Waiting For The Dealer.

A novel using some of my own experience is still under consideration. There’s so much I can never write about, but there are ways and means of marrying fact with fiction. If the project ever goes ahead, this recollection may be useful. It leads up to a situation that is crying out to be written about, but maybe there are some events that are better off forgotten.

The dealer was late. Not a good sign. I’d brought the girl along as part of her training. After only ten minutes standing in the mouth of a dark alley, she was beginning to irritate me. Questions poured out of her. So many questions. Oh well, it passed the time.

‘It’s cocaine he’s looking for, is it? If he ever gets here.’ Her voice was breathy; talking was obviously a means of coping with stress.

‘Yeah.’

‘The upmarket drug of choice, eh? City traders love the stuff, or so the papers say. Is it expensive?’

‘It can be. Not as expensive as it used to be. A gram of coke will run to twenty lines, a couple of dozen with a steady hand. Buy a gram for twenty quid, if you know where to look.’

‘Cheaper than alcohol.’

‘Yeah.’

She pursed her lips. ‘Cheaper than I thought.’

‘Crack’s cheaper still. More addictive too.’

‘How much of that is, well, coke? The original product, I mean.’

I paused for a moment, collecting my thoughts. ‘Not a lot would be the short answer. That’s where the profit comes in. About ten per cent, I’d say.’

‘What do they use? To pad it out?’

‘Stepping, that’s how they describe it around here. All sorts. Whatever’s available. Baking soda mainly together with ground-up prescription drugs of some kind or other. Painkillers, analgesics, for the numbing effect. Mimicking the effect of cocaine on those delicate nasal passages.’

‘Oh, right.’

‘That’s how reputable suppliers go about it. With the casuals, one-off sales, there’s less need to worry about repeat customers. Any old shit will do. Even stuff that will do actual harm. Rat poison, for instance. It’s been known.’

She looked round at a sudden noise, a startled expression on her face, then relaxed as a fat ginger cat scuttled away from his raid on a black sack left on the pavement.

I grinned. ‘It’s a jungle. That’s what they say.’

It was virtually dark now. Only a few twinkling lights in the far distance and a vague orange glow from the direction of the city. I could barely see her face, but she looked concerned. I thought about the residents of the estate: mainly respectable people, like small, defenceless creatures, locked away safely in their burrows, away from predators. It was a good analogy. Outside, in the darkness, the larger primates, hunter-gatherers, held sway. The night belonged to them.

‘Just us,’ I said, reassuringly. ‘Us and the scum.’

‘She snickered. ‘You’re so black and white. Have you always been like that? Tell the truth.’

I shook my head, then, realised she couldn’t see it,  replied, ‘Truth is relative. On a job, most of the time, I live a life of pure invention. Nothing is as it seems. Almost every word I utter has no basis  in actuality. Bloody pompous way of saying deception is everywhere. Yes, I assume the other side are equally obtuse, until I know otherwise. That’s cynicism on a grand scale.’

‘Are you like that at home? Off the job?’

‘No. Not with people I know and trust. That’s a pretty select band.’

‘Am I in it yet?’

I laughed. ‘No chance. You’re on probation. It’s not looking too good for you so far.’

She slapped my arm, giggling. I could have done without the giggle. Difficult to be professional with a giggle in your repertoire, but at least she didn’t sound worried any more. One less thing for me to worry about.

I could see nothing now, not even her face, and the silence was absolute, but other senses were working hard in the background. The existence of that mythical ‘sixth sense’ may be difficult to prove in a laboratory, but out in the field it had come to my rescue more than once. A primeval sense of impending danger; it’s part of my makeup.

When men lived in caves, scavenged for food among predators far more dangerous than themselves, that sense of threat to life and limb was all that stood between them and annihilation. The survivors had that sixth sense.

Recruitment for this job is heavily biased towards high IQ and an ability to be self-reliant. Thinking for yourself, away from anyone able to provide help, is a quality that’s highly prized. But, those without an inherent awareness of danger don’t last long. One way or another.

The girl wouldn’t stay the course. To get this far in the process, she had to be very bright, capable of thinking outside the box, fit and athletic. I had no reason to doubt her lack of courage or willingness to learn either. It wasn’t a question of gender; the best I ever trained was a woman. Ellie was in Edinburgh now, working her way into the trust, and probably the bed, of a major drug baron. She’d be okay. She had that sense of danger.

This girl didn’t fill me with the same confidence. Without it, I’d have to watch her back as well as my own.

Double the danger. Double the risk.

Footsteps on the paving slabs, Two big men, judging by the stride pattern and both wearing heavy boots. Not what had been arranged.

I nudged the girl. ‘Here’s where it starts to get interesting,’ I said.