I could see what Ben was doing. He was approaching this just like we were taught in our course. We’d shared some topics and sat in the same café a year before when we’d been given the task of writing a marketing plan to launch a new brand of goat’s cheese. Go Goat, we called it, with an idea for running adverts that featured a cartoon goat doing tricks on a skateboard. It’s kind of fun when you get into it.
“Where do you want me to start? There’s loads of issues.”
“Start wherever you like. We’ll write them all down and sort them one by one.”
I took a big slurp of coffee and gave up. Ben was in one of his persistent moods. I’d known him long enough by then that I knew it was easier just to go along with it.
“OK. Money. We don’t have any, so we can’t afford to buy the dope in the first place.”
I watched as Ben typed this into his laptop. Then he started a new line and wrote, “How do we get it?” Then he looked at me again. “Any ideas?”
I thought for a bit and decided to try a joke.
“Your dad?” I asked. “Could you explain what you want to do? Maybe ask for a loan?”
But Ben didn’t seem to get it. He just shook his head. “Not directly. But there’s a bit I can still get from him.” He added notes saying “my dad” and “two thousand pounds,” followed by a question mark.
“How about your dad?” he asked. “There anything there?”
I shook my head.
“You sure?”
“I’m pretty sure.”
He frowned but added a second note: “Jake’s dad. Zero.” Then he took a sip of his coffee and inspected his work so far.
“Other means, then. How much in credit cards have you got access to?”
I didn’t really like to think too hard about my financial situation, but I kind of knew where I was all the time. It hung over my head like a persistent black cloud.
“I’m a bit overdrawn, but I’ve got about fifteen hundred quid left on my credit cards.”
This went into the file on the laptop.
“How about other credit cards? Can you get more?”
I hesitated at this question. Maybe because I’d seen how my answers went straight into his laptop. It was like just handing him the cash.
“Maybe,” I said in the end.
“And that could be quite a bit, couldn’t it?”
“Yeah, but I need that to live off until I get a proper job. I don’t want to get more into debt.” That second part was a stupid thing to say since it gave him an opening to launch into his lecture, now fairly familiar even if I hadn’t paid much attention up until then.
“Jake, this whole idea isn’t about getting more into debt. It’s about getting out of debt altogether. It’s about beginning our careers from zero, rather than half a mile back from the fucking start line. You know?”
I did know. Ben had explained this to me several times already and I didn’t need to hear it again.
“So how much could you get?”
I thought for a moment.
“Maybe three grand?”
I watched as “Jake credit cards, five thousand” was added. No question mark this time.
“You can probably get the same,” I said, as if that evened the score, but he just nodded and did something fancy with the cut and paste so that another line was added with his name.
“I’ve also got some money from my gran,” he said.
And with that he added fifteen thousand to the total and sat back, looking pleased.
“OK, so that’s, what? Nearly twenty five thousand. So money isn’t really an issue, is it? Because we’re going to make it all back, and a lot more.” He looked pleased with himself. “So what else? How about where we’re going to hide the gear?”
I was still a bit shocked Ben had fifteen grand he’d not told me about.
“I thought we were going to hide it in the van?” I said at last.
“Yeah, but where, exactly? It’s got to be pretty good, just in case we do get stopped.”
I didn’t like the idea of that. What was the point of a daydream about drug smuggling where you imagined getting caught?
“Well, what did we decide before? When we were driving back the other time. In the seats, wasn’t it?”
The word “seats” with another question mark went onto the file. But the expression on Ben’s face told me he wasn’t entirely satisfied with this.
“Don’t you think it’s a bit obvious? And how do we actually get it in there? And how much can we get in there?” He took another sip of coffee and watched out the window as a couple of surfers walked past.
“Inside the doors, then. Behind all the interior panels?” I tried.
Ben wrote this down too, but again without massive enthusiasm, and we both added a few more suggestions, mostly remembered from conversations we’d had the summer before. Only this time, now that I understood we were on some level seriously considering doing this, I agreed with his lack of enthusiasm. None of the ideas sounded quite as good as they had. Eventually, Ben moved us on.
“OK, maybe we’ll come back to that. How about where we buy the gear from in the first place? I think it’s important to get something in place before we actually get there. Have you got any ideas on that?”
“Me?” I asked. “No.”
Ben frowned, disappointed.
“How about where we sell it on to?” I said. “I’d have thought that’s more difficult.”
“I’ve got that in hand.”
“What do you mean?”
“I spoke to Danny. He’s getting something sorted.”
Danny was the guy Ben bought his dope from. A small-time, local drug dealer who sold mostly to students. But still, a drug dealer.
“You what?”
“I spoke to Danny.”
I stared at him. “You actually spoke to Danny?”
“Yeah.”
“Fuck, Ben, you actually asked a drug dealer questions about his suppliers?”
“I just said I did.”
“But isn’t that dangerous?” I had no idea Ben had taken things this far. Actually asking his dealer?
“It’s only Danny.” Ben looked like it was me who had just said something stupid. “Danny’s alright.”
