Sony

It was one of those flaccid non descript mornings when the birds don’t even sing; here at the end of the world the birds have long ago realised the futility of song. Toots was thinking too loud to register the eerie silence, or notice the milky white sky that hung low over the rooftops. He was on a mission and had fallen behind schedule. It was imperative that he made it to Uncle Frank’s before Maimie showed up. It was the same routine every morning; ever since the wife’s Uncle Frank had been diagnosed Toots was over there every morning with his milk, rolls and newspapers. He was the epitome of the Good Samaritan – everyone said so.

Frank’s door was locked which meant Maimie had yet to show. Toots raised his eyes heavenward and gave silent thanks to his guardian angel. He let himself in using the key Frank had entrusted to him. The old man was fast asleep in his room so Toots tiptoed to the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet. There were two bottles of morphine linctus left, but they were both sealed. The third bottle was obviously in the room with the old man. He dared not open one of the new bottles for fear of discovery, so he tiptoed back to the bedroom with larceny in his heart.

The room was darkened but for the glow from the muted television at the end of Frank’s bed; the fifty five inch Sony Bravia Frank had bought with his insurance money dominated the room in its gigantic splendour. Toots coveted that television – how good would the football look on that ultra high definition screen, not to mention the movies? All the old man watched was news; it was a shameful waste of technology.

Toots spied the morphine linctus from the doorway. He made his way around the bed and picked up the bottle and checked to see if any smart bastard had marked the level in an effort to catch him out – safe. Toots had just begun to pour some of the precious liquid into an empty pop bottle when the old man woke up.

“You thieving wee bastard!” he rasped.

“No Frank it’s no what it looks like” stammered Toots.

“Ya dirty thieving junkie – get oot o’ here” the old man was finding his voice.

“But Frank – I can explain...”

“No need to explain” exclaimed Frank “I can see what’s been goin’ on.”

“I’ve been sick Frank – I just need a wee drop – fur ma nerves.”

“Get out of ma hoose!”

“But Frank...”

“Get out!”

The old man was shouting now and Toots was sure the neighbours would hear and with Maimie due to arrive at any moment Toots was in a serious bind. He’d worked his arse off for this old bastard for the last six months with the tacit understanding he’d be in the old man’s will; all that was now flushed down the lavvy pan. The old man was getting louder and louder – Toots picked up a pillow from the bed and attempted to muffle Frank’s voice. He muffled him long and hard.

When Maimie arrived Toots was standing over the old man crying. He hadn’t meant to kill him he told himself – just shut him up. It was his own fault for being so bloody-minded; the ungrateful old bastard. Maimie took Toot’s arm and lead him away from the bed.

“When did it happen?” she asked him.

“What?”

“When did he pass away?”

“Just there the noo.” replied Toots numbly “We were talking and he just stopped.”

“What did he say?”

“What?”

“What were his last words?”

“Oh aye, he said I was to have his telly...”

Lucky

Everything Gordon McLaughlin touched turned to shit; which is why some wag had long ago dubbed him ‘Lucky’. He had a habit that he’d acquired in his teens which was why in his late twenties he was already a middle aged man. Tonight he was dressed up in his best finery and he still looked homeless. He blended with the seething nightclub dandies the way vinegar blends with milk. He wasn’t there for pleasure; he never frequented night clubs, but tonight he was on a mission – tonight was all about business. He’d scored a hundred E’s from Buddha and reckoned he could double his money if he could flog them to the poseurs in the clubs up town. That’s why he was in The Americana collaring likely looking punters with his pharmaceutical hustle.

“...two for a score – three for a pony. Cannae sae fairer than that; ye’ll no get a deal like that anywhere else. These are bona fide MDMA – nane o’ that disco biscuit shite. See the dove? Badge of quality that...”

Johnny spotted Lucky from across the room and wondered just who the fuck let that prick in. He had a strict no scruffs, no junkies policy. When Johnny got close enough to witness Gordon’s hustle his fate was sealed. No-one else sold drugs on Johnny’s patch and that rule was etched in blood.

