Chapter 4

Ibiza, Spain 1988

To be someone must be a wonderful thing
A famous footballer a rock singer
Or a big film star, yes I think I would like that
To be rich and have lots of fans
Have lots of girls to prove that Im a man
And be no. 1 - and liked by everyone

Getting drugged up with my trendy friends
They really dig me and I dig them

In Space Michael was holding court with a group that included an Argentinean drug dealer, a mancunian gangster, a club promoter a DJ and a restaurant owner. This position of respect was far more important to him than any amount of corporate responsibility that the director’s of Galaxy could offer him. He was at the high table of the counter culture and enjoying every minute of it.

Bottles of Dom Perignon, lines of coke, knock-off designer clobber and VIP passes to clubs. Every acquaintance had to have a purpose. He had friends who worked in the designer stores of Kensington who would allow him for a flat fee of fifty pounds to fill a ‘sausage’ bag with as many clothes as he could carry. These could then be worn, sold or exchanged. Turner was a useful partner in his flight scam. And since this was the sole reason for Michael’s position in the Ibizan hierarchy he needed to keep him sweet. Between them they could keep the office fairly well covered, so that if, for example, there were questions from the airport they could be dealt with.

The scam like all good ones was beautifully simple. It was rare for flights to be completely full, and even if they showed up full in the system it was usually possible to get a ‘jump seat’, or otherwise squeeze someone in. Tickets for charter flights were routinely handwritten and were not subject to the strict procedures necessary for scheduled flights. So in keeping an eye on how flight sales were going you could predict when a handful might be free and let it be known in the bars of south east London and the clubs of the west end. But more often than not people called on Michael.

Depending on who they were. A VIP might get a freebie but roundtrips were normally a ‘nifty’, fifty quid. That summer Michael was pocketing a tidy sum. And his reputation was growing.

VIPs were drug dealers or DJs. As part of the cultural shift taking place a remarkable backlash was occurring against the popstars of the eighties. Much as punk had been a reaction to the bloated supergroups of the seventies, acid house was a reaction against contrived and cheesy pop tunes of the eighties. And as the punk movement, instilled as it was with a DIY spirit, had welcomed anyone with a guitar, the soldiers of the acid house revolution didn’t even need that level of musical skill. The ability to pick out records and play them seamlessly back-to-back was all that was needed.

In Space, Erno was negotiating some tickets for acquaintances from Holland. He already had a pair of couriers coming in the next day, the reason that it was important for Turner to be in the office. But business was brisk. For the extra security necessary for Erno’s people, Michael demanded ten ecstasy tabs. A good rate, although Erno would always fly free. A fair proportion of these e’s Michael would consume himself. That night starting before he’d arrived at amnesia he’d consumed three.

“I’ve got another couple of girls coming in next week Biff can you sort me out?”

“Yeah, no worries I’ll get them on the night flight again chances are that customs will have fucked off by then.”

“Excellent my friend. And I’ve got that boat booked for Monday if you want to join me and the girls with a crate of Dom and a bit of charlie.”

The risks to Michael were not small, it would be a relatively easy matter for customs to trace him if any of Erno’s couriers were caught. So in addition to the regular payments Erno would offer sweeteners. Boat trips were a favourite. Erno had a friend with a speedboat that they’d take to isolated beaches. There weren’t many better ways to impress girlfriends. The boat would pick them up in the morning and they’d spend the day on the beach sunbathing, swimming, eating, drinking and of course taking drugs.

Erno’s was not a sophisticated operation. It simply involved getting a couple of willing girls to carry the drugs for him. In return they’d get no more than a free holiday and a couple of pills. The girls were no innocents desperate for a better life, they weren’t like the drug mules that came from South America stuffed with cocaine. They were much interested in being part of the scene. Erno would get them into the VIP lounges of the clubs, ply them with coke and champagne and of course his prize stock MDMA tabs. Almost without exception the girls were young, educated, middle class and exceptionally pretty. They always dressed extravagantly. Erno figured that the customs guys would probably think that no one would be stupid enough to smuggle drugs dressed in the long hippy flowing skirts, fake dreadlocks, tiny little tops that they favoured. The girls were naturally confident and flirtation was a key part of their arsenal. Perhaps if they knew the risks better they might have been a little more uptight, but they were so in love with the game and with Erno that they’d risk anything.

