by Nick Fisher
Matty had burned that particular bridge many moons ago. Kenny fucking hated Matty.
So, just one can of Scrumpy Jack it was then. And Matty thinking that he’d be real classy and save the cider for the train. Drinking from a can in the street is not the behaviour of an aspiring businessman.
Hunting for Kelvin was never going to be easy. Kelvin’s mobile going straight to voicemail, which means Kelvin has no credit. Which is normal. When Matty checks his own available credit on his EE Pay-As-You-Go, he sees he’s got less than four quid’s worth of credit himself. He really hopes tracking down Max the Sikh isn’t going to involve a lot of phone calls, because between them they got a total of about 12 minutes’ airtime.
Maybe Kelvin’s got cash, Matty thinks. Then realises, as he walks in and straight out of his third pub in St. Paul’s – wearing his best just-looking-for-someone-face – that if Kelvin had cash, then he’d probably have phone credit. No credit. No cash.
Exiting the side door of The Palm Tree, Matty decides to go back and kick at the metal bars outside Kelvin’s squat once again, just in case Kelvin’s returned inbetween now and the last time he kicked the bars and shouted through the letter box.
This time, when he’s hammering at the door, he’s thinking how it’s not like Kelvin to be up and out before 4pm. Unless just maybe he’s already gone to score. Though there’s not that many crack dealers, even in Bristol, who open up shop this early.
As he straightens up from hammering at the door through the steel bars, Matty takes a pace back and just catches a movement out the corner of his eye. Something bobbed behind the loose bricks along the top of the wall of the house next door but one. Could’ve been a cat.
Curious, Matty walks through next door’s garden, which is just a ratty pile of rubble and mouldy green plastic outdoor toys, to peep down over the crumbling wall. As he leans over the top, he sees a man, crouching head bowed on the other side of the wall. Hiding. The man looks up to see Matty leering over the wall and he jumps backwards, in shock. Like he’s just been shot. Or seen a ghost. The man wearing four rings in one eyebrow and two huge circle-ring hoop things in the middle of his ear lobes. Looks like a cross between a circus freak and a fashion experiment. And now, he’s gasping for air and he paws at his chest, like he’s having a heart attack.
“Fucking hell. Fuck! Oh fuck! Don’t do that!” he says.
“Kelvin mate,” says Matty, trying to put some kind of nonchalant cheer in his voice. Like the two of them just bumped into each other at the supermarket or snooker club or something. Like normal people.
“You got an evil fucking knock, man,” says Kelvin. His face now ripe with indignation. “Could fucking hear you all the way up the next street! Not cool!”
“Trying to roust you up, is all,” says Matty, indicating the locked metal grill on the squat.
“Wasn’t in. Was I?” says Kelvin, pissy now. “Signing on day, innit? I come round the corner. Hear this knocking: Bang-Bang-Bang. Jesus! And see this guy… Fucking guy like an undercover cop, hammering on my door… Nearly crapped myself.”
“Sorry,” says Matty. “Was looking for you…”
“You got cash?” asks Kelvin, already mentally calculating how this day might now pan out. Matty only ever coming to town to score. An event which normally would have positive implications on Kelvin’s day.
“Not exactly,” says Matty. Kelvin staring at him, very chilly now. Not the answer Kelvin wanted.
“Better,” says Matty.
“Better than cash?”
“Yup.”
“Crack?” asks Kelvin.
“No,” says Matty. “But something we can turn into crack.” Kelvin’s face not expressing any joy at this news as he wearily walks past the mouldy toys, to his metal-barred squat. Kelvin takes some keys out his pocket and shakily unlocks the grille, as now he looks Matty up and down, from his sticky-looking hair to his black shiny funeral shoes.
Matty now asking, “You really think I look like a cop?”
“We go in. Don’t say anything. Let me do the talking.”
“He works in a shop?” Matty’s voice now sounding a little pissy.
“He owns the show. It’s his shop,” says Kelvin. “Not like he’s a shop assistant. He’s boss of the shop.”
Matty can see the guy, behind the counter. In his thirties. Smart, slim, Asian-skinned, with a neat but complicated beard on his chin. And, on his head, a turban. The guy leaning on the counter top, all relaxed, typing text into a shiny new smartphone. Big sign above the shop says ‘Cash Converters – We convert your goods into cash.’ A list down the side of the window saying – ‘We buy: Gold, Silver, Jewellery, Electronics, Computers, Games etc etc’.
