by V E Rooney
There’s one big problem though. Once again, masking the stench is a huge fucking headache. I can’t completely enclose the plant area because of the lighting rig on the ceiling, and neither can I pump the stench outside in case of alerting outsiders, so the stench has to remain in the storage space. I just have to ensure the rest of the building is as airtight as possible. So between the storage space and the offices, we put up a floor-to-ceiling wood panel partition with a door and with an extra layer of polythene behind that.
I’ll just have to get a shitload of air fresheners for the office bit. As for actually working in the storage space itself, I’ll be wearing filter masks bought from the DIY store, like the kind painters and decorators use. To give the impression of a working office area, I get the phone line reconnected, stick some paper trays on the desks and put in a couple of filing cabinets. I even have some fucking potted plants scattered about. Pot plants in a pot factory. Too cute?
Once the warehouse is redecorated and set up with lights, timers and all the other equipment, the task switches to the plants themselves. I’ve cut and cloned enough from my existing plants to create another batch of seedlings, and thanks to John, Ste and Brian visiting Amsterdam on a few weekends, I have several packets of seeds of different strains that I can have a crack at growing. With these seeds, I can also embark on experimenting with cross-breeds and strains, experimenting with different feeding material and growing times and creating brand new strains of varying strengths. This place is going to be my very own warehouse and laboratory. I’m actually dead excited about this, fucking buzzing in fact, more so than I’ve been for a long time.
The next few weeks are a waiting game as I nurture the different seedlings into life. This is what I’ve always enjoyed most about the whole process – taking a tiny little seed, planting it, caring for it and watching proudly as it climbs out of the soil and thrives by itself, willing it on to be the best plant it can be. Even when I know that the plants are being fed and watered and growing as they should be, I can’t help wandering from table to table, gently caressing the leaves to see how strong they are, making minor adjustments to the wooden sticks they’re tied to, blowing dust off…even after the boys have long gone and it’s just me in the farm, sometimes I will stay there all night, kipping in the office on the floor, because I want to see what a few hours’ progress will look like. It’s actually something of a wrench for me to leave the place for days and nights out with my lot, and this has not gone un-noticed by them.
One day I arrange to meet up with Ste and John in the L32 pub in Kirkby townie and when I walk in and approach the table they’re sat at, I can see that they’re sniggering about something when they spot me. John calls out to me as I get closer to the table. “Aye aye. Here’s Prince Charles,” he says with a snigger.
“Aw, did you say goodbye to your little friends?” Ste says. “Have you given them all names yet?”
“Eh, girl, apparently singing to plants helps them grow quicker,” John says before spluttering into a fit of laughter, sending specks of foam off his pint into the air.
“The green, green grass of home,” Ste intonates helpfully.
“It’s not easy being green,” sings John, invoking Kermit the Frog, while he sniffs my clothes.
“Ha bloody ha. Get me a lime and soda,” I say to Ste as he stands up for another trip to the bar. He trudges off, still laughing.
John shifts in his seat to face me. “When do you think that Purple Haze will be ready? Telling you, that stuff I had in Amsterdam was enough to floor a fucking brontosaurus. I couldn’t even fucking move. Fucking good buzz though.”
“I reckon another three or four weeks and it’ll be ready for sampling,” I say, taking hold of my pint glass when Ste returns to the table.
“Nice one. What about the White Lady? Now that bitch is fucking hardcore. If you crossed Purple Haze with White Lady…fucking hell…”, John says, not even finishing his sentence as the thought of his cross-breed takes root in his mind.
John fills us in on his most recent trip to Amsterdam for his cousin’s stag do.
“Honestly, there are cafés on every fucking corner. I couldn’t believe how many there were. I ended up on Warmoesstraat most of the time, just staggering from one place to the other. You’ve got your hardcore cafés where the serious stoners hang out, these little cafés that serve tea and cakes and all that, and you can just sit there getting monged with students, pensioners, tourists. Fucking love Amsterdam, I do.”
“And did you sample any other Amsterdam delights?” I enquire, raising my eyebrows, wanting to pre-empt the obligatory prozzie-banging tales that tend to follow a trip to Amsterdam.
“Oh yeah, of course,” he says. “Bought some tulips…went to see Anne Frank’s house…”
“Any other cultural delights?” I press further.
“Oh yeah, I sampled lots of cultural delights, know what I mean?” John says, nudging Ste. “Fucking hell, I just remembered. You know how all the prozzies stand in the windows and all that? I was walking through and I swear, I saw this one prozzie who was the spitting image of Chaka Khan. I was like, fuck, is that Chaka Khan? She’s down on her luck, isn’t she? I would’ve taken a photo but the girls don’t like that, do they? And there’s all these pimps outside going, you want to come in for fucky-fucky? I was cracking up.”
“Fucky fucky? I thought the Dutch were supposed to be good at English,” I muse.
“Their fucking English is fucking better than my Dutch, I’m telling you,” says John.
“Their English is better than your English,” I add.
“Well, that wouldn’t be hard, would it?” says Ste, rolling his eyes at John.