The same group convened in a San Antonio bar later that evening. A dopey rat faced little bloke with a sloping gait and a Glasgow drawl approached them. Michael had seen him about and he was aware that he was part of a UK indie rock outfit and also friend with some of the best known DJs. These were already reasons enough to get to know him, but he was also a well known hedonist and Michael fancied a blast that night.

The Glaswegian’s name was Billy. Drinking San Miguels he and Michael laid down plans to “tear-up a storm” that night in Ibiza’s clubland. Michael knew that with Billy’s reputation this was an opportunity to join him for a night to be remembered. He expected a heady mix of danger and excitement and Billy wouldn’t disappoint.

It wasn’t normally Michael’s style to get drunk but by the time he was offering Billy a lift on his MedPed he was uncontrollably pissed. In fact in was a characteristic of the cogniscenti to be quite snobby about the beery masses and in particular their propensity to get pissed and then get on their hire bikes. However, Michael thought, sometimes you had to let your hair down. Besides what could go wrong… as he veered into the traffic towards the first of their stops that night.

In the pursuit of pleasure the human being is known to push boundaries of health and taste. While the speedball is perhaps the ultimate narcotic example, an equally counteractive mélange can be achieved with the mixing of ecstasy and LSD. The sweet and sour opposites of the hallucinogenic world. And in Ibiza that summer it was the drug cocktail of choice… The effect was to turn the world upside down, a visual, visceral and mental mess. While a kaleidoscopic cacophony of sound and vision confused and cajoled, your senses were caressed and a fine line between sanity and insanity, safety and danger was drawn. It was a cocktail that Michael was particularly drawn to.

In the Star club, the two partners found a dealer they knew and took a whole tablet of each narcotic. Before long conversation was impossible and the world completely unrecognizable. Between conversations with inanimate objects Michael saw visions as bizarre as London buses driving through the middle of the dancefloor. So real were they, to him, that on more than one occasion he asked someone or something for a ticket. However most of the time the two just danced in a hypnotic state, sweating profusely and grinding their teeth – not a pretty sight.

Hours may have passed before somehow the two recognized people they knew and made the rather incredible decision to leave that nightclub and head for another.

In the car park, Michael believing himself to be at the controls of a Formula 1 race car rather than his 50cc moped took to careering around in circles laughing uncontrollably. Soon there were three bikes doing the same thing. Billy was particularly enthusiastically hairing around making great drama out of spectacular broadside skids until he lost control and the bike ended up mangled in a ditch. Miraculously all racers were unscathed. Again this was cause for much hilarity.

In the midst of their laughter a plan was hatched to refuel before their next stop. Billy was the ringleader: Having lost the ability to comprehend their own existence yet alone the concept of money and paying for a drink, Billy’s suggestion to scale the wall protecting the clubs drinks storage seemed like a sensible idea.

With rather more sense and planning than should have been expected two of the group including Michael went over the wall with the other two acting as lookout/receivers of goods. Crates of beer went over the wall and then a couple of bottles of champagne. Enjoying their booty, Billy amused himself by throwing the beer bottles back over the wall and howling manically. The smashing bottles unsurprisingly caught the attention of the staff who raised the alarm. Clutching a bottle of champagne they scarpered leaving most of the booze.

The bikes weren’t an option so the group headed into the Ibizan countryside which to their addled minds was now full of unknown enemies traps and fear. This was no longer fun. Even without the hallucinogenics the threat of a beating would have been enough to induce some pretty serious palpitations. As it was this was nearly heart attack territory, the drugs taking hold of the fear and turning every dark corner into a looming monster. Hiding behind a wall where god knows what terrors lay was not an option. They kept running tripping over foliage and scraping every part of their bodies on rocks, walls, brambles and trees. By the time they reached a road they were a mess. Remarkably Michael was still clutching a bottle of champagne, from which they swigged eventually succumbing to better humour but also the realisation that they didn’t know where the hell they were.   