I frowned and thought about that. I’d only met the guy on a couple of occasions, when I’d gone with Ben to buy some dope. We’d go in, make awkward small talk for as long as it took them to exchange cash for a cellophane-wrapped teenth, and then we’d get out of there. I’d always feel a frisson of excitement at being inside a dealer’s house.
“Well, what did he say?”
“He said he can’t handle it himself, but he’s asked the guy who supplies him. Someone up north somewhere. And he came back saying if we could get that much dope into the country, then he’d take it off our hands, no problem. We’ve just got to get the gear in the first place.”
I didn’t think for a minute it could be as easy as that. But I decided to let that pass for now, and concentrate on the other problem.
“Well, OK, so can’t Danny, or this other guy, put us in touch with someone in Morocco too? To buy the stuff, I mean?”
Ben shook his head.
“Nah. You see, most of the stuff here is grown here. In lofts and barns and stuff. It’s why the quality isn’t that good. But it’s also why this is such a great plan. If we can get hold of some genuine Moroccan hash, everyone here will want it. It’ll be easy for this guy to sell, so we’ll get a good price. It’s really just how we get it.” Ben looked up and stared out the window. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t have any great ideas.
“Of course, we could just drive down there and hope for the best,” Ben went on, he was talking to himself more than me by then. “It wasn’t hard to buy it before. But it might take them a long time to come up with such a large amount. I’d far rather order it in advance so we’re just picking it up.”
But I’d had enough by then, it was too much to take in all at once.
“Ben,” I interrupted him.
“What?”
“Are you really serious about this?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, why are we sitting here making spreadsheets and lists? It’s crazy. We’re not actually going to do this. You do know that?”
He looked at me and his face slowly set into a look I’d seen many times before. Like I’d just issued him a direct challenge. But then he softened. I think he realised that getting me to do this was a far bigger step than anything he’d ever talked me into before.
“You know why we’re doing this don’t you Jake? We’re going to wipe away our debts. You’re going to start your working life not owing tens of thousands to the government. And I’m going to be free of my dad. That’s why.”
I puffed out my cheeks. I still felt bad for him about his dad, and his brother.
“Look, that’s all great. But it’s mental. What happens if we get caught? We go to prison for our whole lives or something.”
Ben didn’t look at me this time. He stared at his computer instead.
“Ben, I just think you’re spending too much time on this. You can’t fail your course again; they’ll kick you off this time. You’ve got to finish your degree. We’ve got to get jobs. That’s how we clear our debts. That’s how you stick it to your dad. Jobs. We’ve got to get serious about life.”
Slowly, Ben closed the top of his computer. His face was set firm.
“I’m totally serious, Jake.”
We sat in silence for a long while, and it was like we’d both agreed to drop the subject for the time being. Eventually, I started telling him about an application I’d just sent off. For a local job. He listened politely, even asked a couple of questions, and I thought I’d heard the last of his crazy plan. But just as we were getting up to leave the café, he brought it up again.
“Jake, I know you’re not fully into this idea yet. But can you do me a favour? Can you work out how much money you could get hold of—just in case we work it out? Start applying for those credit cards or whatever. I’ll look into the other issues.” He gave me a sad smile and quietly slipped his laptop into his bag.
10
I should tell you a little about the application I just mentioned; it plays its part in this whole story. I was still applying for every job I had any chance with, and still mostly hearing nothing back. But every now and then, a job came along that I got excited about. And a few days earlier I’d come across a job I really liked the look of. It was a place on a graduate training scheme for a firm that sold services to other businesses. Nothing exciting, really, but that just happened to be what I did my final-year project on. I actually understood everything it talked about on the job description, and, when it came to filling in the form, I could make a pretty good case for why they should consider hiring me. When I emailed that one off, I knew I was such a good fit that I had a good feeling about it. It was strangely powerful, it was like I could sense something good was finally coming my way. Like my luck was turning.
Even so, I did what Ben asked with the money. Not because he’d asked, but because I had to. If I wanted to pay that month’s rent, and buy any more food that month, I had to do it. Once again, I was mildly surprised at how willing reputable financial institutions were to lend more money to kids like me, with no obvious means to pay it back. I couldn’t quite get the full five thousand that Ben had noted down, but for just filling in a few more forms, I had a piece of plastic worth four thousand pounds on its way to me in the post.
And just for a little while, I was optimistic that maybe a change was on the way. I just had to get that job, and I could turn things around. I’d be able to cover my monthly outgoings and start to make a dent in paying back the bigger loans I had hanging over me.
Two days later, when I was at work, my phone pinged with an email. Before I even looked, I knew it was about the job; I had that same feeling as before. And when I did look at the message header I saw I was right. I couldn’t see what the email said, though, and for a long while, I didn’t look. I kept serving customers, barely aware of what I was doing, my hands going through the motions, my brain whirring away behind my blank face.