17. ACCOUNTS & BOOK-KEEPING
I pretty much live at the new greenhouse (or farm, as I prefer to call it) full time, kipping down on a tatty sofa in the office bit, and nipping back to my flat to sort out a few deals during the daytime. Spending nights on the estate is a bit eerie at first – during the day, I’ll occasionally pop outside for a break and some much-needed fresh air and I’ll watch the occasional lorry, van or worker pass by. As nighttime falls, the estate is deathly quiet, save for a radio to keep me company as I work. That’s all the interaction I have in my new environment during this time, and I have to admit, it suits me. I want to concentrate on the business with no distractions from the outside world. I don’t need anything, or anyone else.
Stepping up a gear like this is also the start of a subtle distancing between me and Mum. Well, when I say distancing, it’s not like Mum misses me anyway, or me her particularly. I guess that me moving out in the first place had been the real start of it, and over the next couple of years, the distance between us becomes greater. She has her own life, and I have mine, and as time goes on, we’re pretty much leading our own lives which are stretching further away from each other.
There are a couple of times where we bump into each other in the townie. She’ll be ambling along with her shopping, I’ll be coming to or from my place. We’ll have a brief exchange about nothing in particular, and then she’ll be on her way again. Other times she’ll ring me up and ask me to sub her some cash, which I have no problem with, but if you saw us together, you’d never guess that we were mother and daughter.
The first batch of Indica seedlings at the farm on the Industrial Estate are coming along well. I notice a big improvement in growing times, and I’m producing a shitload more buds, which means a validation of my decision to go big.
The boys sometimes doss over at the workshop to try some out when it comes to harvesting time. Radio on, tuned into Radio City dance mix hour, us spread out around a table in the storage space, me watching them get monged on the first batch (with me wearing my filter mask, of course). I watch them carefully roll up a spliff each, like they’re handling some sacred parchment, strike them up, inhale the first puff in a long drawn-out toke, exhale tendrils of faint blue smoke. Leaning back in their chairs, heads lolling slightly, eyes half-closing, smi
les slowly appearing on their faces.
“Fucking hell,” David says after what seems like a century, “this stuff is fucking boss.”
“Jesus, Al, this,” Brian says, eyes squinting, pointing at his spliff, “this is the dog’s bollocks. Have you got green fucking fingers or what?” he says laughing. Both of them nodding slowly in approval. Success.
“Queen Green does it again,” says John as he coughs out the arse-end of a long drag.
“Don’t get too monged, I still need to get all this stuff packaged up,” I say, waving my hand in the direction of the plants laid out in front of me. They nod again but carry on smoking. I roll my eyes, get up, and start inspecting the plants.
“Don’t get me wrong, Al,” says John as he watched me. “This’ll sell, but there’s a lot of it to get rid of.”
“How are you gonna sell all this?” asks Brian.
“Yeah, I mean,” says John in between another drag, “selling a bit here and there is well different to this. This is big stuff.”
Not to worry, lads, everything’s under control. I’ve got it all figured out.
At this point my client roster is stretching into three figures. It’s a bit like a pyramid scheme or a spider’s web, with me being the spider at the centre. I spin the first ring of the web, where I sell to my inner circle of trusted friends/dealers. Then they spin another ring outside that, comprising their own trusted acquaintances.
As time goes on, more rings are spun by their trusted acquaintances, and so it continues. It gets to the point where the people on the outer rings think their dealer is in the ring before them, and likewise with the other inner rings. No one, only those on the inner ring closest to me, know that I am the spider who spun the whole web in the first place. Nothing can be traced back to me. But how do I keep track of all these customers?
I’ve got my own sort of book-keeping system in place, you see. I knew my business studies GCSE would come in handy one day. I also have to thank Mum’s penchant for bingo.
I don’t have the actual names of people down, how fucking stupid would I be to do that? But at this point I’m now clearing anywhere between £1,200 and £2,000 each month. I need a way of keeping track of who’s bought how much and who they’re selling to. I’ve got an accounts book stashed away in the office safe where I list my transactions. Ste, John and the others’ names are replaced with the names of cartoon characters, followed by the value of the stock they’ve taken out and the date they buy it, followed by month. For example:
Bugs – 280, 87
Daffy – 250, 127
Tom – 100, 157
Jerry – 150, 217
Minnie – 50, 217
Mickey – 50, 217
Roadrunner – 70, 227
Wiley – 100, 237
Tweety – 250, 237
And so on and so on. If someone owes me money – say John buys some stuff to sell onwards and one of his customers, Pluto, doesn’t pay John within the specified timeframe, I’ll make a note of how much they owe, like this:
Pluto – (100), 204
Even if by some miracle the busies do catch me red-handed or green-fingered with a shitload of plants and find my record-keeping, they won’t be able to pin me or anyone else down. I can blag it, no problem.
What? I had no idea some cheeky fucker had been using my workspace as a cannabis factory, Constable, I mean, I couldn’t smell anything because I only use the office bit. Got some sinus problems as well, you see.
I don’t have much stock? Only got a few units behind the office. Business is a bit slow what with it being a recession and all, not much demand for fridges and white goods, you see.