After a long walk they reached a resort town and found a bar where they could recuperate. However their respite was short. Their drug addled behaviour combined with their unkempt experience had made the bar owner suspicious and he called the Guardia. Without anything specific to charge them for the Guardia turfed them out and told them to go home. Billy’s screaming “coonts” after the police car thankfully fell on deaf ears.

“Let’s get some more pills and cid and go’tae Amnesia”, Billy said as they jumped in a taxi. Realising that no bouncer in their right mind would let them into a nightclub and no longer in the mood for Billy’s spirit of adventure Michael pointed the cab in the direction of his apartment.

He was woken from a fitful slumber at six thirty with a loud banging at the door. “Abrirte-para arriba”.

This could only be bad. After they had ‘escaped’ Star’s management had called the police and finding the trashed bike put two and two together. It was easy to trace Michael, the bike was registered with his passport details and apartment address, clearly not something that had crossed his mind yet.

A split second decision to leap from the first floor window was thwarted when he saw that the Guardia had beaten him to it. He opened the door, to be pushed against the wall. The Guardia spat directly into his face. Michael knew what was coming. The local cops just about tolerated bad behaviour by tourists but people like Michael that were “faces” were not popular and were routinely picked-up. He was going to take a beating and he knew it.

He was dragged from the apartment into the back of an unmarked van. Not a good sign. In the dark of the back of the van he was shouted out in a combination of English and Spanish in between kicks and punches. The jist of the message was do this again fuckwit and we are going to really give it to you, and then we’ll throw you in jail with a seven foot homo wrestling champion.

Michael got it. Picking himself from the roadside for the second time in twenty four hours he dragged his exceedingly sorry ass back to his apartment again. He never found out what happened to the others but guessed a similar fate. Billy had predictably got away with it completely, bragging to anyone that would listen about the escapade. On meeting Michael again that night he laughed off his injuries, “Quiet wee man, let’s get on it again and see what hell breaks loose.”

Michael’s response was understandable: “Fuck off you crazy Scottish cunt”. They were however now avowedly friends forever.

Chapter 5

Geneva, Switzerland 2006

To some of Turner’s acquaintances from the eighties and nineties it seemed nothing short of a miracle that he ended up working with the status that he now had. To all outward appearances he had matured beyond belief, a respectable career, property ownership. The only thing that belied the image was a string of failed relationships. Turner had never been able to hold down a relationship for much more than a year.

To the few people that Turner was close to none of this was a surprise. They knew he had a rare drive and ambition that was admittedly combined with some self destructive tendencies but it was the lead force in his life. His intellect while not great was above average, and he was especially welcoming of challenges that on paper seemed more than he was capable of. He had repeatedly shown a talent for making positive and life changing decisions even in the face of adversity. More than anything he liked to throw himself in the abyss of the completely unknown.

This combination of characteristics had led to a series of career moves landing him in the high-temple of bureaucracy that he now found himself in. The job was a plum role. Living in one of the most beautiful parts of Europe, he had made the most of pursuing a healthy lifestyle enjoying the Alps for its skiing, hiking and mountain biking opportunities. At Plaxon he had his name on his own office door and enjoyed a level of professional respect that created as many enemies as it did friends. His days were spent mostly tucked away in his office scribing press releases and other communiqués. Long meetings discussing strategy were enlivened by his forthright views on how things should be done or not. But essentially Turner was bored, there are many so many ways to extol the virtues of a new …. He had sought and now applied for early retirement.

His retirement plan was unorthodox but given the life pattern that Turner had followed thus far it didn’t seem that out of place.

