As Spanners grabbed the begging pitch outside Tesco Express on Queens Road, he wondered whether Scotty would protect him if what he was doing went tits up. When he was in prison he’d heard talk of registered informants, handlers, controllers, text letters and a whole language which suggested there was more to being a grass than a nod from a police sergeant by the pier.
One thing he did know was that if he was outed as a police informer, his life on the streets, or anywhere else for that matter, would be over. He took his plastic beaker and the scrap of cardboard on which he’d scrawled Hungry and Homeless from under his coat. He placed them in front of him and adopted the doleful look so many others used to inject enough guilt in the occasional passer-by for them to throw some loose change. Nowadays, people were so worried that beggars just spent their money on drugs that they gave meal-deals instead. He often felt like shouting that he had dietary requirements but never quite found the courage.
As he settled, he became invisible. The commuters and day trippers power walking from the station seemed to accelerate as they approached so his destitution wouldn’t rub off. Some lied that they were ‘sorry’ or ‘had 212no change’ but most just pretended he wasn’t there.
This was one of the prime sites though, given the footfall and it being right by a cash machine. It was rare that a newcomer like him would be allowed anywhere near this square foot of pavement. In all communities there are hierarchies and he knew he’d soon be booted off by one of the bigger guns. But that was why he was here; to provoke.
It didn’t take long.
‘Eh bruv, what the fuck you doing here?’ came the voice from somewhere behind the beard. Spanners looked up and squinted into the sun. He’d certainly seen this walking scarecrow before but couldn’t place him.
‘What’s it look like? I’m grafting innit.’ Spanners looked back down at his feet, feigning disinterest.
‘Not fucking here you’re not,’ said the scarecrow. ‘Get your stuff and piss off somewhere else.’ Now he was crouching down, his compost breath suffocating Spanners, who sprung to his feet.
‘Really? I didn’t see your beach towel.’
At that the scarecrow’s right hand punched out and grabbed Spanners’ throat, thrusting him back to the cashpoint, scattering the queue. All but the woman who was mid-transaction scurried away. She followed a moment later once she’d snatched her cash.
By now the two homeless men were grappling, Spanners clawing at the man’s choking hand while trying to aim knees at his most delicate parts. He made contact.
‘What the fuck’s that all about, you wanker,’ shouted Spanners as the scarecrow writhed on the ground.
He groaned, then staggered to his feet. ‘You got to show some respect, bruv.’ People were now walking past even faster, trying not to stare.
‘Respect? I ain’t respecting no one who kicks off like that, man.’ Spanners turned away.
‘Not me, bruv, “Manc Mick”. You can’t just jump in his grave like that. That’s low man, real low.’
‘You talking about? Who the fuck is “Manc Mick”?’ 213
For a second, Spanners thought the scarecrow was going to attack him again so he tensed, but then tears bubbled in the man’s eyes. ‘Hey man, you OK?’
‘Mick? He was a legend. This was his pitch. You can’t just take it before he’s even cold.’
The scarecrow’s transition from raging bull to weeping lamb was bewildering. Whoever this Mick was, he was special to this rag of a man. Spanners chanced it and put his arm round him. ‘Tell me about him.’
‘He looked after me, bruv. Like proper had my back. In jail and out. Shit, I’m going to miss him.’
Spanners looked around. They were attracting stares and whatever this man was going through, it was not a spectator sport. ‘Come with me.’
They walked in silence down the hill, just twenty yards or so to the junction with North Road, and waited for the pedestrian lights to turn green. Ahead of them was a neon sign slapped against the wall of Community Base, an office building for charities and small businesses. The sign flicked from why you absolutely could not live without the new BMW in your life to warnings not to give money to beggars.
They crossed, took the path to the right of the yellow-brick Brighthelm Community Centre and found a vacant bench in the public garden behind it.
‘Tell me about Mick,’ said Spanners as soon as they’d sat down.
‘Top bloke. Top bloke,’ said the scarecrow between his tears.
‘What happened?’
‘Killed in a lorry crash.’
‘A lorry crash?’ Spanners was sure he’d have heard if one of the homeless community had been killed by a lorry.
‘Yeah, he flipped it and that was him, bruv.’
Spanners tried to process this. ‘Why was he driving a lorry?’
‘The gaffers. They told him to. I was with him when they came up. Just where you were man. They told me to fuck off, but I was slow to go and heard them say something about a driving job and that he had to go now. 214He used to be a lorry driver, see. Got nicked for importing cigs.’
‘And?’
The scarecrow shrugged. ‘All I heard was that he was driving to London or Essex or some other shit place and he turned it over. I can’t see how. He was legendary behind the wheel.’
This was making no sense. ‘Where did it happen?’
The scarecrow delved into his jacket pocket and pulled out a square of newspaper. Spanners half expected it to be piss- or cider-stained but it looked almost pristine. He carefully unfolded the front page of the Argus from a few days ago. It showed an aerial shot of an articulated lorry tipped over on its left side, with firefighters clambering over the cab. In either direction there were queues as far as the eye could see.