“You’re a long way from home wee man” sneered Johnny.

“I’m just – you know – clubbin” stammered Lucky.

“You’re selling’ drugs in my club.”

“Naw ahm just...”

“You’re just leaving – so fuck off - get out and don’t ever come back.”

“C’mon man it’s nice to be nice an that.”

“Aye, you can discuss the niceties with my colleagues – outside.”

Johnny nodded to the two tuxedoed gorillas now flanking Lucky and as they dragged him off he said; 

“Make sure he gets the message.”

They did. Poor Lucky’s attempts to defend himself were pathetic, but he created enough of a commotion to attract a crowd which meant he only got a cursory hiding. Instead the two bouncers relieved him of his cash and the remaining ecstasy tablets. He staggered homeward cursing his misfortune; nothing ever went his way. He wished that just once he could come out ahead and he wished those bouncers had left him with a fiver so he could get a hit to kill his pain.

*****

Elsie the barmaid collected the empty glasses as noisily as she could while she cast a jaded eye over Belle and Angel. They were nice boys – regulars, but they were throwing their lives away on that junk. She had implored them on many occasions not to come to the Bon Accord when they were under the influence, but her entreaties had fallen on deaf ears.

“Here you wake up! No gouching in my pub – either get it together or get off home!”

“Just resting our eyes Elsie - it’s been a long day” replied Angel.

“Well you can just get aff hame for a nice kip boys”

“Can we finish our drinks Elsie?”

“Aye, but try to stay awake – you’re making the place look untidy”

Elsie was alright – she wasn’t going to throw them out; half her clientele was into drugs in one form or another – there was a great deal of laissez faire at the Bon Accord as long as you didn’t attract too much attention to yourself. The boys sipped their pints and pulled themselves together. Belle was looking past Angel’s shoulder at something which made him smile.

“Don’t look now, but we’ve picked up a bit of trade.”

Angel twisted around in his chair and saw a handsome young blonde guy smiling across at them. He shrugged and returned to his pint.

“I’m not interested Belle. All I want to do now is go home, have a hit and go to bed.”

“You’re no fun. Look at him – he’s a doll. How can you turn him away?”

The handsome young blonde rose from his table and joined the boys – he seemed more than a little nervous.

“Can I buy you a pint lads?”

“No thanks, we were just leaving” replied Angel.

“Cheers mine’s a lager” chimed Belle.

Angel rolled his eyes and nodded his reluctant assent mumbling “Same here”. Belle checked out the handsome young blonde’s arse as he made his way to the bar. Angel just glared at him. He was convinced Belle just did these things to piss him off.

“He’s cute” remarked Belle.

“He could be riddled with the pox for all you know.” replied Angel.

“So could you” scoffed Belle, “for all I know.”

Blondie – as Belle had dubbed him – returned with three pints of lager and introduced himself.

“I’m Mike. I just moved into the area and thought I’d try out the local.”

Belle made the introductions, Angel was less cordial. He and Belle had argued for months about picking up trade. Things being the way they were it wasn’t safe to bring home strangers. Casual sex was like Russian roulette, but Belle wouldn’t listen. The next few minutes passed in stilted conversation and awkward silences. Finally Mike just came out with what was on his mind. It was not, as Belle had supposed, casual sex.

“I was wondering if you guys could help me out. Like I say I’m new to the area and haven’t established any contacts. I was wondering if you could get me any gear.”

“Gear?” inquired Belle “What do you mean by gear?”

“You know - skag, smack, kit” replied Mike helpfully.

“I don’t know what you mean officer.” Belle’s bonhomie had turned to hostility.

“I’m not a policeman. I’m just a punter looking to score.”

Blondie was new to the neighbourhood – that much was true. He’d been seconded from Stirling’s serious crime unit to Lothian drug squad. Since his was a new face in town his superiors had planted him in a notorious drug den with a wad of notes and a flimsy cover story to see who he could hook. The boys started talking in raised voices. “No officer Dibble we don’t know anybody with any drugs!”