For the last few months he had been trawling the Haute Savoie for a property with the right combination of features to support both a comfortable home and a professionally equipped pharmaceutical laboratory. It was that feature that meant another criteria had to be met… complete isolation.

He’d seen roughly twenty properties. Many of them that met the isolated criteria were in such a state of disrepair that they’d need years of work. For some an upgrade to the tracks leading up to them was necessary in order for the repair work to be started. Others had the right amount of work area but not enough living space and vice versa.

The place that he’d found on that snowy day was as near perfect as could be expected. He’d known as much as soon as he’d read the immobilier’s description. Important was the fact that the house was lived in and the roof, insulation, windows and doors were sound. The old boy’s son had seen to all that, but he was too frail to make the journey down the hill now and was gladly moving nearer to his young family on the plain. God know’s what they thought of this strange Anglais moving into an isolated farmhouse.

Turner had tried not to pay too much attention to the outhouses and cellar. They were clearly very important to his plan but showing too much interest might have given the game away. After having perused the plans he had a pretty good idea of what was usable and what was not. The cellar presented the best option that he’d seen. Perfect ventilation, dry, multiple entry points. The outhouses were a bonus and not crucial.  

Chapter 6

Geneva and Lausanne, Switzerland 2008

Like most nightclubs marimba’s drugs distribution was controlled by the bouncers. Anyone trying to act independently is dealt with in a distinctly un-Swiss style. Repeat transgressors have been known to have been blindfolded, tied-up in the back of a car driven into the mountains and dumped. They didn’t generally try it on again.

The nervy blonde forty year old looked more than a little out of place. It was ten years since he’d been in a nightclub, and then – in the mid-nineties – things seemed a little less corporate and a little more anarchic. Marimba seemed to be run like a multinational.

The many years of drug abuse and hours in the sun had etched into his facial features a pained and well weathered expression. But the gauntness had gone and his face had filled out as well as his body. The always smartly turned out clubbing veteran cut quite a handsome figure.

He’d been taken to Marimba by a contact who knew the head bouncer. As it turned out he didn’t know him that well.

Marimba was the biggest nightclub in the area. Full capacity meant 7,000 clubbers, a good percentage of them on ecstasy. Some things didn’t change the blonde thought as he was led through the crowds of happy, sweaty punters. The music though was doing his head in, ever since he’d sworn off drugs the incessant beat of dance music drove him mad, in some circumstances it could almost lead to nervous palpitations. Anything that Carlos, the bouncer’s friend, said was lost on him, his hearing was bad at the best of times.

Fishing around nervously in his jeans pocket for his product samples he was led into an office that was a far cry from the dingy rooms that club promoters used to occupy back in the day. This place looked like something a James Bond villain might feel at home in. There was a plasma screen TV, leather furniture, a huge desk and the whole thing was completely sound proofed from the repetitive beats pumping out below.

Jesus was the boss. He looked the part and had the henchmen. In fact he was little more than a gangster operating under the cloak of legitimacy that the title head of security gave him. Completely bald and with a boxer’s nose he carried a permanent smile which only served to make him more intimidating. The fact that he can’t have been more than 1 metre 60 made no difference.

The blonde introduced himself as Vince, he had a proposition for Jesus. The product sample he carried came with a rare type of guarantee. This was first class mdma, the likes of which hadn’t been seen on the street since the eighties. He claimed to be close the source, “a head from Amsterdam” and could lay his hands on as many tablets as required. If the samples he had found favour he’d bring another one hundred the next Thursday. These would be a gift, but would only be handed over with the promise of a bigger order, a minimum 1,500 pills a week. The price was high, but if his claims were true the pills would demand a higher price on the floor and could even drive custom to the club.

Jesus’ reaction wasn’t far from what Vince had hoped.

“Who the fuck are you? Who the fuck do you think I am? This little fucking street urchin marches into my office with another fucking english cunt offering drugs. What makes you think I can help you my friend. I ought to call the police right now. Marimba has a reputation here. If there are any drugs in this place I will call the police right away so fuck off.”