Going into a shop to do a drug deal – marching up to a counter, all packed with watches and Xboxes, to do your stuff – doesn’t seem right. In Matty’s little fantasy, the one that he enjoyed, sitting on the train, the deal was going to take place in an office, or back of a private club, or front seat of some top-of-the-range Range Rover. Maybe they’d be overlooking the Clifton Suspension Bridge. Or, maybe in a hotel. A suite, sort of thing. Not just a bedroom. Drinks from the mini bar. Maybe a couple of cute girls, doing lines off a glass-topped table. Whatever, in his mind it was something a little more Quentin Tarantino.
As they walk in the door and step on the mat, a tiny speaker somewhere goes ‘Bing-bong. Bing-bong’ twice. Max the Sikh, the turban-wearing guy, looking up just with his eyes, just once. Not moving his head. Not changing his expression. Not a flicker, before he goes back to his texting. Was like he’s clocked them, catalogued them, and gone back to more important matters.
Matty pleased there doesn’t appear to be anyone else in the shop, either on his side of the counter, or the other. Sure, there could be someone behind the mirrored door that must lead to some sort of back office place, but wasn’t any one else buying or selling just now. Which is good. Otherwise he’d have to have done something, like hang around looking in cabinets, or flicking through display boxes of used DVDs, while he’s waiting for the right empty-shop moment. Would’ve been sweaty and nervy-making, even more than it is already.
Whole thing would be so much easier if he’d had a proper drink first. Little buzz, to give him the necessary swagger and a bit more flow with the words. Instead of one measly Scrumpy Jack, drunk so long ago the buzz already seeped out his cells, leaving an even bigger hole in his confidence. Making him feel, right now, like there’s a piece of him missing. Like he’s not all there. Not firing on all cylinders. Like the engine on Kitty K.
And the shoes don’t help.
Kelvin is standing at the counter now. Max still not looking up from his iPhone. Still typing with one finger. Kelvin saying, “Alright, Max?” Trying to sound relaxed. Max saying nothing. Just holding up one finger of his other hand. One finger. Index finger. In between him and Kelvin. The finger saying ‘Hold on.’ Or ‘One moment.’ Or ‘Not just yet.’ Or some such finger-words. Whatever, it stops Kelvin in his stride. His hand half-buried into a deep pocket of his big woollen old man’s, charity shop overcoat.
Kelvin now fiddling with something in the pocket, not quite bringing it out, but wanting to. Matty having to look in the cabinet at the watches and the second-hand mobile phones, like he is interested, not just nervous. His eyes moving to Max’s iPhone, parked in the centre of the counter. His finger tip-tapping letters out on the screen’s keyboard.
Matty entranced by the sight of Max’s hand. So clean. So soft-looking. The nails all white and an even length on all the fingers. A gold watch, hanging loose from the wrist, with a metal strap and a huge chunky face. The gold metal of the strap articulating silently as he types. Looking makes Matty suddenly aware of his own hands on the edge of the counter. All cracked and rough, with rope burns and months of ingrained, poorly washed silicon grease from the pot-hauler bearings.
Matty takes his own hands off the counter, puts them out of sight. When suddenly he realises he’s staring directly at
Max’s text-typing finger. Looking like he’s trying the read what he’s typing, upside down. Which he isn’t. But it makes him think that’s what Max might be thinking, and doesn’t want to get off on any wrong foot. So instead he makes a big gesture of looking elsewhere. On the shelves again, in the cabinets. Anywhere. All of which makes his heart beat a little bit faster and his alcohol-starved tongue just that little bit drier.
Kelvin empties his pocket and puts a four-inch screen TomTom sat-nav on the glass counter top. Again Max’s eyes flick for just an instant, to assess the black electronic gadget proffered by Kelvin. And then back to his perfect finger, typing on his perfect iPhone. Max keeps on typing, but now asks a question while he types.
“Got the box?”
“No,” says Kelvin.
“Got the leads?”
“No.”
“Proof of purchase?”
“No.”
“Tenner,” says Max
“It’s third generation with the Europe-wide map card,” says Kelvin, an expert on in-car satellite navigation systems, even though he’s never, ever used one. And doesn’t have a car. Or even know how to drive.
