a modern alarm system and some heavy reinforced doors and locks.

  The stench is something I don’t yet know how to smother, and that’s the one thing that always gives away someone’s homegrown stash. But every problem has a solution. I’ll worry about that later. The most pressing issue is the fact that it’s very unusual for an 17-year-old girl to be leasing business premises, not least amongst the assorted engineering outfits, machine shops, electrical outfitters and packaging manufacturers that populate the estate.

  If only I’d known setting up a company was so easy. Thanks to the landlord at the Boffin, I’m put in touch with his dodgy accountant, who takes care of the formalities. A few weeks later, my certificate of incorporation comes through the post from Companies House in London. I set up a business bank account, deposit some cash into it, pick a suitable unit on the industrial estate and sign a bargain of a lease with a weary-looking commercial estate agent, who couldn’t be less interested in what I need the premises for, but is nonetheless happy to get his hands on some commission.

  And so I become a bona-fide businesswoman, the founder and managing director of Charley Wood Storage Ltd, ostensibly a little refurbished white goods warehouse, stocking second-hand fridges, freezers, washing machines and the like. And here’s the kicker - it’s spitting distance from the shipping container yards. Never did I imagine that when I became a grown-up, I would get to hang out near the shipping containers to my heart’s content. Funny how life comes full-circle sometimes, isn’t it?

  The unit is basic but it’s more than adequate for my needs. In a corner of the estate, well away from the busier larger units, stands a cul-de-sac of detached brick buildings that to all onlookers appear to be individual workshops, each of which is fronted by a large metal corrugated shutter. To the left hand side of each unit shutter is a front door and a window, with the window glass shielded by a wire metal grill. The doorway leads into a small corridor, with two small office rooms adjoining it, one with the window and behind it a windowless room with a doorway leading into the main workshop space fronted by the corrugated shutter.

  The main space is tardis-like, much bigger inside than you’d guess from outside. There’s plenty of room for my plants and gizmos, but I need a partition built between the shutter and the storage area to shield the stench. The unit’s stood empty for about two years and it looks like the previous occupants hadn’t been bothered with decorating. It’s a completely blank canvas. The unit, by my rough calculations, has room for around 150 plants at full tilt, enough
to keep the population of Knowsley fully monged until old age and death. My expansion will make me one of the biggest dope dealers in the vicinity, far surpassing in scale and ambition those of the trackie-wearing amateurs growing their own in their bedroom, like I’d done not long ago. I survey my new domain and don’t know whether to be proud or petrified, in all honesty. This is taking things to the next level, and by that I mean a fucking serious level.

  But before I get to that point, I have to get things ship-shape. With the help of Ste and the lads (Debbie and Gillian cry off, not wanting to mess up their nails and hair), we clear out all the rubbish and old boxes and bits of packaging left behind by the previous occupiers. We plaster some holes up along with the air vents in the main space, and tidy up the main office room with some reclaimed desks and chairs dumped outside one of the neighbouring units. The smaller windowless room behind the office room will be used to house a few battered old fridges and washing machines just for show.

  The next thing to do is to paint the main plant storage space with matt white paint. White surfaces better reflect any artificial lighting, helping the plants to grow quicker - gloss paint, surprising as it may seem, isn’t best suited for this purpose as it conducts heat away from the plants. Then I have to figure out the best lighting configuration with the help of John’s cousin Stuart, an electrician. For a few hundred quid, he sources me some industrial-grade sodium lamp rigs which can be suspended from the ceiling in tracks, spanning the length of the main storage space, and he also sorts out the wiring and timer controls along with a modern alarm system.

  Then it’s off to a garden centre to get some trestle tables and benches to store the plants on, some bags of soil and fertiliser, support sticks for the plant stems, water spray bottles and various sizes of pots and trays for the seedlings. Off to the side of the storage space are some more trestle tables for when the buds are harvested. Another trip to a DIY store for some extra-thick polythene sheeting to cocoon the plants in the same way Mum and Janice had done, but on a much bigger scale. We build a timber frame around the plant area perimeter, then staple and seal the sheets onto that to shield the plants.