Vince was relieved of the drugs as planned and they were unceremoniously turfed out into the street. Carlos was apologetic.

“I am so sorry man. He’s taken loads of weed from me before. I have no idea what his problem is.”

Vince wasn’t so naïve. Jesus would have had to have been a madman to accept this proposition coming from a stranger. He had made sure to get the sample and in the meantime would have Vince trailed.

Sure enough a BMW followed their taxi back to Geneva and made no attempt to hide while Vince and Carlos enjoyed a beer in the Paquis district of the town. Vince went back to his hotel safe in the knowledge that he’d be hearing from Jesus quite soon and that Carlos didn’t have to know anything about it.

When the call came they arranged to meet in the ski resort town of Morzine. Vince was glad to see Jesus arrive without an entourage although he was sure that they wouldn’t be far away.

“You have some good contacts. My girlfriend tells me this little trip was better than being fucked all night. I won’t be encouraging her to try any more samples,” he laughed as they headed uphill in the gondola lift. “I’ll give you 10 grand on top of the first payment if you pass the contact on, I want to be closer to this operation.”

Vince offloaded the rest of the samples to Jesus before they reached the hilltop. “No can do. It’s absolutely not part of the deal. If you push me on this I will have to abandon everything, my source is adamant on this. You must deal with me. The 1,500 drop-off must be on Thursday next week, does that work for you?”

As they got off the ski lift and collected their skis Jesus agreed: “OK I’ll respect that, we’ll have to talk details on the drop-off.”

“Right well I’ve thought about that. I want to change the place every week. For the first week I want to do the exchange on the boat that runs between Geneve Plage and the Paquis. There’s one around lunch time and at this time of year there is never anyone on it. I’ll need the money in a red standard sized Manor bag.”

“No way, we hadn’t talked about money. The deal is money after we’ve sold the first batch,” Jesus skied off. Vince knew that this was likely but believed that he was in the better bargaining position. Besides Marimba was one night club in a world full of them.

Jesus was an accomplished and stylish skier, especially alongside the clumsy and oafish Vince. They met at the end of a challenging run with Vince in floods of sweat demanding that they get a coffee. They sat outside to cut some further details. Vince insisted on all of the money up front. The compromise that they agreed on was that for the first three months fifty per cent would be provided up front and then depending on the way that things were going they’d renegotiate.

Despite his comment Jesus gave all the samples to his girlfriend. Saskia was inviting fifty of her friends to marimba for a party that weekend.

They had all enjoyed a number of glasses of champagne in the VIP lounge before Saskia revealed her real party favours. Some declined but most happily took one of the little white tablets. The remainder apart from some kept back just in case were handed over to Marimba’s sanctioned dealer with instructions to hand the cash back at the end of the night, minus his cut.

Even before the ecstasy had started to work the girls made quite an impression. The wives, girlfriends and lovers of local gangsters they were brash, flash and glamorous.

Soon they were really high. The spectacle of these fifty saucer eyed women meant that they attracted a lot of attention. They were mooning over each other and other punters like they were long lost friends. More bottles of Champagne were ordered and the stuff was splashed about like water with more than a handful of punters benefiting from these ladies new found genorisity. All inhibitions were out of the window. Saskia and her friends were the belles of the ball. Each one felt like a princess, waltzing around the club brimming with false confidence and bubbling with excitement. None had ever felt more on top of and at one with the world. It was no wonder Saskia thought to herself that an early recommended use of MDMA was in marriage counseling.

Jesus on surveying the scene realized its potential. Whatever had been passed of as ecstasy here over the last few years certainly didn’t have this effect. The dealers stock was quickly diminished. And despite a price hike he was being pestered by googly eyed punters wanting more for their friends.

On the boat in Geneva Vince and Jesus met as planned. It was a sunny winter’s day so they sat outside. Jesus clasped his hands around Vince’s looked into his eyes and said: “This is going to be one hell of a deal.”

Marimba was the test bed. And much to Vince’s satisfaction the experiment was working well.

