by Luke Delaney
‘Oh I got something nice for you,’ King teased him, ‘but I need this one thing.’
‘Go on,’ O’Neil sighed, slumping on the sofa neither King nor Williams dared sit on. ‘I’m listening.’
‘Micky Astill,’ King told him.
‘What about him?’ O’Neil shrugged and leaned forward as he prepared to roll a cigarette.
‘Once upon a time you had an idea to take him down,’ King reminded him.
O’Neil squinted his eyes with the effort of trying to remember. ‘Oh yeah,’ he eventually recalled. ‘When you first nicked me.’
‘Right,’ King told him as Williams continued to circle the room like a shark smelling blood in the water. ‘You said you could get him out of that bunker he calls home while he was carrying enough to have him for possession with intent.’
‘Well,’ O’Neil tried to back away, ‘that was then and this is now.’
‘What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?’ Williams asked.
‘Means I’m not sure it can be done,’ O’Neil answered as if it was obvious.
‘You said you could call him,’ King reminded him, ‘tell him you wanted to make a larger than normal buy, but that you were nervous about going to his flat with so much cash. You said it could draw him out.’
‘It might do,’ O’Neil agreed, ‘but you still haven’t said what’s in it for me. Why would I want to help you again? I ain’t earning out of it. The debt with the Blu-ray’s well paid off.’
‘Fair enough,’ King nodded his head slowly, slipping his hands into his pockets. From one he produced the crack cocaine they’d taken from Tyrone Mooney and from the other the cash taken from the same. He held it out for O’Neil who eyed it disbelievingly.
‘What’s this?’ he asked, his eyes glued to the items seemingly on offer.
‘It’s yours,’ King told him smiling. ‘Take it. There’s about ten rocks there and close to a hundred and fifty quid. Payment for what you’ve done in the past and what you’re going to do in the future. Fair enough?’
O’Neil leaned forward before suddenly snatching the drugs and cash from King’s hands, like a starving man grabbing at bread. He stuffed it into his pockets before it could be taken away. ‘All right,’ he agreed. ‘What you want me to do?’
‘You phone Astill,’ King explained. ‘Tell him you had a nice result dipping a tourist in the West End – a couple of hundred quid cash that you’re looking to blow partying the weekend away and you want to buy ten rocks.’
‘He’ll want to see the cash before agreeing to anything,’ O’Neil pointed out. ‘Ten rocks’ll cost a hundred and sixty.’
‘You got the cash,’ King reminded him, looking at O’Neil’s pocket.’
‘So I got to give Astill the cash?’ O’Neil moaned. ‘I ain’t never gonna get paid, am I?’
‘Don’t fret,’ King told him. ‘You’ll get it all back and more. So long as you help us out – and you don’t have much choice, do you, Dougie? Unless you want people on the estate to find out you’ve been helping us.’
‘Fine,’ O’Neil reluctantly agreed, fully aware that if people found out a severe beating would be the least he could expect.
‘So you tell him you want the ten rocks,’ King picked up the thread, ‘but that you don’t want to risk coming to his flat with that amount of cash – in case you get robbed or nicked. Same after the buy – tell him you don’t want to be out in the open with ten rocks on you. OK?’
‘Sounds reasonable enough,’ O’Neil nodded slightly.
‘But as you said – he’s gonna want to see the cash,’ King continued. ‘No problem. You get him to come here for the cash. He won’t mind being out of his bunker with cash – it’s drugs he doesn’t want to be caught with.’
‘Yeah but how’s he gonna get the drugs to Dougie here?’ Williams asked. ‘Astill ain’t gonna bring them round here himself.’
‘He’ll use a runner,’ King answered disinterestedly. ‘Send someone else round with the goods – for what it’s worth.’
‘I don’t understand,’ O’Neil admitted. ‘How you gonna nick him if you can’t catch him with the rocks? You can’t nick him just for carrying a bit of dough.’
‘Let me worry about that,’ King smiled. ‘You just make the call and don’t fuck it up. Fuck it up and we might not be so understanding. Clear?’
‘Yeah,’ O’Neil answered, swallowing his fear and trying to control his loosening bowels. ‘I understand.’