“Tenner,” says Max again. “And I need to see ID”.
“How about 20, Max?” says Kelvin, pulling what looks like a laminated library card from his trouser pocket and laying it on the glass.
“What about nothing?” says Max, like it’s a genuine enquiry. “And you go away and take it somewhere else?”
“OK. Tenner,” says Kelvin, pushing the TomTom across the counter.
“And you need to sign a receipt of sale,” says Max, picking up the library card and reading it. “Mr Patel.”
Kelvin eyes Matty, as Max takes a ten pound note out the till and lays a receipt on the glass for Kelvin to sign.
“This’s my mate,” says Kelvin, nodding towards Matty. “I vouch for him and all that. Got something you might be interested in. To sell, like.”
Matty caught on the hop. Not quite sure what to do. Does he just bring out the lump of hash, in the shop now? Or set up a meet elsewhere? Or what? This bit not rehearsed. None of it rehearsed really. Except in his head. On the train. Taking a piss in the train toilet. Seeing himself in the toilet mirror. Acting out a little drug deal scenario in his head and in the mirror. Pulling the facial expression he thinks he should use when he’s with Max. Seeing his reflection. Holding his head in the way he thought made him look cool. All at ease. Bit nonchalant. Like he’s done this stuff before. Loads of times. Like Max the Sikh would know he was dealing with a professional.
None of it ever looked in his head like it looks now, in the real world. In a Cash Converter in Fish Ponds, next door to a funeral director and a Marie Curie Cancer Shop.
Max’s expression not making things any easier. Max not showing any interest or expectation. No attempt at engaging. Or even looking the least bit curious, just those flat brown eyes staring out at him under a green turban, the colour of kelp.
Matty puts the lump of black hash on the counter beside the iPhone. It was exactly half of what he’s snuck off the Kitty in his pants. He’d felt it tucked under his scrotum all the time he was in the Weymouth Police Custody Suite. Pretty sure then that no one was going to frisk him properly, because he’d committed no offence as such, and even though he had plenty of previous, the scuffle on the quayside not being a drug-related incident. All the same, it’d been pretty sweaty, knowing he was sitting right inside the nick with that stash in his pants.
And when he was released, feeling chuffed that he’d sat it out, ice-cool, no one any the wiser. Thinking he really did have the balls to be a bit of a player. Even imagining himself walking through Customs at some airport with a load of coke in his luggage, showing no sign of nerves, nothing. Like maybe he really was cut out for a life of high-end crime, after all.
“What is that?” says Max. His black eyebrows meeting. His jaw set firm.
“Afghan black,” says Kelvin, butting in, and saying “He’s got lots of it.” Like he’s worried the one lump looks a bit small.
“Why have you brought that in my shop?” Max’s voice sounding all serious and official, like a headmaster, or a judge, or something.
Matty caught on the wrong foot “I thought, you might–”
“That is a Class B controlled substance. Get it out of my shop now. Or I will be forced to call the police.”
Matty frozen now. Fuck! This is so not the way his train toilet fantasy went. His mouth open now. Jaw working up and down, slowly. No words coming out, feeling like he’s a codling, lying on the deck, gulping air.
“Take it. Now. Go!” Max’s voice raising up louder, as his perfect smooth fingers swipe at the lump, like it’s a cockroach or a bee, sending it clattering off the glass counter onto the floor.
Matty’s eyes torn between Max’s ferocious glare and trying to follow the trajectory of his precious chunk of black. “S’alright, Max,” says Kelvin. “He’s alright. Like I said, I can vouch. He’s cool.”
Matty not feeling too cool as he scrambles on his hands and knees, trying to follow the hash, which has rolled under a metal wire basket stand, full of used DVDs, two for five pounds.
“Out!” shouts Max. Matty, chin almost down on the brown thin carpet squares, stretching under the stand trying to wrap his fingers around the lump. Kelvin stepping back from the counter, his hands raised, palms out, like Max is pointing a gun at him. Which he isn’t.
“It’s cool. It’s cool,” says Kelvin, backing away.
But nothing about what’s happening in this shop, at this moment in time, seems cool to Matty, who gets up off his knees, slipping the dope in his jacket pocket, and ‘Bing-Bongs’ back across the mat and out the door, just a few paces ahead of Kelvin’s ‘Bing-Bong’ as he follows Matty out the shop.
