gear would go to the Sergeant Major and be repackaged for his men in the marketplace. And he would be able to meet Mr Skinner’s standing order.
Mr Skinner would be very pleased. Clive sometimes wondered what the man was up to. Obviously, the skag he bought wound up in someone or other’s arm. His version was that heroin was much more convenient than cash. He was right there. Surely, the Games Master wasn’t stuck on the H himself. He was not anyone’s idea of normal, but he was not stupid. Clive was well aware of his position in the Business, at precisely that cusp where men in smart suits with career structures deal with deadbeats in tom jeans with minimal life expectancies. Mr Skinner was higher up the pyramid. When you got to where he was, it stopped being Business and started getting Political. Right now, it was down to Clive to make himself indispensible.
Clive started doing sums on his expensive pocket calculator. He had an upper second in business studies from the University of East Anglia. Most of the people he had known up there were working in the City, for the media or unemployed these days. Several of them were customers, although they saw the Sergeant Major’s lads rather than him. He liked to think he was making more money and paying less tax than any of them. His calculator played the first eight notes of ‘Money Makes the World Go Around’. That always gave him a giggle.
He was proud of the fact that he had three times voted for the best government the country had had in his lifetime. There was a picture of him shaking hands with Margaret Thatcher at a Young Entrepreneur of the Year dinner on his desk next to his Sinclair micro. He really admired her for the way she had opened up the economy to individual enterprise. He was a practised and popular after dinner speaker at local affairs, and his favourite address was entitled ‘The Strength of a Nation Lies in its Human Resources’. For him, the Business was a business, not an amusement or an adjunct to a personal need. The drug trade was a consumer-led market, and he had got into it at the right time, meeting an increased demand and offering a better service than his competitors. The ’80s had been a growth period, but he knew that bull markets always eventually swelled and burst. He could foresee the point when he would get out of drugs – at the right time, of course – and step up the pyramid.
Although the very nature of the Business brought him into contact with a load of moaning minnies and smackhead losers, he had started to employ only men who had proved themselves possessed of a decent amount of backbone. The Sergeant Major had been in Northern Ireland for a couple of years before they sent him to Pentonville, and he had brought some good new lads into the operation. One or two of the carriers had served in the Falklands. Clive did not employ users, and the Sergeant Major had standing orders to pay off with broken bones any of his lads caught with their fingers in the supply. Clive wanted long-term people who could be useful when he branched out.
Now, Clive telephoned the Sergeant Major. He would have been up since dawn, handling a couple of little things. He picked up the phone at the fourth ring.
‘Sergeant Major.’
‘Mr Broome?’
‘How did things go?’
‘Very nicely, sir. I’ve been to the bank, and I talked to the man you wanted seen to. There won’t be any more trouble in Deptford, I don’t think.’
Clive imagined the crack of fingerbones.
‘That’s excellent. I’d appreciate it if you’d drop by later.’
‘Very good, sir.’
‘Yes, we have another disposal job to do. A lot like the last one.
No trouble at all.’
‘Fine, sir.’
‘Right. See you later. Take care.’
Clive thought for a moment about the other girl, Coral. And about Judi.
In his front room, Clive had a framed print of the Battle of Waterloo, a collection of imported pornographic magazines, a CD player and a VHS recorder and video
Mr Skinner would be very pleased. Clive sometimes wondered what the man was up to. Obviously, the skag he bought wound up in someone or other’s arm. His version was that heroin was much more convenient than cash. He was right there. Surely, the Games Master wasn’t stuck on the H himself. He was not anyone’s idea of normal, but he was not stupid. Clive was well aware of his position in the Business, at precisely that cusp where men in smart suits with career structures deal with deadbeats in tom jeans with minimal life expectancies. Mr Skinner was higher up the pyramid. When you got to where he was, it stopped being Business and started getting Political. Right now, it was down to Clive to make himself indispensible.
Clive started doing sums on his expensive pocket calculator. He had an upper second in business studies from the University of East Anglia. Most of the people he had known up there were working in the City, for the media or unemployed these days. Several of them were customers, although they saw the Sergeant Major’s lads rather than him. He liked to think he was making more money and paying less tax than any of them. His calculator played the first eight notes of ‘Money Makes the World Go Around’. That always gave him a giggle.
He was proud of the fact that he had three times voted for the best government the country had had in his lifetime. There was a picture of him shaking hands with Margaret Thatcher at a Young Entrepreneur of the Year dinner on his desk next to his Sinclair micro. He really admired her for the way she had opened up the economy to individual enterprise. He was a practised and popular after dinner speaker at local affairs, and his favourite address was entitled ‘The Strength of a Nation Lies in its Human Resources’. For him, the Business was a business, not an amusement or an adjunct to a personal need. The drug trade was a consumer-led market, and he had got into it at the right time, meeting an increased demand and offering a better service than his competitors. The ’80s had been a growth period, but he knew that bull markets always eventually swelled and burst. He could foresee the point when he would get out of drugs – at the right time, of course – and step up the pyramid.
Although the very nature of the Business brought him into contact with a load of moaning minnies and smackhead losers, he had started to employ only men who had proved themselves possessed of a decent amount of backbone. The Sergeant Major had been in Northern Ireland for a couple of years before they sent him to Pentonville, and he had brought some good new lads into the operation. One or two of the carriers had served in the Falklands. Clive did not employ users, and the Sergeant Major had standing orders to pay off with broken bones any of his lads caught with their fingers in the supply. Clive wanted long-term people who could be useful when he branched out.
Now, Clive telephoned the Sergeant Major. He would have been up since dawn, handling a couple of little things. He picked up the phone at the fourth ring.
‘Sergeant Major.’
‘Mr Broome?’
‘How did things go?’
‘Very nicely, sir. I’ve been to the bank, and I talked to the man you wanted seen to. There won’t be any more trouble in Deptford, I don’t think.’
Clive imagined the crack of fingerbones.
‘That’s excellent. I’d appreciate it if you’d drop by later.’
‘Very good, sir.’
‘Yes, we have another disposal job to do. A lot like the last one.
No trouble at all.’
‘Fine, sir.’
‘Right. See you later. Take care.’
Clive thought for a moment about the other girl, Coral. And about Judi.
In his front room, Clive had a framed print of the Battle of Waterloo, a collection of imported pornographic magazines, a CD player and a VHS recorder and video
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