Chapter 7

London, UK 1991

The happy hazy days of acid house were long gone, at least for Turner. It had felt good to be part of something fresh and happening but that feeling was short lived. Of course it was always about money, everything is always about money, but there was an air of innocence that had gone. Villains had muscled in on every part of the scene. The raves as they were now dubbed – and Turner hated that name – were controlled by thugs taking money on the door and selling sub standard drugs on the floor. Punters were being charged a fortune for a bottle of water and fights seemed to be a regular fixture.

The mystique had gone. The pioneers, the beautiful people that had built the scene at the tail end of the eighties had gone, they’d got jobs or landed on beach in Thailand. Even the music was shit. As for Turner he’d been sacked from Galaxy as the full extent of the flight scam had been discovered. Luckily for him he’d covered his tracks. The paper trail was quite easy to follow and destroy in his case, but for Michael who had racked up maybe thousands of flights it wasn’t so easy and he was facing prosecution and a possible prison sentence. When they had the come the auditors were thorough. Turner and Michael had warning and spent much of the previous day and night trying to track down the manifests of flights that they had sent people on and binning them. It soon became obvious though that for Michael this was going to be an impossible task. For the summer of ’88 he guessed that nearly every flight outgoing and incoming would have had at least one of his customers listed. Without setting light to the whole lot there wasn’t much he could do, removing a whole summers worth of flights would have been more than a little suspicious.

Having decided that the travel industry didn’t offer much more interest Turner had made the decision to go back to school and an enrolled on a University course studying art history.

If he could be bothered to get up before midday Turner would cycle into the campus occasionally stopping to pick up supplies from Michael’s New Cross apartment. Their business relationship was now more about survival in the real world than helping to shape some counter cultural metamorphosis. At least that’s how Turner sometimes romanticized it. Students were willing consumers of grass and Turner could easily match his salary at Galaxy by shifting a kilo or so a week. Rather than doing any of the risky work himself he sold 100 grammes at a time to guys that would then break this down further. Less exposure to morons, less risk, less time... everyone’s a winner. He was quite proud of his little setup and actually managed to put a fair amount of time into the degree while avoiding the messy business of having to socialize with students.

Turner shared a flat in London’s Borough with a couple of mates who were working. He socialized mostly with them, drinking in the bars of soho and trying to avoid the new superclubs that were springing everywhere to cater for what the papers were calling the “rave generation”. In general he avoided class A drugs, the consumption and the sale of. But occasionally he’d do a favour for a regular customer, or pop a “cheeky” half a tab of e.

In general he was sheltered from the nastier side of the drugs trade, but from time to time he’d come face-to-face with some of the individuals at the top end of the chain.

Michael had asked for Turner to accompany him on a trip to pick up some of supplies. Turner never said no to these trips because while nervous he was always intrigued to meet the characters that inevitably sat higher up the chain. He’d certainly met a few nutters. There was the mad gypsy who claimed to have invented a ray gun that could stun a horse putting it out of a race mid run. ….

Today he was meeting a guy called Gubby, a fat ginger haired bloke with a complexion to match his hair. He was loud, aggressive and very very proud of the new satellite dish that was fixed to the outside wall of his tenth floor council flat. It was always a source of wonder to Turner that these people chose to live in these places. The guy clearly had money why live in a council flat in a shithole like Erith? It’s not as if he could attract anymore attention, his was the only flat with a satellite dish, certainly the only one with a video entry system and driving around in a Ford Cosworth probably did little to back-up his claimed unemployed labourer status.

However whatever you said about Gubby he was remarkably well-read often surprising Turner with references to books that he knew he should have read, but hadn’t. He was witty and sharp and time spent in his company while slightly alarming at times was usually as rewarding.