Next door to the funeral director is a car park. Walled in on three sides. Signs painted on the brickwork mark the designated parking slots for the undertakers. There’s a hearse parked in one slot. Other slots are empty. Some are closed off with chains. In one corner of the car park is a skip and a pile of carpet remnants.
Matty is panting now, furious. Freaked. Kelvin is clutching his ten pound note like his life depended on it. Matty starts marching back and forth in front of Kelvin, his shoes hurting, repeating over and over: “What the fuck. What the fuck? What the fuck was…? He searches for words “You… Fuck. The Fuck?”
“He’s a cool guy,” says Kelvin “I done a ton of business with Max. I don’t get it.”
Matty now marching away four paces. Then marching back. Fierce. Looking like he might punch Kelvin. Thinking he definitely might punch Kelvin.
“It’s the jacket,” says Kelvin, looking to shift the blame. “And the shoes. I said, didn’t I? You… fucking you look like a Fed.”
Matty squaring up to Kelvin now. His weight evenly spread between his feet. His stance wide. Shoulders up. Ready to swing.
“That… in there. That was about my fucking shoes?” he asks. “That what you saying?” Matty all set to let a fist fly. Ready to swing one up from his hip, and crack his rope-hardened whelk potter fist into the side of fucking Kelvin’s fucking head. Release all his tension and embarrassment and nerves in one knuckle-bruising, bone-crunching, right hook. Then he’d take Kelvin’s fucking tenner too. And go get himself a proper drink. Get his head back in gear. Work out what the fuck he was going to do next. When suddenly Max the Sikh walks into the car park. Kelvin’s back is towards Max, not seeing him walk up behind him, cool as a cucumber. Matty’s fist now dropping a little, wrong-footed again, confused. Shit, where is this going?
For the first time Matty is seeing the bottom half of Max the Sikh. Seeing the guy’s legs and shoes now. Designer jeans. Brown leather shoes with little gold chain things hooped across the front. Like little identity bracelets.
Matty finding something very weird about this guy now being out from behind his counter. Really disconcerting. Like he wasn’t supposed to be exposed to the outdoors
and sunlight. Like he’s exclusively an indoor-guy with smooth hands, clean white nails and shoes with jewellery on them.
“Show me that,” Max says, walking up to Matty, never once breaking stride. Pointing at Matty’s jacket pocket where he’d slipped the dope after he’d scooped it up off the shop floor. Matty’s fists still balled up. Matty still half-ready to swing. Looking wired and dangerous, but the Sikh guy, with the tight trimmed beard, doesn’t even look fazed. Holding his soft hand out, palm up, his fingers curling and uncurling slightly, like he’s beckoning for Matty to hurry up.
Matty, wary now, puts the dope in Max’s outstretched hand. Max puts the dope to his nose, smelling it. Studying it. Now bending it, like he’s trying to break off a chunk. Matty watching. Aware of shoppers walking past the entrance to the car park. Matty’s eyes searching for police. Or for more Sikhs. Or anything sinister. Feeling like some sort of shit is about to kick off. At least, Matty thinking, that if someone wants a fight, he’d know exactly what to do then. It’s just all the rest of this confusing drug transaction thing he didn’t understand. A fist fight in a car park. Now, that he could manage.
“Where’d he get this?” Max now asking Kelvin, as he takes a slim gold cigarette lighter out his jeans pocket. Kelvin shrugs. Max holds the naked flame to the corner of the black lump and sniffs the smoke that curls off it.
“How much you got to sell?” He addresses Matty now.
Matty silent. Still staring directly at Max. Matty showing a little beef at last. Like he wasn’t just going to be pushed around.
Max crumbles the corner of the block between his thumb and forefinger. The dope turning soft and creamy, with the heat of the flame, like window putty. Max smearing it between his fingers, smoothing it out, letting the oils leak out their aromas. He holds his thumb and forefinger to his nostrils, sniffing, rubbing, sniffing again.
Finally, Max looks at Matty. His eyes roaming down now, from Matty’s face, down his jacket, across his jeans to his uncomfortable shoes. And then back up again. Until he’s eye to eye with Matty, asking him once more. “Where d’you get this?”