Oh, that accounts book with the cartoon names? Horseracing and poker games, those are my vices, good Constable. You see, these shady fuckers I bet with don’t use their real names.
Good luck, enforcers of the law, in trying to find any phone numbers either or trying to connect my dealing associates with me in any way. That’s where the bingo comes in. You won’t find the numbers of my contacts written down anywhere. They’re all in my head, along with real names, addresses and other relevant customer information. I guess you could say I have something of a photographic memory, which is probably why I did so well at school. I only need to look at or read something once and it’s imprinted in my memory like a tattoo. Comes in very handy in a business like mine.
The busies may try and cross-reference my phone bills with numbers I’ve dialled or received from customers or associates. That can be easily explained. But, I hear you say, surely the busies can pin you down that way - how do you explain the multitude of calls between you and your sub-dealers?
Simple. I run a legitimate company involving second-hand or reconditioned fridges or other appliances. There’s no law against people ringing me up or me ringing them. I have lots of loyal customers who all want repeat business. Ah yes, you say, but what if someone snitches on you? Say in the most extreme example, you’re the biggest pot dealer around and the busies decide to tap your phone? Well, they won’t because phone-tapping evidence can’t be introduced as evidence in the courts in this country, it’s inadmissible and it’s illegal, funnily enough. I know the law.
But overriding that is the fact that at this point, I’m nowhere near the league of dealers where the busies would do something like that. You’d have to be on the scale of Howard Marks or some superleague fucker like that before the busies would go to all that hassle. And if the busies did decide they were desperate enough to tap me anyway, even though they know they can’t use it against me but want some hard evidence so they can pin me down at a later date? Sure, I may get the odd home call off Ste, John or whoever, but it’s not like we say: “Hello, John Barnett. You want an ounce of cannabis? Right away, what’s your home address?”
Nope, a telephone deal will sound something like this. John rings me up.
John: “Hello mate, this fella Pepe le Pew needs a fridge (an ounce) fixing.”
Or: “Pepe needs four fridges fixing.”
And I will say something like: “Hello mate. Pepe needs a fridge fixing? No problem. 4pm at the old place (the flat) or shall I pick up?”
No incriminating evidence there. It may sound a bit arsey or paranoid or convoluted, but my clients and my sub-dealers know my rules about self-preservation, and they accept it because it’s in their interest not to be incriminated either. It works for everyone.
As for the cash itself? Well, I have a business bank account which is maintained at a level so as not to cause suspicion with the bank. I’ve read up on banking laws, bank terms and conditions, transfer limits and all that so I’m pretty clued up in that regard. I’ll go to the bank once a week to deposit some takings, but nowhere near the level which would trigger the bank to start asking awkward questions under money-laundering laws. Some I keep in my personal account. The rest is split between various hiding places – in my flat, in Ste’s, a few bundles wedged under the floor in the office or above the polystyrene tiles in the ceiling, or outside at the back of the workshop, buried under cover of night near the rear exit. Don’t bother looking in any of these places by the way, because all that cash is long gone.
I do have trouble with non-paying clients, albeit only rarely. If on the odd occasion outstanding balances are overdue, they’ll be paid after a stern reminder from Ste or John or David over the phone. Occasionally, some fucker will try and take the piss. It isn’t that they think I’m a woman and they can rip me off with no comeback. None of the outer circle clients know that I’m the source of the supply. As far as they’re concerned, their dealer is Ste or John or whoever. And if Pluto still doesn’t pay up, or won’t answer his phone and try to outright avoid us, it’s time for Ste and the boys to pay him a visit.
And they’ve heard every excuse under the sun. Car broke down and you needed a new engine? Got mugged outside the dole office? Had to buy nappies for the kids? That’s too bad, should learn to manage your money better. Now pay the fuck up. I’m a business,
not a fucking charity. I have outgoings too. Leasing my workspace, paying my accountant, corporation tax, council rates, buying supplies, paying my boys and girls their salaries.
Of course, some customers don’t give a fuck about all that and still won’t pay up. They think they can brazen it out, like eventually we’ll forget about them. If they won’t pay up in cash, then as sure as fuck I’ll make them pay some other way.
That’s a nice telly you have.
Ooh, I love your wedding ring.
You know, your kid’s bike would make a nice present for a mate’s nephew. Fucking hand it over.
Or would you rather have a broken nose or a shattered kneecap for the sake of £20, £30, whatever? I don’t give a fuck. If you can’t risk the loss, don’t play the fucking game. No one is forcing you to buy off me. But if you do? You fucking pay up.
Am I harsh? Listen, I’ve had to take enough punches myself, hence the need for my own security and enforcement team. There are two things at stake here, my own safety and my reputation. It’s my reputation that is my business card. You will not find better dope anywhere else, I can guarantee that. I take the time and the care to grow it myself to ensure that you, stoner customer, enjoy the best fucking spliff you’ve ever had. That’s why you keep coming back for more, and that’s why I can charge a premium for it.
And if I let a few customers off paying because of some sob story, then every fucker will start doing it, and then where would I be? Do you think I actually enjoy having to knock a few cunts about as punishment? It’s a necessary evil. These actions are necessary to ensure the continuity of my business and your continued mongedness.