Blondie sloped off back to his table red faced while he thought out his next move. His first undercover operation had proved a wash out. He had just decided to call it a night and join his sergeant in his unmarked car when Lucky walked in.

*****

“That cunt you’re drinking with is a fed” said Belle.

“Naw, he’s new tae the neighbourhood is awe” replied Lucky.

“He’s DS for sure numb nuts – he was at us tae score fur him”.

“I know – he telt me, but he’s okay. I was in the jail wi him. He’s brand new”

Belle walked away shaking his head. You just can’t tell some people, they have to learn for themselves. He and Angel decided to split as they were both carrying dime bags. They did not see events unfold – despite being curious about the outcome. They would know soon enough – everyone would know.

Lucky thought his bad fortune had changed for once. He went to the Bonny hoping to scrounge a drink from somewhere and had bumped into Mike. Nice guy Mike, he’d bought him a couple of pints and now he was on a promise of a piece of the two grams they were about to score from Raymond. That wee faggot Belle and his paranoia; Mike was a regular guy – just out of jail and needing a hit. Lucky knew what that was like – out of jail wi nae cunt talking tae ye. He dialled Ray’s number and waited on the pips.

“....Aye, he’s brand new – I knew him in the jail. He’s looking fur a couple of gram. Aye, ah know him – sound cunt – just got out and looking tae score. He says it would be a regular thing coz ‘es goat a couple of mates...”

As soon as Ray clocked Blondie he knew that he was no jailbird. He looked more like he was fresh out of seminary school than jail. Ray smelled bacon but was too slow in calling to Moira to close the door; a scrum of police officers piled in ordering everyone to stay where they were.

“Where’s your search warrant?” demanded Ray.

“We don’t need one” answered Sergeant Holden, “Moira here let us in and the drugs are in plain sight – so you are nicked sunshine.”

Once in the police station Ray bottled it. His brief informed him the bust was legal because they had in fact invited a police officer into their home. He was told he was looking at ten years for possession and intent to supply. Ray did the only thing he could do – he blamed it on his wife. It was Moira who ran the operation and he was a passive agent who went along with the situation because it was her house. He gave the details of her supplier and every other dealer he could think of which resulted in half a dozen more successful busts. He even went Queen’s evidence and stood in the dock denouncing Moira, mother of his children, as a heroin dealer while painting himself as a hapless victim. Moira got six years and Ray got relocation under the witness protection program.

Gordon had tried to make a deal, but the cops just laughed at him. He was small fry who knew too little about anything to be of any use to them. He got eighteen months for conspiracy to distribute a controlled substance – his lawyer told him he was lucky.

Gloves

The consumption of dates with my Cocteau filaments triggered my gag reflex and I filled the scheme with opiated bile. Smell that? That’s the stench of crazy. I reek of crazy. That acid burn on the mucous membrane screams obscene in my oesophagus. Each wretched convulsion produces another phase of scatological diatribe. But the words; the words are mystic. I savour the words as truffles exhumed from excrement. Each syllable is a laurel leaf in the crown of creation. Every honed consonant and soft rolling vowel that passes my lips is a hymnal. The song of ages issues from the depths of my bowels in a lullaby creamy smooth as baby skin and I am liberated in the ointment of meaning and confusion.

How do you like them words? They are the expensive kind – the kind you buy with toil. They’re new and they fit me like gloves – patent leather gloves, slick and shiny as wet pavements. Tight as a virgin’s snatch; they form a second skin, decorous yet purposeful. I found them in the street when I expected them least – they started as a trickle and ended as a torrent and I had to run home to inscribe them before the breeze carried them off. I’m not even sure that these were the words I’d intended; words after all are as malleable as smoke.

.

Nancy

Edgar had a genuine penchant for the product; which is why he could not resist a wee snort before his guests were due to arrive. The charley did nothing to steady his nerves. If anything it actually made matters worse. Edgar was shaking when he opened the door and felt like he might actually cry for the first time since he was a boy. He’d expected a couple of gorillas, but found a little woman in a charcoal grey business suit. He was about to shoo her away when she said;

“Good morning Edgar, my name is Nancy – I’m your collections agent.”