Micky Astill sat in silence on the faux-leather sofa with his drug-ravaged girlfriend smoking endless cigarettes while they watched The Jerry Springer Show together and waited for the next customer to rap on their front door. Just as the guests on the show were reaching a climax of insults and accusations, Astill was disturbed by the sound of his mobile chirping and vibrating on the coffee table. He picked it up without much interest and checked the caller ID. The number wasn’t blocked, but it wasn’t one he recognized or had in his contacts, which usually meant a new customer – someone given his number by one of his existing clients. He stared at the phone hard, wondering whether to answer it or not. New customers were always potentially dangerous. They could be a police informant or even an undercover cop or they might just be a rival dealer setting him up to rob. There were no friends and no code of conduct in Astill’s world. He decided it was worth the risk answering. His existing customers were imprisoned or died on a regular basis. He had to continually expand his client base or risk running out of addicts to sell to.
‘Hello,’ he answered cautiously.
‘Micky,’ O’Neil replied. ‘It’s me – Dougie.’
Astill immediately relaxed. O’Neil was one of his oldest associates. ‘Got a new phone?’ he asked.
‘Yeah, yeah,’ O’Neil confirmed. ‘Lost my other one somewhere,’ he lied, knowing that the mere mention of the police and certainly the fact he’d been arrested would put Astill on high alert. Drug addicts on bail always had the potential to be an informant – something Astill would know as well as anyone.
‘I’ll change your number in my contacts,’ Astill told him.
‘Can you speak?’ O’Neil got down to business.
Astill glanced at his girlfriend. He trusted no one, but considered her harmless. ‘Yeah, sure.’
‘I’ve had a nice touch and looking to score large,’ O’Neil spoke in virtual code.
‘How large?’ Astill asked.
‘Ten rocks,’ O’Neil told him bluntly, ‘if you’ve got it.’
Astill was silent for a few seconds before he replied. ‘That’s a lot for you, Dougie. What you planning on doing with a score that size?’
‘Party,’ O’Neil lied, trying to sound cheerful and excited at the prospect of getting his hands on more crack than he’d ever had before.
‘Party, eh?’ Astill checked. ‘Gonna be a one-man party, is it?’
‘I ain’t planning on sharing,’ O’Neil confirmed.
‘It’ll cost one sixty,’ Astill warned him. ‘You sure you got it?’
‘I got it,’ O’Neil stuck to the plan. ‘Had a nice result dipping a tourist in the West End.’
Again Astill was silent while he considered O’Neil’s request – trying to recall if he’d ever heard of him dipping before. He thought O’Neil was strictly a theft-from-motor-vehicle man with the occasional burglary thrown in. After a few seconds he shrugged, deciding a thief was a thief. Maybe O’Neil was expanding his repertoire, and the money was hard to turn down. Ten rocks in one hit would give him enough cash to go straight back to his suppliers and re-stock. By the end of the week he could be as much as fifty pounds up on his normal profit margin. At Astill’s level of the trade that was a significant gain. His was not the world of the TV drug dealer – smart suits, flash cars and briefcases full of pristine fifty-pound notes. His was a world of scratching out a living, risking everything just to make ends meet, where each deal only brought a small profit; maybe a couple of pounds a rock if he could get a decent price when buy
ing in bulk – bulk on the street meaning twenty to thirty rocks at a time. He was in the business of surviving and little else. Even the money he dealt with was small time: filthy, crumpled five-pound notes, pound coins, fifty-pence coins – even one-pence coins. His customers scraped together what they could, stole what they could and used it to pay him for the drugs. It was the nature of the business and a pain in the arse. Laws introduced to force the banks and other financial institutions to inform the police of any suspicious deposits or transactions meant the likes of Astill found it almost impossible to change their coins and fivers for anything more user-friendly. They were stuck with it. Even if he wanted to buy something like a new TV, he’d have to buy it with small change, which meant he couldn’t risk using a reputable supplier – in case they tipped off the police. His chosen trade had ensured he was trapped in a neverworld of illicit trades where even the smallest purchase could be fraught with danger.