I didn’t want to open the email just in case it was another “no.” All my anticipation and all my hopes would be dashed yet again. And then there was a gap in customers. All the pumps were empty—I had a few minutes to myself. I pressed the button to open the phone and took a couple of deep breaths before opening the email. I didn’t need to read it all. I could see at once what it said. I had an interview. I fucking had an interview! My first in eight months of sending out hundreds and hundreds of applications. I made a fist and banged the desk, then again, so that the till shifted on the desk in front of me. I was finally getting out of this place. Then I remembered that my boss watched the CCTV of me sometimes. I had to fight the urge to stick one finger up at the camera, but I pulled myself together.
Then I read the email a bit more carefully. They wanted me to come for an interview the following Thursday. Now, I worked all day Thursdays. And the interview wasn’t just for an hour: it was an all-day thing. That was a problem because I knew my boss wouldn’t want to give me the time off. So I had to decide whether to try and book the day off, or just call in sick that morning. I thought about it for a while and in the end decided to tell my boss the truth. Sometimes, she could be decent about things. During the next lull in customers, I sent her a text explaining what had happened, and asking for the day off. Then I spent the rest of my shift with such a stupid grin on my face that people kept giving me funny looks.
Late that night, my boss wiped the grin away. She texted back to say I couldn’t have next Thursday off. She was already short-staffed, and she couldn’t cover it herself because she had to attend a course at the head office. She somehow implied with her text that she was the one who was being hard done by, having to reply to a text and turn me down. When I said she could be decent sometimes, I forgot to mention she could also be a real miserable bitch.
That left me with a dilemma. I could still text her and say I was sick on the day, but now she’d know that it was a lie. It probably wouldn’t matter because I was one of the most reliable people she had, and I didn’t think she’d fire me for it, but it would piss her off. Or I could stick to my honest route and just insist that I had to take the time off. It wasn’t like she didn’t know I was looking for other jobs. She couldn’t force me to work there.
Ben was all for me telling her where to stick the job entirely, inasmuch as I had his attention. It was mostly still on his dope plan. I only talked to him about it at all because I hoped that maybe Julia would come into the room when we were discussing it. I wanted her to know that I had an interview for this amazing job. I wanted her to see that there was more to me than just a guy working in a petrol station and getting stoned. But that didn’t happen, at least not yet.
In the end, I decided to be up front and honest. I told my boss I was really sorry, but I just couldn’t work the next Thursday. She texted back:
Jake, you have REALLY LET ME DOWN. I thought better of you. I’ll review rota and get back to you.
I got a second text later that night, presumably after she’d reviewed the rota. She said my hours for the next two and a half months had been reduced to zero. She hadn’t fired me, I don’t think she’d be allowed to do that for nothing, but she’d reduced my hours so I wouldn’t get paid anything, so it amounted to the same thing. I stared at that text for ages, just stared at it. The thought of having no income, just like that, filled me with a kind of cold fear. But at the same time, there was this lifeline. There was this job. I was going to get it. I had to get it. Fuck the petrol station. Fuck my bitch of a boss. I was moving on up from there. I was destined for way better things.
And I put more effort into that interview than I had for anything I’d done for a long time. I bought a new suit. I had one already—Mum bought it for me when I was sixteen—but I’d b
ulked up a bit since then, and to be honest, Mum’s taste had stopped right about the time she married Dad. By then, the new credit card had come through, so I used that to pay for it. It was a risk, but if I got the job, I’d need a few suits anyway. You have to speculate to accumulate, right?
Then there was the presentation I had to prepare. Fifteen minutes on the benefits of outsourcing for medium-sized organisations. Thrilling stuff, huh? Fortunately, Ben had been spending a fair bit of time with Danny, working up his plan, so we had a bit of dope lying around the flat which helped me get creative. And with no hours at the petrol station to get in the way, I had plenty of time to come up with something.
It was different getting to hang around the flat again. I hadn’t done that since I was a student, and that was what finally got me some alone time with Julia. I’d taken to bringing my laptop downstairs to the living room rather than hiding up in my room. And one day, about lunchtime, she padded in. She was still in her pyjamas, an oversized Mickey Mouse t-shirt that I’d seen a couple of times before and imagined her pulling over her head many times more. She was carrying a bowl of cornflakes. She sat down at the table opposite me and crunched her spoon in.
“What you doing?” she asked.
I felt a tingle of anticipation. I was working on my presentation for a proper job that I had a real chance of getting. Like a serious person. And I’d been hoping for the chance to tell her that for a long time. I was about to go up a notch or two in her eyes. But I wanted to play it cool.
“I’ve got an interview next week. I’ve got to do this presentation,” I said, as nonchalantly as I could. I knew she’d want to know more.
Julia munched her way through a few spoonfuls of cornflakes, and for a moment, I feared she wasn’t going to ask anything more, but I held my nerve. Eventually, she took a break.
“What’s the job?”
“Management trainee scheme,” I said, a little too quickly, then slowed down.
“It’s a local firm. It does outsourcing work, HR, employment law. I’ve been looking for something like this for a while.”
The Desert Run Page 5