Nancy was a diminutive forty something red head who toted a small black attaché case. She affected a breezy but business like demeanour and looked for all the world like an insurance agent – she was not what Edgar had been expecting. He breathed an inward sigh of relief; he would not have his legs broken today. Nevertheless as he led her into the living room he began to anxiously intone the various excuses he had prepared for the occasion.

“I laid a lot of gear out and I’m just waiting on the returns. I should be...”

“I’m not interested in your business Edgar” Nancy interrupted, “I’m simply here to arrange the repayment of your debt.” She pointed at a chair and said, “Sit down.”

She sat opposite Edgar and opened her attaché case. Edgar had expected, rather optimistically, that she would produce some papers for him to sign. Instead she retrieved a small toffee hammer.

“You will not struggle, or in any way impede me Edgar. Do you understand? Under no circumstances will you touch me, or I can have a couple of burly lads come over to hold you down while we do this the hard way. Do you understand?”

Edgar simply nodded numbly. His surprise turned to agonised shock when in one sweeping movement Nancy leapt to her feet and struck his left knee with the tiny hammer; he writhed in pain and nearly left his chair.

“Stay still” she ordered and as soon as he had regained some of his composure she struck the right knee. The pain was searing and Edgar thought he might pass out – he was not to be that lucky. After each practised stroke Nancy gave him time to straighten out before delivering another blow. She struck each knee six times eventually leaving Edgar a crippled heap on the living room floor. Then she returned her toffee hammer to the case and laid out the conditions of their payment schedule.

“I will call by each Monday at this time. You will have one thousand pounds cash ready for me – please do not disappoint me Edgar – things could get nasty. This arrangement will continue for forty weeks – or until you have paid of the balance completely.”

“Forty?” gasped Edgar.

“That is the sum owed” replied Nancy.

“But, but, I only...” he stammered.

“Forty” said Nancy with an air of finality.

“Tell Johnny I...”

“I told you Edgar – I don’t need to know your business. I’m only here to arrange the repayment of a debt.”

“Where will I find forty grand?” he moaned.

“That’s not my problem, but I suggest you do.” answered Nancy in a matter of fact tone. “Don’t get up – I’ll see myself out.”

Edgar lay on the floor nursing his shattered kneecaps and reflecting on the fact that it was he who had turned Johnny on to the cocaine business in the first place. His protégée had become a monster and Edgar one of his victims. It took an age to drag himself to the bedroom where he had a couple of big lines before calling Psycho Peter – it was time to call in his markers and Peter was just the man to apply the necessary pressure. There would be no more mister nice guy – he had seven days to raise a grand – he’d worry about the other thirty nine later. One day he would pay Johnny back in kind – he’d revenge himself on that ungrateful fuck, but right now he was running low on coke and getting sorted was his first priority.

.

The Cuckold

It was the usual Friday night slot at Sandra’s house. Her man Archie was at the bowls and would not return until the early hours when the bowling club threw him out. I liked Archie, we were mates and I always felt a tinge of guilt visiting Sandra on the fly. However, Sandra was a real looker with a voracious sexual appetite and I like that in a woman.

She answered the door wearing a flimsy black silk negligee and beckoned me in with a wolfish grin. Forgoing our customary glass of wine we stumbled up the stairs with indecent haste groping and snogging as we went. Once in the bedroom we wasted no time shedding our clothes and getting down to business.

We were on the job for five minutes when I heard an unusual creaking sound and it wasn’t the bedsprings. I paused for a minute and asked Sandra what that sound was.

“What sound?”

“I heard something – it’s stopped now.”

We got back down to it, but a few minutes later I could discern the strange creaking again. Glancing over my shoulder I could see that her wardrobe was rocking. This was surely the source of the mysterious noise. I thought I was tripping – my blood ran cold with fright – the way it does sometimes when you are first confronted with the unknown. I leapt out of bed and opened the wardrobe and low and behold there was Archie crouching with his trousers around his knees.

