In that
shabby Northern suburbia tired yet baleful concrete tenements glowered down on
deserted streets during the daytime and the place seemed as if it were long ago
abandoned by man. It was only during the night that the scheme came to life;
when troops of cocaine fuelled primates filled the air with tribal war cries
and furtive indigent lepers went about their business on the sly.
“Get away
from my door son. You’ve had enough for one night.”
“C’mon
Doc – jist a fiver bag. I’ve goat the cash, see?”
“You’ll
be needing a hit in the morning – come back then. I’ll no be held responsible
if you have any more the night.”
“In the
mornin’ then?”
“Aye,
first thing – the usual time.”
Doc
closed the door and let out a sigh. Greed was a symptom of the disease – no
junkie could ever get enough and he was no exception. Still, it didn’t pay to
have customers overdose on you and sometimes accidents brought policemen to
your door. He didn’t often turn customers away, but when he did he had good
reasons. Just this afternoon he had refused young Jimmy Lyons who was on a
course of methadone and hadn’t had a hit for over a month. There was no way Doc
was going to help him scupper his chances by turning him on again – there were
plenty of other dealers he could turn to; he wanted no part of it. It was the
ones like Jimmy with families he felt the most pity for – the kids suffered for
the weaknesses of their parents.
Doc
retired to the comfort of his armchair, he rarely went to bed, preferring
instead to gouch in his chair until the sun came up. He prepared his final
injection of the day and sighed once more as the precious medicine oozed
through his body and he sloughed off the weight of countless decades. Tomorrow
was a big day for him – pension day. He’d venture out to get some grub in and
maybe take a wee trip to the library for a book or two. That would be a
pleasant adventure – a wee recce around the Athens of the north to return
victorious with the gift of literature in his hand.
------
When I
heard that The Doctor was dead I naturally assumed that he had over done, but
it transpired that Finney and his razor boys did for him. He was an evil wee
bastard that Finney, as was his father before him. He had been exercising a
vicious form of alchemy in an attempt to synthesise his old man, but had never
borne comparison to that wicked auld cunt. In the eyes of most people he was
still auld Finn’s laddie and a pale imitation of the original.
“They
stuck him like a pig right outside the post office Johnny. Young Finney was
screamin’ like a banshee and auld Doc was begging fur mercy like.”
Psycho
Peter filled me in with all the gory details and they painted a sorry scene.
Doc, the oldest junkie in the town, had gone to the post office to collect his
pension where he was ambushed by Finney and his boys. They stabbed the poor old
bastard multiple times before eventually cutting his throat and letting him
bleed out halal style. Finney then proclaimed that this was the fate that
awaited any junk dealers caught on his patch.
There was
a hierarchy of drug usage out there in the schemes which placed cocaine at the
top and heroin at the bottom. Everyone looked down on junkies – even the alkies
looked down on junkies and no-one cared much what happened to them. Hell, even
I looked down on junkies and they made me a comfortable living. The schemes
were awash with smack and coke and I had my fingers in both pies; cannabis was
everywhere – it was a staple – not a luxury, but there was no money in
cannabis.
It was
open season on junkies out there and they were being beaten in regular attacks
which went largely unreported, not even the cops cared about junkies. This
though was murder in broad daylight and would be sure to attract the full
attentions of the local plod.
“What
about the polis?”
“The
usual – naebody saw nuthin’”
“Let’s
keep it that way.”
“Everybody’s
too scared of Finney tae grass, besides there’s a lot would pin a medal oan him
fur what he done, folk say they are sick o finding needles everywhere and
seeing junkies dossin oan the street.”
“Is it
really that bad?”
“Naw, and
I’ve been telt that Finney’s boys collect the needles fae shootin’ galleries
an’ redistributes them in public places – like schools and parks – so as tae
wind up the locals.”
“So that
he can play the vigilante hero with the blessings of the plebeians no doubt.”
Peter
cast me a funny look, but said nothing. It was obvious that Finney was out to
consolidate his grip over his own neighbourhood at the expense of the hapless
junkies, but he was miscalculating the impact he might have on the businesses
of other interested parties.
“Have a
word with Finney would you Peter?”
“Do you
think he needs discouraging?”
“I think
he needs enlightening. Killings are bad for business and will not be tolerated.
Roughing up junkies is one thing, but hassling the wrong dealers will only
bring him into conflict with the wrong people. He can play at gangsters ‘till
his heart is content, but if it costs one penny from my pocket I’ll see he
suffers, so he’d better make sure he only hassles the right dealers.”
We could
use Finney’s predilections to our benefit – he could help rid us of the competition
at grass roots level. We only had fifty percent saturation in some of the
schemes – we could, ironically enough, use the hatred of junkies to sell more
product. If we played our cards right by duplicating Finney’s efforts across
the schemes we could corner the market for ourselves. I was saddened by the
death of old Doc, but reflected that his untimely demise might not have been in
vain. I made a note to send a wreath, just to pay my respects. He wasn’t such a
bad auld cunt – for a junkie.
crime and wisdom, always a deadly combination...
ReplyDeleteThank you Praveen - I pride myself on having some insight into the criminal mind - having feasted with panthers and scavenged with jackals.
DeleteA look, another perspective...
ReplyDeletethank you
I like to write from the perspective of bad guys and losers sometimes (often) Thank you for your kind comment Martin.
Delete