‘ONE DEAD IN HORROR CRASH’ read the headline. Spanners scanned the article for more details. ‘They don’t name anyone here. This could be anyone.’
‘It’s Mick, I’m telling you. It’s what happens. We take the bung at the gate, wait to get the tug, then.’ He drew his finger across his throat.
All Spanners could think to do was to let Scotty know before the next ‘Manc Mick’ was sacrificed.
‘Will you put your bloody phone down,’ said Sir Ben as Nicola Merrion looked at the caller ID for the umpteenth time.
They’d chosen to meet at a health club between Brighton and Crawley, one where Nicola was a member and where they could be assured relative privacy without arousing suspicion.
‘It’s easy for you to say but I’ve got my staff, the police and even the NHS commissioners on my back, not to mention the patients laying siege to my treatment centre.’
Tony leant across the table and snatched the phone from her. He switched it off then handed it back. ‘Problem solved.’
Nicola flounced back in her chair. ‘I’m going to have to tell them something.’ 215
Sir Ben took a sip of coffee and waited for a couple of women who seemed lost in their own conversation to pass by. He leant in.
‘It’s not just you. I’ve stopped Synthopate deliveries to every other pharmacy in the city too. It’s a massive risk for me and the trial but if we can keep calm and ride it out, the long term benefits will be astronomical.’
‘But pharmacies sell other stuff. If we can’t get Synthopate or are allowed to go back to methadone, our whole business model implodes. If we can’t meet people’s needs the powers that be will find someone who can.’ Nicola looked to Tony as if for back-up but he just stared back.
‘First of all, going back to methadone will invalidate the trial,’ said Sir Ben. ‘Secondly, let me give you a quick masterclass in economics. Respite Pharmaceuticals develop, manufacture and provide medicines to a population who, often through their lifestyles, have become dependent on them.’
‘That’s a bit harsh,’ said Nicola.
Sir Ben raised a hand. ‘People need our products, ideally for life. What becomes problematic is when the medicines cure rather than just maintain. Then the investment goes down the pan and with it, our profits.’
‘But isn’t that the business we’re in? Curing people.’
‘No. New diseases and conditions come along for sure, but the cost of developing drugs is astronomical. So, here we are since the 1960s in a perpetual heroin pandemic where police tactics had been all about quashing supply yet not touching demand. Drug dealers come and go, always to be replaced by someone else who sees the colossal amounts of money to be made in pushing what the state has deemed illegal.’
‘Yeah, but …’
Sir Ben continued. ‘Then along comes little Mrs Howe and starts sucking the demand out of the market. With you as an ally, I might add. And it’s working. Your own figures tell the story. A seventy per cent recovery rate in two years with a marked reduction in users lapsing in the first six months compared to two years ago. In essence, she – and you – are curing people too quickly. That’s affecting demand for Synthopate, which, 216in case I need to remind you, is still unproven and costing me a fortune.’
‘But we’ve still got two hundred clients going through treatment.’
‘Yes but this time next year it will be one hundred and fifty, then the year after, it’ll be double figures. There just aren’t the users coming through to make us profitable.’
‘So why have you stopped supply? Surely that’s affecting your bottom line.’
‘Temporarily, yes, but not only have we stopped anyone getting their scripts, we’re flooding the streets with a new strain of smack.’ Nicola’s face blanched. ‘Close your mouth,’ said Sir Ben. ‘All those users banging on your door need something to get them through the day. Well, now they’ll get it.’
‘What?’
‘And, because it’s a new strain, there may be some casualties, isn’t that right, Tony?’
‘Guaranteed, I’m afraid. Still, all in a good cause.’
‘Quite. Before long, heroin addict numbers will be back up to the numbers we were seeing a few years ago, because no one can get the healthier alternative. Tony will be able to ask whatever he wants for a fix and then you come in, our very own knight in shining armour doling out my new drug.’
‘How?’
‘Suddenly the supply chain opens again and people can start cashing in their Synthopate scripts. Those who want to get back on track, can. Meanwhile, we’ve built some longevity into the market and everybody’s happy.’
‘When?’
Tony cut in. ‘We’re putting enough gear out there to keep people going for about ten days then, to all intents and purposes, the supply disappears. My guys put the prices up, the quality plummets and, with your people back out there coaxing people back into treatment, the smackheads see an alternative.’ 217
‘But some of these people have made such good progress.’
‘Yes, too good,’ said Sir Ben. ‘So we need them back to square one. You and that copper have just been too successful. You’re treating yourself – and me – out of business, so all we’re doing is a factory reset and soon the good times will return.’
‘You sure?’
‘Look, if you want out then that’s fine. Obviously that nice little supplement you get each month will stop. Oh, and maybe that Howe woman might hear you’re playing for both sides, if she’s not worked it out already.’
Nicola was about to argue back when it was Tony’s turn to lean in. ‘Is all that clear?’
‘Are you threatening me?’
‘Not threatening. Promising.’