“Hiya Johnny” he said with a sheepish grin.

“What the fuck is going on here” I enquired angrily.

“He found out about us” chimed in Sandra “and he wanted to watch.”

“That’s disgusting” I retorted “you’re fucking perverse!”

I was hurriedly dressing as Archie and Sandra were trying to explain the situation. Unbelievably they wanted me to stay. I was, ironically, taking the moral high ground.

“It’s just a wee game Johnny – you like to play games” said Sandra.

“I wouldn’t interfere – I’d be quiet as a mouse – you wouldn’t know I was there” said Archie.

“I’d fucking know alright” I replied. “You pair take the biscuit – I want no part in your wee games.”

I left in a great cloud of righteous indignation vowing never to darken their door again. I did though - I met up with Sandra a couple times after that, but although I still found her most alluring the magic was gone. I’d check the wardrobe for passengers each time and though it was always empty I couldn’t stop thinking about Archie. How did he feel knowing his wife was at home with her lover while he was presumably playing bowls? Knowing he knew just ruined the whole thing for me. I’ve never forgotten the spectator in the wardrobe either and whenever I’m in someone else’s bedroom I always do a quick recce before removing my kit – which looks pretty weird; but it’s a participation sport for me and no audience is required.

.

Sweet Nothings

In the post coital haze
when you’re fuzzy warm inside
Do you pour sweet nothings
into receptive ears?
What fragrant lies
escape your honeyed lips?
What sugar coated deceptions
slip between the sheets?
And in the morning light
do you cultivate a little distance?
Do you feign casual indifference
amidst stilted words and gestures?
Or do you simply simulate amnesia
with deliberate and practised poise?
.

Lore

with the solemn progression of years
I had cast myself as the effigy of a man
and made a shrine of my heart
which I polished with tears
until it shone slick with a lustre
dark and impenetrable
I buried it deep within
where no other could survey
and paid the occasional pilgrimage
in memory of its passing into lore

Charley

Her Majesties Customs and Excise had put the kibosh on Johnny’s parcel scam. He had smuggled hundreds of pounds of sticky black hash into the country and he had become an affluent man on the back of it, but what now? What good is a dealer with no product?

Initially Johnny scored from Buddha, but he never liked that arrangement. The prices were good and so were the deals, but he just didn’t like the idea of being beholden to Buddha. So when Edgar Allen came along Johnny switched to him. Edgar, also known as Poe – though never to his face, was a wealthy man who had been dealing for years and so had loads of contacts. Soon Johnny was once more turning over pounds of hash – until Poe turned him onto charley.

Cocaine was the up and coming thing for the cognoscenti – Johnny had a different class of customer they drove Porsches and ate in fancy restaurants. Johnny aspired to be just like them. He started to drink wine instead of beer; he even had books about it. He took to reading to improve his mind, he had always been the studious type; Stewart Melville’s College had trained him well.

Johnny had a way with the ladies, especially now that he could dress in the sharpest suits and throw a bit of money around. He liked money and he liked the things it could buy. He liked drugs, but not to the extent Buddha and Psycho Peter did, he’d never lose control, he always knew when to knock it on the head.

She danced for him. She liked to dance and he liked to watch her dance. Her moves were purely sexual, not everybody can dance that way. She was going through a pupation; the final emergence of her sex. She was only seventeen years old. She was pretty basic in that she didn’t play games. He liked it like that. He had enough complication in his life. She’d dance for him and they’d dance together. Then they’d snort some coke and fuck some more.

He was chopping up another line and trying to work out how he’d get rid of her. She was young, too young really, but he liked them like that. She was in the bathroom taking a shower. He snorted the cocaine and joined her there.

“I want to shave your pussy,” he said.

“What?”

“I want to shave your pussy,” he repeated.

“Why?”

“Because I like them like that,” he said, “totally naked like a little girl.”

“I don’t know...” She was towelling herself dry.

“Ever eat pussy?” he asked.

“No,” she replied.

“I want to watch you eat some pussy,” he said.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked.

“Doing what?”

“Acting all weird.”