Today they were road testing a particularly strong variety of grass purportedly from Malawi. Gubby had a hundred and fifty kilos in a lock-up down the road. Turner was stoned and hoped that when the video entry system buzzed that Gubby would decide to ignore it, he wasn’t really in the mood for some of Gubby’s more undesirable pals. However Gubby was in a good, less paranoid, mood and let the short seedy looking bloke in. He was introduced, Jimmy, Timmy… something like that. What happened next meant that the detail was erased from Turner’s memory.

It doesn’t take a fool to work out that drug dealers have an abundance of two things. Cash and drugs. This makes them a clear target for heists, after all they are not exactly going to the law afterwards. In Gubby’s case he was more careful than most a video entry system, and a strict policy of keeping cash and drugs on the premises to a minimum. 

After coming and sitting down Jimmy/Timmy was notably quiet and not a little twitchy. Turner remembers thinking he must be coked up. He refused joints offered to him and a cup of tea, just sitting silently, shifting uncomfortably around on the sofa. This wasn’t that unusual, he may have been waiting for Michael and Turner to go, he may have just been naturally uncommunicative. However given some invisible signal he suddenly leapt from his chair producing a sawn off shotgun from the bag that he had carried in. 

“Right you fucking cunt. Give me the money now”.

Turner’s immediate thought was that the guy was pulling a heist. He made a move for the door and took a strong whack from the shaft of the gun. “You fucking stay there”. Turner obeyed.

“You owe me 25 grand and I want it now,” he shouted kicking over a coffee table for effect.

Gubby looked completely unmoved staring impassively at the gunman. “Look you fucking cunt, put the fucking gun down. What you going to do kill all three of us. Where’s your money coming from then you stupid cunt. I said I’ll pay and I’ll pay. You know the rule’s two weeks. It’s been one, so put the fucking gun down and stop making a cunt of yourself.” With that he grabbed hold of the barrel, kicked his assailant in the balls and turned the gun on him. “Now let me get one thing straight. If you ever pull a fucking stunt like this again I will make sure at the very least that you are in hospital for a very long time. I’ve dealt with your family for a long time and they trust me, ask anyone of them. You are a jumped up little prick, and if I tell your old man what happened here today he’d fucking skin you alive. So fuck off and come back next week for your fucking money.” Gubby emptied the shells on to the floor and pushed the gun back into the chastened apprentice gangster’s arms, and he left without saying a word.

“Sorry about that fellas. He’s a silly little cunt isn’t he ?”

Security was certainly on his mind now. That’s both security from the kind of incident he’d seen at Gubby’s place, but also security from arrest. There were a number of personal rules that he had that he thought would at least decrease the many risks of his chosen – albeit temporary profession. Rule one was never keep any more than a personal stash in the flat. He had a friend a little way from the college to whom he’s slip some free grass for looking after the main stash. The same went for cash, a different person was paid in the same way to handle this. Rule two was – wherever possible – to avoid the use of private motorized transportation. It was always tempting to hock a lift from someone, but this according to Turner’s logic was the time that you were most likely to get busted. And so he biked, took the bus or a train whenever he was in possession of enough dope to get him more than a slap on the wrist. Given the fact that he looked like and in fact was a student, Turner believed he had a pretty perfect cover. However he was always aware that one slip up was all it took.

Sometimes it seems in retrospect that when something has gone wrong someone or something had been trying to warn you all along. There were so many signs that this was a bad day that Turner should have just given up and gone home before it started to spiral out of control.

He’d woken up in a good mood and accepted a lift from his sometime sidekick Kirk to go to a pick-up from Michael. In this case he was meeting him in a Bromley pub which was in theory good because he had two customers that were taking everything that he was picking up from Michael. A quick hit for a tidy profit. He’d sort Kirk out a drink for it.

However in his eagerness he was happily breaking everyone of his own rules. He had a tonne of cash on him to give Michael, he’d accepted a lift and he as part of the package from Michael he was picking up a hundred ecstasy tabs. The difference between getting caught with a kilo of grass and a hundred es was huge and he knew it. The risk was mitigated he thought by the fact that he’d simply have to drop the pills off with one person shortly after he’d pick them up, making a couple of hundred quid in the process.