‘All right,’ he finally answered, the thought of getting his hands on some clean cash in decent-sized notes proving too tempting. ‘Bring the cash round here and I’ll serve you up.’
‘Er, not sure about that,’ O’Neil answered. ‘Don’t fancy being close to your gaff with a hundred and sixty notes on me and I don’t fancy being on the street with ten rocks under my tongue.’
‘So you want me to take all the risks?’ Astill laughed. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘No one’s gonna rob you,’ O’Neil tried to persuade him. ‘People know you must be connected.’
‘Don’t bet on it,’ Astill told him. ‘And what about the Old Bill. They’d like nothing more than to catch me out in the open while I’m holding. It’s too risky, Dougie.’
‘Why don’t you use a runner?’ O’Neil encouraged him. ‘You got people you can use, don’t you?’
‘Yeah,’ Astill admitted, ‘but no one I’d trust with a hundred and sixty notes.’
‘You don’t have to,’ O’Neil explained. ‘Come round here and get the money yourself. Better that way anyway. Then you can send the runner with the gear later.’
‘And if the runner takes off with the rocks?’
‘My problem, I guess,’ O’Neil told him. ‘You’ll have already been paid so what the fuck do you care?’
Astill once more considered the details of the potential transaction before replying. ‘All right,’ he agreed, ‘but just because I like you so much I’ll send the runner back and forth. They can bring you the rocks a couple at a time – just in case they get tempted.’
‘Fine,’ O’Neil agreed. ‘When can you come round for the paper?’
‘No time like the present,’ Astill answered.
‘Suits me,’ O’Neil agreed before hanging up.
Astill dragged himself to his feet, surprising his girlfriend who’d never seen him miss any of The Jerry Springer Show before for anything other than a customer at the door. ‘Where you going?’ she asked, sounding a little concerned.
‘Take care of some business,’ he told her. ‘I’ll be back soon. I’ll lock the security grid behind me. You ain’t planning on going nowhere, are you?’
‘No,’ she replied, satisfied with his explanation. ‘You can lock it behind you.’
Astill moved quickly up the stairwell towards the walkway that would take him to O’Neil’s flat. The thought of crisp, clean tens and twenties – the sort of cash tourists carried, newly obtained from airport bureaux de changes – put an extra spring in his step. But his happy thoughts came to an abrupt end when he reached the walkway only to have King step out in front of him and push a strong hand into his chest. ‘Shit,’ he cursed before remembering he was neither in possession of any drugs or even cash. He instantly relaxed to the point of cockiness. ‘Can I help you, officer?’ he grinned.
‘Help me?’ King repeated as Williams and now also Brown stepped from the doorways that concealed them. ‘Yeah, you can help me.’
‘Go ahead and search me,’ Astill told him as he looked at the others – some instinct for survival telling him that bumping into them was no accident and that this was no routine check. ‘You won’t find nothing.’
‘Depends on what I’m looking for, doesn’t it?’ King replied and spun Astill round, pushing him against the wall before he began to rifle through his pockets.
‘I told you,’ Astill insisted, ‘I ain’t got nothing.’
‘I’d have to disagree,’ King replied, pulling his hand from Astill’s pocket and waving the set of house keys in front of his face. ‘I’d say you’ve got exactly what we’re looking for.’
‘You can’t take them,’ Astill argued – confusion and panic setting in. ‘I ain’t done nothing.’
‘Time we took a look around that bunker you call a home,’ King told him. ‘See what you’ve been up to.’
‘You can’t do that,’ Astill continued to protest. ‘You can’t search my house if I’m not under arrest and I don’t see no search warrant.’
‘Well,’ King said, ‘if it makes you feel any better – Micky Astill, I’m arresting you for conspiracy to supply a class A controlled drug. You know the caution.’
‘Fuck’s sake,’ he complained as King cuffed his hands behind his back. ‘I might expect this sort of shit from the area drug squad, but the local beat cops … What you want – a pay-off?’
‘Don’t insult us,’ King warned him. ‘You think we’re on the take? You got us confused with someone else, Micky.’
‘Then what the fuck do you want?’ Astill demanded.