“I’m not acting weird,” he said, “I’m just telling you what I want. If you don’t like it you can always leave.”

“Johnny...” she began with a whimper before she made for the bedroom and put her clothes on.

“Bastard!” she said as she slammed the door on the way out.

Some women had said that he feared commitment and that was true. He feared commitment to the wrong woman. When the right woman came along he’d know. He felt sure he’d know.

He had certain rules of engagement because it was all about power. All relationships have that dynamic; all relationships are a kind of war with one or the other in the dominant role. Johnny wasn’t prepared for that contest again, not yet.

Johnny had other worries on his mind: like the poachers on his turf who were selling cheap adulterated coke at cut-price rates.

“There he was – bold as brass doing his loaves and fishes with my fucking coke!” Johnny was obviously angry.

“I’m not responsible for what the punters do with the product after it leaves my hands Johnny and neither are you” replied Buddha.

“No?” answered Johnny. “I’m supplying you and you are supplying Angel and he is undercutting my dealers by selling lactose at fifty quid a gram. You see my problem here Buddha and there is one obvious solution.”

“If I cut off his supply he’ll just go to someone else” observed Buddha.

“But he won’t be selling my coke to my punters at a discount. The wee bastard steps on it three times over before he punts it on – it’s a fuckin disgrace.”

Buddha just smiled – he knew fine well that Johnny stepped on his gear because it was Buddha who taught him how. First, he boiled a woolen sock full of borax for an hour or two – then he dried the borax in a thin layer so that it wouldn’t clump up. Finally he ground it into a crystalline powder that looked exactly like cocaine, weighed the same as cocaine but had no odour or taste – it was the perfect cutting agent and Johnny used it on every batch.

“When he finds another supplier and comes into your clubs – what will you do then?” enquired Buddha.

“I’ll be hiring a couple of Peter’s boys to discourage him.”

Buddha winced at the word ‘discourage’. Peter often discouraged people by breaking their limbs. He was President of the local chapter of Hell’s Angels and had his hands in many pockets. Psycho Peter was not a man to be messed with. Hopefully, Angel would take a telling and leave Johnny’s turf alone. Buddha thought it a shame it had come to this; Angel and Johnny had once been the best of friends. He reflected that cocaine had brought on a change in Johnny – he had become hardnosed and ruthless. He wasn’t the sweet schoolboy Buddha had met ten years before, he was unrecognisable.

“Do we have an understanding Buddha?”

“I understand perfectly Johnny – no more charley for Angel.” Buddha felt he’d had the squeeze put on, and on reflection realised that he had. He would have a word with Angel next time they met – which was Johnny’s intention all along. He wanted to avoid these shenanigans if he could, but he’d sell no more of Johnny’s gear to Angel, after all he’d given his word.

Buddha’s attempts to pour oil on troubled waters met with typical Angelic obstinacy.

“Bastard! Who the fuck is he? It’s not like he owns the clubs!”

“As a matter of fact,” interjected Buddha:”He owns shares in at least two of them and has an exclusivity deal with the management of the others – no one else deals in those clubs and they collect a princely kick back from Johnny. It’s all buckshee Angel and you lack the resources to compete. The only reason you aren’t parked in Warriston cemetery is Johnny’s friendship for you.”

“Friendship!” exclaimed Angel “He tries to drive me out of business and calls it friendship!”

“There are other clubs,” soothed Buddha,”you can have your pick of them. From Johnny’s point of view you are encroaching on his franchise and he’d be a poor businessman to allow that wouldn’t he?”

“Businessman?” scoffed Angel “Is that what he is now? I remember him when he was selling quarters to his bum chums at school. He’s a jumped up public school boy – that’s what he is. I could take him with one hand behind my back.”

“I wouldn’t count on that Angel. Johnny has a harder backbone than you realise and that’s why I’m advising you to back off before someone gets hurt.”

“Are you on his side? – did he get you to talk to me? – to threaten me?” Angel was raving mad now and wild about the eyes. He stormed out of Buddha’s flat with a parting shot; “You can tell Johnny to fuck right off back to Morningside and you can join him there Buddha”.

