‘Don’t worry, Johnny boy. Leave it to me.’
Well, thought Carlyle, relaxing back into his seat, if you’re offering, why not?
‘Business is good. I can stand it.’
‘Yeah, I can well believe it.’ Earlier in the evening, before they had repaired to the pub, Dom’s little back-door, cash ’n’ carry drug-dealing service had cleared more than fifty quid. And this was hardly a one-off. When they had first arrived at RAF Syerston, word quickly got round that Mr Silver was open for business. Within a matter of days, Dom became the most popular man on the base.
Policemen were just normal people, after all, Carlyle mused. They liked their drugs just like everyone else. It wasn’t like Dom was trying to grow a business out of selling the stuff, rather, it had just kind of. . happened. Broadly speaking, there were two types of customers. Some, like Carlyle, needed a quarter gram of speed now and again to help them get through the soul-sapping drudgery of picket-line duty. For others, the dope heads, their interest in the contents of Dom’s knapsack was more recreational. Between the different groups, there were more than enough takers to sustain a successful business. What had begun as a little sideline had grown to the point where Dom was probably earning more from the drugs than he was from his monthly police packet.
The contradictions of a policeman selling illegal drugs were obvious. But Carlyle had quickly put any reservations to one side. Frankly, he didn’t care. As far as he could see, the problem with drugs was not with the drugs themselves but with their criminalization, which generated much pointless work for ordinary coppers like him. Besides, he himself was more than partial to a little bit of whizz now and again. And, above all, he could see that Dom’s entrepreneurial drive was impressive in its own way.
Dom gazed at a fat TV set hanging from the ceiling, near the bar. The news was on, volume down low, showing pictures from earlier in the day of police and strikers charging each other across a patch of waste ground.
‘Is that us?’
Carlyle looked up, staring for a few moments. The pictures could have come from their picket line or from one of half a dozen other locations. They all looked the same.
‘Dunno. Maybe. Hard to say.’
The news bulletin moved on to a story about a girl who was sexually assaulted and stabbed after a night out in Bath. ‘It’s all good news tonight,’ Dom sighed.
‘Yeah.’
‘All you can do is try and ignore this shit as much as possible.’
‘That’s a bit of an ask when you’re a bloody copper.’
‘When I go into business for myself, full-time,’ Dom mumbled, ‘you’ve got to join me.’
‘Eh?’
Dom pulled a thin spliff out of the breast pocket of his Belstaff jacket and held it in his hand, arm outstretched. ‘Business is just too good. I think I’m going to have to make the move.’ He gave a not-so-apologetic shrug. ‘It would be irrational to do anything else.’
Irrational? ‘But you only joined the police a year or so ago,’ Carlyle observed.
‘And look where it’s got me.’ Waving the joint in front of his face, Dom gestured towards the gaggle of grim-looking locals on the far side of the bar, who were studiously ignoring the two young coppers, muttering darkly into their pints of best bitter. He lowered his voice. ‘Standing here, in some total shithole, in the middle of nowhere, drinking shit lager.’
‘Fair point.’
‘We’ve been sold a pup, sunshine,’ Dom laughed. ‘Taken to the bloody cleaners!’
Carlyle could hardly disagree. After all, this was not what they had signed up for. It was not what they had gone through basic training for. He himself had expected to be pounding the streets of west London by now, chatting to shopkeepers, giving truants a firm clip round the ear and helping little old ladies across the road and maybe, on a good day, nicking the odd villain. Dixon of Dock Green made flesh, with youthful aspirations of graduating to The Sweeney. Instead, he was a paramilitary robot in the middle of someone else’s fight. Would Regan and Carter have put up with this crap? he sometimes wondered. Would they fuck.
‘And, anyway, the alternative is very appealing. Unlike this, it’s easy money,’ Dom mused.
‘There’s no such thing,’ Carlyle grumped.
‘Okay, well it’s easier money. And you’re not doing some bastard politician’s dirty work to boot.’
‘True.’
Dom looked at him closely. ‘So, if I do it, you’d be interested, then? It would be good. We make a good team.’
Nah. ‘I’ll think about it.’
Dom gave him a mock hurt look. ‘Not exactly biting my hand off, are you?’
‘We’ll cross that bridge if we get to it,’ Carlyle yawned. The booze had kicked in and he was beginning to feel sleepy. But, even in his wearied state, the young constable knew that his friend’s plan was a non-starter. If Dom did leave the police for the private sector, good luck to him. But Carlyle would not be joining him. However ambivalent he felt about drugs that would simply be a step too far.
‘It’s a firm offer.’
‘Sure,’ he smiled. ‘Thanks.’
‘Good,’ Dom grinned. ‘Now that we’ve got that out of the way, I’m off for a quick smoke. Then I’ll get the drinks in.’
ELEVEN
Stepping outside the Queen’s Larder into the cold night air, Dom yawned. Zipping up his jacket, he pulled a box of matches from the back pocket of his jeans. Sticking the blunt between his lips, he struck a match, shielding the flame from the breeze as he lit up. Tossing the spent match in the direction of the gutter, he inhaled deeply, holding in the smoke as he walked round the side of the pub and plonked himself down in one of the white plastic seats in the otherwise deserted beer garden.
Peace at last.
Reluctantly releasing the smoke, he watched it disappear into the sharp night air. Marvin Gaye’s ‘What’s Going On’ started playing in his head and he began humming along. Taking another drag, he thought about Natasha, an adventurous Dutch girl that he’d met in a bar on the Fulham Road. That was less than a fortnight ago, just before he’d left London to come on this ridiculous caper. It felt like a lifetime ago. While he was dodging bricks, Natasha had been heading for Greece, in search of sun, ouzo and some nice local boys to corrupt. He flicked through the dates in his head; she should be due back in London quite soon. The thought made him smile. Would they manage to hook up when he finally got back to civilization? Maybe. Maybe not. Even if they didn’t, there would be someone else. That was the great thing about London, there was always someone else.
Not like this dump. What’s going on. . ha! Sweet fuck all. That’s what’s going on.
Exhaling another lungful of smoke, he closed his eyes. Poor old Marvin, shot dead by his dad. What a bummer.
After a while, he re-opened his eyes, aware of a figure hovering at his shoulder. Half turning, he looked up through the haze of smoke to find a pretty girl in a bright red Puffa jacket smiling at him.
‘Hi.’
‘Hi.’ Despite the darkness, Dom could make out the lines of her cheekbones, not to mention the naughty twinkle in her eyes. What have we here? A gentle gust of wind had her swaying slightly on her feet. He guessed that she was slightly intoxicated, if not actually drunk.
‘Want some?’ he asked, offering the joint.
‘Thanks.’ Slipping into the chair beside him, the girl placed the roll-up between her lips and took a deep drag, holding in the smoke for several beats before blowing a perfect smoke ring into the inky sky.
‘Nice,’ said Dom as he watched the smoke ring disappear.
‘I’m Sam, by the way,’ she grinned, ‘Sam Hudson.’ Pushing her hair behind her ear, she took another drag before handing back the spliff to its rightful owner.
He nodded. ‘Dom Silver. Dominic.’
‘Nice to meet you, Dom.’
‘You too.’
She gestured towards the illuminated back window of the pub. ‘I saw you inside with your friend.’