product of battling parents who had died when he was in junior school, Mick had managed to murder his own liver. Constables Earnshaw and Barnes, currently on night
duty in the Lime Street area, had both expressed the intention to attend Mick’s funeral even at the expense of much-needed sleep.
‘They’ll be on days soon,’ Nellie mumbled to herself, ‘or they could be sent to patrol the riverside in case Jean is a serial killer’s first.’ She scrubbed
her flesh with a loofah. For how many years had she led this strange life? Five, six? She climbed out, dried herself and donned a clean, white nightdress.
When she returned to the large living, sleeping and kitchen area, one of her sisters was there with food. ‘If you don’t empty this plate – and I don’t mean in the bin
– I’ll be displeased.’
Helen stuck out her tongue.
‘Infantile,’ Beatrice said. ‘I’m off to bed.’
Alone, Helen ate the ham salad. Eating was hard work on a hot evening.
She thought about Quick Mick, who had gone from quick to slow, from slow to death. ‘The quick and the dead,’ she muttered through a mouthful of lettuce. ‘Am I doing any good at
all out there?’ She was. She should pull herself together and thank goodness that Mick was no longer in pain. Runaways had been saved and taken home or to places of safety. Three alcoholics
had gone for treatment, and one of those had turned his life round. Mick and another were dead, but a third man was very much alive, working and happy.
Oh well. Another day tomorrow, stinking clothes and that silly pram. ‘God help me,’ she begged. ‘I’m not as young as I was.’ As soon as her head hit the pillow, she
fell asleep.
‘Look, it’s a goer, I’m telling you. Only do you think you could take your foot away from my face? It stinks like fish gone bad. How many days have you had
them bleeding socks on? Go back to sleep, you’re getting on my wick.’ Roy Foley pushed Billy Tyler’s leg away.
‘I can’t help it,’ Billy moaned. ‘We’re like a full tin of sardines in this bed. How am I supposed to get clean clothes when I can’t go home? We’ve been
stuck here for weeks now, babysitting weed. And it’s roasting when them bright lights are on.’ He sat up. ‘And we’ll go to prison if we’re found out. Or when they
start pulling the houses down. We’ll have to shift all this stuff somewhere else, and—’
‘Shut your face.’ Roy rolled off the bed. ‘Listen, we’ll get thousands off the resin. Like I said, it’s a goer, and I know how to make it. We can cut it with
anything brown, even dog shit. Holy Mary and Dopey Ginger can arrange to sell it, because nobody’ll suspect them two daft buggers. We’ll be millionaires.’
Billy sniffed. ‘Can’t we be millionaires with two beds instead of one?’
‘Not yet. If we get found out for using electricity from the street lights, we’ll be buggered and we’ll have to scarper, and we’ll lose every leaf of this crop. So shut
up, put up and get your sunglasses on, because I’m doing a burst.’ A burst meant light too fierce for human eyes.
Billy was fed up, and he said so.
Roy offered no answer; he was fed up with Billy’s fed up-ness.
Every part of the upper floor, including the boys’ bedroom, was crammed with plants. Roy, who had suffered all his life from sudden enthusiasms, was building a career in drugs. With all
the upper windows blacked out, he was able to give the plants the unbearably fierce light they needed. He fled downstairs with Billy Tyler hot on his heels. Hot was the right word, because the
house was stifling. Demolition had begun in streets nearby, though their borrowed premises were reasonably safe for now.
They ate jam butties and drank tepid lemonade.
‘Are you sure you know what you’re doing?’ Billy asked.
Roy nodded. He’d had lessons in Halewood. ‘Buds are worth a lot. They can be smoked in a pipe. Leaves can be brewed to make tea, and the resin goes
duty in the Lime Street area, had both expressed the intention to attend Mick’s funeral even at the expense of much-needed sleep.
‘They’ll be on days soon,’ Nellie mumbled to herself, ‘or they could be sent to patrol the riverside in case Jean is a serial killer’s first.’ She scrubbed
her flesh with a loofah. For how many years had she led this strange life? Five, six? She climbed out, dried herself and donned a clean, white nightdress.
When she returned to the large living, sleeping and kitchen area, one of her sisters was there with food. ‘If you don’t empty this plate – and I don’t mean in the bin
– I’ll be displeased.’
Helen stuck out her tongue.
‘Infantile,’ Beatrice said. ‘I’m off to bed.’
Alone, Helen ate the ham salad. Eating was hard work on a hot evening.
She thought about Quick Mick, who had gone from quick to slow, from slow to death. ‘The quick and the dead,’ she muttered through a mouthful of lettuce. ‘Am I doing any good at
all out there?’ She was. She should pull herself together and thank goodness that Mick was no longer in pain. Runaways had been saved and taken home or to places of safety. Three alcoholics
had gone for treatment, and one of those had turned his life round. Mick and another were dead, but a third man was very much alive, working and happy.
Oh well. Another day tomorrow, stinking clothes and that silly pram. ‘God help me,’ she begged. ‘I’m not as young as I was.’ As soon as her head hit the pillow, she
fell asleep.
‘Look, it’s a goer, I’m telling you. Only do you think you could take your foot away from my face? It stinks like fish gone bad. How many days have you had
them bleeding socks on? Go back to sleep, you’re getting on my wick.’ Roy Foley pushed Billy Tyler’s leg away.
‘I can’t help it,’ Billy moaned. ‘We’re like a full tin of sardines in this bed. How am I supposed to get clean clothes when I can’t go home? We’ve been
stuck here for weeks now, babysitting weed. And it’s roasting when them bright lights are on.’ He sat up. ‘And we’ll go to prison if we’re found out. Or when they
start pulling the houses down. We’ll have to shift all this stuff somewhere else, and—’
‘Shut your face.’ Roy rolled off the bed. ‘Listen, we’ll get thousands off the resin. Like I said, it’s a goer, and I know how to make it. We can cut it with
anything brown, even dog shit. Holy Mary and Dopey Ginger can arrange to sell it, because nobody’ll suspect them two daft buggers. We’ll be millionaires.’
Billy sniffed. ‘Can’t we be millionaires with two beds instead of one?’
‘Not yet. If we get found out for using electricity from the street lights, we’ll be buggered and we’ll have to scarper, and we’ll lose every leaf of this crop. So shut
up, put up and get your sunglasses on, because I’m doing a burst.’ A burst meant light too fierce for human eyes.
Billy was fed up, and he said so.
Roy offered no answer; he was fed up with Billy’s fed up-ness.
Every part of the upper floor, including the boys’ bedroom, was crammed with plants. Roy, who had suffered all his life from sudden enthusiasms, was building a career in drugs. With all
the upper windows blacked out, he was able to give the plants the unbearably fierce light they needed. He fled downstairs with Billy Tyler hot on his heels. Hot was the right word, because the
house was stifling. Demolition had begun in streets nearby, though their borrowed premises were reasonably safe for now.
They ate jam butties and drank tepid lemonade.
‘Are you sure you know what you’re doing?’ Billy asked.
Roy nodded. He’d had lessons in Halewood. ‘Buds are worth a lot. They can be smoked in a pipe. Leaves can be brewed to make tea, and the resin goes
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