When Buddha heard the news about Angel’s boyfriend Belle he wasn’t surprised. He’d been spied dealing sugary coke in one of Johnny’s clubs and taken a real bad hiding from two biker types. It seemed Johnny was determined to enforce his franchise to the bitter end if needs be. Buddha made a mental note to distance himself from Johnny who was obviously building an empire and when you are building an empire the last thing you need is friends.

.

Parcels from India

His sixth year at Stewart’s Melville College was merely a formality for Johnny. Most students were treading water until university or employment, but Johnny only showed up so that he could sell dope to his classmates. He had sorted out a job placement as copy boy at The Scotsman newspaper on North Bridge Street. He told his parents that he would be attending Edinburgh University after the summer break, but he had already decided to quit full time education and make his living as a drug dealer. In any event his summer job only lasted three weeks before he was sacked for tardiness; he had been late for work almost every morning and did not seem to care. He didn’t tell his parents, but allowed them to think that he was going to work each morning when in fact he was whiling away his days in the cafes, museums, art galleries and cinemas of Edinburgh.

Johnny thought his birth place magical. From Edinburgh Castle to the Port of Leith, the city was a hive of commercial and recreational activity. A million people visited Edinburgh every year drawn by the arts festivals and the beauty of the ancient metropolis. He loved the fact that so many of the half million population were originally from foreign shores, there was a real cosmopolitan vibe to the city.

On leaving home that summer Johnny got himself a flat above a grocers shop in Fountainbridge. The flat was selected from several alternatives because it offered a back entrance from Dunbar Street which made the flow of traffic to and from his flat less conspicuous.

Johnny had kept some of his customers from school and had, through word of mouth, acquired a few more. He dealt in quarters, halves and ounces – nothing smaller. He was shifting at least a nine bar a week to his regulars and was pulling in two hundred to two fifty weekly – depending on demand. Ideally he would have liked to sell more dope to fewer people so that he could buy more at a lower price and besides fewer customers meant less risk.

Johnny was doing okay but it was not until he met Mr Sharma that things really took off for him. Sharma owned a chain of properties and a couple grocer shops. He spent his days behind the counter of the busiest of these on Fountainbridge below Johnny’s flat. During the first few weeks in his new domicile Johnny built up quite a rapport with the old man. One day when Johnny, who was obviously wasted, visited the shop to buy some beer when Mr Sharma struck up a surprising conversation.

“You like smoke?” asked Sharma.

“Depends on what you mean,” said Johnny.

“You know what I mean - I mean hashish,” replied Sharma.

“Yes, I like it very much”

“How much you want?” said Sharma holding out a finger.

“A quarter.”

“A quarter finger?” Sharma was unimpressed.

“I see, no, the whole finger.” replied Johnny.

The old man disappeared for a moment and returned with around a quarter ounce of soft black Indian hash. This was no cheap repressed gold seal – this was the creamiest Manali. It was a sticky dark brown on the outside, but tore open to reveal a pungent sweet khaki green putty on the inside.

He had to get some more, if he could only get a decent supply of this high quality dope he could make himself a fortune. Soon Johnny and Sharma were to become the best of buddies.

The old man loved his scotch whisky and Johnny would bring him bottles of malt when he went to score. It first he could only buy in ounces because that is all Sharma’s visiting friends and relatives could smuggle through customs on their persons. Then they hit upon a scheme to smuggle pounds of the high grade hash into the country.

Sharma would let out one of his flats to a fictitious John Bullock. Parcels from India containing chopping boards and rolling pins full of sticky black hash would be sent to John Bullock at that address. Johnny would be there to receive the parcels on Mr Bullock’s behalf, but he’d leave the unopened parcel by the door for a month before he could reasonably assume that customs officers were not following it. Johnny would keep his flat in the meantime and deal from there. It seemed like a foolproof plan and things went well, for a time.