In the pub Michael was late and by the time he’d arrived Turner was a few pints down the line and full of false confidence. But Michael had some bad news, the weed came at a significantly reduced price but it was shit quality. There was nothing to do but accept it and see whether the customer would go for it, Michael agreed to take it back if Turner got stuck but it wasn’t ideal as it meant not being able to offload it quite as quickly as planned. Perhaps if he’s been thinking straight he would have just refused to take it, the beer however was influencing his judgement. More so when he accepted the lift from Kirk to drop of the pills. While this transaction went smoothly, the next was to be more problematic.

The customer, Paul, was the son of a well known club owner. Nice enough guy but up to his neck in all sorts of legal issues. The first problem was that he didn’t have any scales. At least he said he wasn’t that bothered about the quality and Turner had passed on the price reduction. The scales were however a problem, they had to find some to finalise the deal. In apology for the problem free entry to Paul’s old man’s club were offered. They could hang out there while Paul located some scales. 

Turner was uncomfortable about the situation, but enjoyed the idea of the free hospitality. They pitched up at the club and while Kirk supped cokes Turner got more and more pissed. By the time they got back to Paul’s flat he was legless. And the bad news Paul couldn’t find any scales which meant that Turner was stuck, pissed in Bromley with a kilo of weed past midnight. The thought of traveling halfway across London at that time of night with a package like that should have made him think twice. Paul even offered to sit on the stuff until the morning but Turner was nervous about leaving it with someone whom he didn’t know that well. As it turned out Paul’s offer could well have been a bluff.

They offered to give a hanger on at Paul’s a lift. Another mistake, what were they doing thinking about making any kind of diversion with the payload they had?

In the car they passed on the other side of the road what seemed to be a police block pulling over exactly the same model and colour of car that Kirk was driving. Why didn’t it cross their minds to NOT return via the same route?

After dropping off the hanger-on the inevitable happened as they approached the police block. A WPC waved them down with a torch. At this stage Turner fuelled by alcoholic bravado was still confident that they could emerge from this unscathed. They pulled over and it soon became obvious that Kirk was not going to be able to retain his cool quite as well. He was clearly very nervous and the cops smelt it. They demanded that he got out of the car. Turner remained inside with the bag of weed stashed under the driver’s seat. After questioning Kirk for a couple of minutes the WPC turned her attention to Turner.

“Your friend seems a little nervous what’s his problem,” she not unreasonably asked.

“Well I guess he has a right to be a bit shaky it’s not every day you get flagged down by the police. Is there a problem officer?”

“We’ll see about that won’t we. Where have you come from?”

Turner was honest in at least as much as he told them that they been to the nightclub. He wasn’t going to divulge Paul’s address. He said that he’d had a few drinks but that Kirk had been drinking soft drinks all night, again this was true. 

Now she began rooting around in the car. This was bad,.he began to wonder whether it was Kirk’s nervousness or a tip-off from Paul that was leading her down this path. Certainly he had a lot of reasons to want to get the police of his back.

It wasn’t long before she found the bag. “What’s in here? Is it yours?”

Turner replied hopefully: “It’s college books, yes they are mine.”

“Let’s have a look shall we.” She opened the bag. “Oh dear, what’s this then?”

Realising defeat Turner replied: “Oregano officer I’m making a big pizza.”

“Out of the car, hands on the roof.”

Turner moved to obey, but a misinterpreted and no doubt alcohol influenced lurch in the wrong direction meant that he soon felt the weight of three policemen pinning him down.  

He was woken in a police cell in Catford nick with a runny fried egg and greasy bacon.

Bailed immediately Turner was despondent. He felt cheated, he felt like he was one of the good guys why the fuck was this happening to him. This was not part of the plan. He wasn’t a career criminal like some of the people he met in his daily business. This was absolutely a short term measure and this had the potential to completely destroy him. There was no way now that he would be able to get a legitimate job. Chances are that he would get a prison sentence… and then what?