‘Your head,’ King snarled at him, ‘to go with all the others on our office wall. But don’t worry – I’ll be sure to mount yours pride of place. You’re my lion’s head, Micky. You should be proud of yourself.’
‘Fuck you,’ Astill spat at them. ‘Fuck you all.’
Brown kept trying the keys on the small bunch they’d taken from Astill – working silently despite the frustration of another failure, his stealth training from his army days serving him well. He could hear the television blaring on the other side of the door and guessed at least one person was inside. If he made a sound any drugs that might be waiting for them could be flushed down the toilet in seconds. King and Williams waited in the close-by stairwell where the latter held a large gloved hand over the still-cuffed Astill’s mouth to stop him calling out any warning to the occupants. They’d asked Astill to show them which key was for the grid, but he’d refused to help them, even after they’d threatened him. Either he didn’t take them seriously or whatever he had in the flat was worth trying to protect – was something that could send him down for a very long time.
Finally a key turned the lock and the metal cage door swung an inch or two open under its own weight, but the movement made a noise loud enough to be heard inside the flat.
‘Shit,’ Brown cursed as he tried the front door handle and found it locked. ‘Shit,’ he cursed again and began to fumble through the keys trying to find one for the lock, but it was too late – he could already hear footsteps coming towards him from inside. He froze, desperately turning back to the stairwell where the others looked on with increasing confusion.
Suddenly the front door swung open and inwards as Astill’s skeletal girlfriend stood in front of him, her mouth open and ready to greet her returning boyfriend and supplier. Too slowly her crack-ravaged mind registered the grid was open as Brown came back to life and seized on her mistake – almost running towards her and driving her backwards into the flat with his shoulder. The others saw him disappear inside and ran to the open door, pulling Astill along with them until they were all inside. King slammed the door shut and barked his orders.
‘Make sure no one else is here,’ he told his subordinates. ‘Take her with you,’ he ordered Williams. ‘You stay with me,’ he said to Astill, before leading him to the front room where the trappings of a low-level dealer were on show: a decent TV and sound system and a larger than average DVD collection to keep him entertained during the long boring hours of waiting for customers to come calling.
The place was a tip: overflowing ashtrays, empty beer and cider bottles mixing with unwashed plates, cups and glasses. ‘Nice place you got here,’ King insulted him.
‘Fuck you,’ Astill bit back. ‘Just do what you gotta do and fuck off.’
‘Temper, temper,’ King told him as the others joined them.
‘It’s clear,’ Brown said. ‘No one home but these two.’
‘Good,’ King nodded and pushed Astill onto the sofa. Williams did the same with the girlfriend. ‘Give me the keys,’ he told Brown, holding his hand out. Brown did as he was told. King dangled the keys in front of Astill before pinching a small but heavy looking one. ‘I recognize this sort of key,’ he explained. ‘You got a floor safe somewhere in here, Micky? That where you keep your gear?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Astill tried to bluff it out.
‘That’s the trouble with people like you,’ King ignored him. ‘You don’t trust anyone. If you did you could have left the key here and I’d never have known, but you had to take it with you, didn’t you? You,’ he turned on the desperate-looking woman. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Tracy,’ she answered in a faltering voice. ‘Tracy Stevenson.’
‘You his girlfriend?’ King asked. ‘His partner?’ She shrugged and nodded at the same time – unsure of what she really was to Astill. ‘See,’ King said triumphantly. ‘He doesn’t even trust his own girlfriend. Probably thinks you’d empty the safe and do a runner first chance you got.’
‘Probably right too,’ Brown added.
‘Probably,’ King agreed. ‘So where’s the safe, Micky?’
‘Fuck you,’ Astill replied, but he sounded worried.
‘You?’ King asked Stevenson. She shook her head and shrugged unconvincingly again. ‘If we have to rip this place apart we will,’ he warned them. Still nothing. ‘D’you hear what happened to Ronnie Butler?’ he asked without warning. Astill and Stevenson looked at each other and then back to King. ‘I heard he took a serious kicking. D’you hear that?’
‘I heard,’ Astill answered.