The demand for Johnny’s strong black hash was high and he couldn’t keep everyone supplied. So he decided to franchise the operation. He approached a few trusted customers and friends and laid out the basics of the ‘dead parcel’ scheme. They would all rent out rooms to fictitious characters just as he had. They would receive parcels but leave them unopened for one month. They would then bring the parcels to him and he’d pay them in dope or in cash for their trouble. Johnny was moving into the big time, now he was turning over pounds of hash in the place of ounces.

Soon Johnny’s parcel business had gone nationwide and he had dope arriving in Glasgow, Aberdeen, Manchester, London and a host of other places. It was difficult for him to keep pace with all those parcels, so he brought in a friend to give him a hand. Donald ‘Duck’ Dewar was one of his oldest friends and Johnny trusted him implicitly. He took care of the transfer of the parcels conveying them from one place to another. Often he would drive alone to the other end of the country to pick them up and ferry them back to Edinburgh.

It was on just such a job that he arrived in Euston Station in London looking for his contact Brian. He waited near the statue of Robert Stevenson – he was late and expected to see Brian waiting there for him. Brian was nowhere to be seen, but a stranger approached him and said;

“Donald?”

“Yes,”

“Brian couldn’t make it, so he sent me,” the stranger handed Donald a duffel bag.

“Is everything alright?” asked Donald, “is Brian okay?”

“He has the flu, that’s all. He said he’d call you in the next couple of days.”

Satisfied that everything was in order Donald drove home. It took him eight hours after which he was exhausted. He tossed the bag beneath his bed and crashed, falling asleep immediately. He was still in his clothes. He was dreaming that he was still driving along the motorway, looking for an off ramp when his car started to make an odd thumping sound. The sound got louder and louder until at last it woke him up. When he awaked he was surrounded by customs officers and policemen.

“Donald Michael Dewar you are charged with the possession of cannabis with the intent to supply. You do not have to say anything, but anything you do say may be used in evidence...”

There was eighteen pounds of hash and six thousand pounds in cash under Donald’s bed. He was in big trouble. There were other arrests that day; Her Majesty’s Customs and Excise had been following the parcels for weeks. The affair made the papers and was featured on the TV news. Johnny started to receive calls from distressed associates. They hadn’t been busted by mere cops, they had been busted by customs officers who tore their places apart and threatened them with smuggling and conspiracy charges.

Johnny had to pour oil over much troubled water in the next few days. He went to see each of the busted friends who could tie him to the parcels; he took Psycho Peter with him. He promised that he’d pay their legal fees and do anything he could to help them out if only they would keep his name out of it. The presence of Psycho Peter was an implicit threat, one that was never voiced, but was left hanging in the air.

Finally Johnny visited Donald who was out on police bail. This was a tricky situation, one that had to be handled with kid gloves. Psycho Peter was not at this meeting, he did not have to be, Donald knew Peter quite well and in a way he was in the room with them.

“I’m sorry for what happened Donald, but you should never have talked to a stranger in a situation like that. You should have walked away and phoned me,” said Johnny.

“It all seemed so normal. I made that trip a dozen times. I had no idea I was being followed,” replied Donald.

“You got careless,” said Johnny, “So did Brian, he opened the parcel to have a smoke and he named you Donald, they all named you.”

Donald’s face went ashen. He started to cry. Johnny sat down next to him and put his arm around him. Donald began to sob uncontrollably.

“You are going down no matter what happens Donald,” said Johnny, “but I’ll pay your legal fees and put ten grand in a bank account for you coming out. You’ll get six years max. I’ll keep an eye on your mother for you; I’ll see that she is safe and sound. You needn’t worry about her while you are away. You’ll have a job with me waiting for you too. All you have to do is keep schtum, don’t mention my name.”

So it was that Johnny walked away when his friends all got busted. Donald was branded a criminal mastermind by the prosecution and was given ten years by the judge. He nearly fainted when he heard the sentence. He scanned the courtroom looking for his friend, but Johnny was weathering the storm in Ibiza and did not return until all the trials were over. He had learned the final lesson on how to be a successful drug dealer – you have to be a total cunt sometimes in order to survive.

.