in ciggies. Them who don’t
smoke can put it in cakes and bake it. I could sell the lot to Halewood and Speke, but we’ll get more if Holy Mary and Dopey Ginge find somebody to flog it for us.’
‘We could go to jail.’ Billy bit into his second butty.
‘Don’t talk soft.’
Billy was far from comfortable. They were stealing electricity, money and food, and living with a load of smelly weeds in a house due to be flattened at any time. ‘I seen that film,’
he muttered.
‘What film?’ Roy glared at his inferior assistant in crime.
‘They all went blind except them that were asleep or had bandages on their eyes. Plants done that.’
Roy Foley shook his head. ‘
Day of the Triffids
? That’s science fiction, you clown. No wonder you were in the bottom stream at school. These plants don’t walk, and
they’ll make us a fortune. Sneak out, cross the main road and pinch some milk off doorsteps. You’ve got to pull yourself together, lad.’
‘No. You go for a change.’
The senior executive blinked. He’d picked Billy because he always did as he was told. He suddenly realized that Billy Tyler was intending to run. ‘We’ll both go for
milk,’ he said. ‘And if you’re thinking of backing out or dashing off home, I’ll find you, soft girl, so forget it.’
‘I’m not running.’
‘You’d better not.’
Billy was beyond confused. He’d already stolen dishes, ladies’ stockings, small sieves and rubber gloves for the making of super-hash, as Roy termed the best of the crop.
They’d eaten no proper food for days, and Billy was becoming light-headed. There was enough foliage in the house to merit the hiring of a workforce, yet he and Roy
were
the
workforce, so how would they manage? It would take a month to sift the top of the crop through nylons . . .
‘Billy?’
‘What? And I want to be Bill, not Billy.’
‘Right, Bill. Where’ve you gone in your head?’
‘It’s too much for two people, Roy.’
‘Dopey Ginger will help.’
‘What about Holy Mary?’
‘Too busy doing charity work and going to church. It’s her cover. She’ll be great at the selling side of the job.’
‘So who’s going to turn that drum all day? And the thing that makes compressed hash?’
‘We’ll work it out. I always think of something, don’t I?’
Bill pondered. Roy hadn’t thought of much when they’d nearly been caught shoplifting and when they’d burgled a house on Picton Road; Bill had been dreaming about being locked
in a cell, the same dream for three nights, then he’d had a nightmare about magistrates. Roy Foley was good at ideas, but no good at keeping himself and others out of trouble.
‘Come on,’ Roy ordered again. ‘We need milk.’
They went to steal milk.
Belle Horrocks was in a state of excitement that spread the full length of the farmhouse kitchen’s table. She was going home for a week. She was going home in a grey suit
with a white blouse and black shoes and carrying a smart black handbag. Her mother and father believed that she was part of a peripatetic team used by companies preparing for audit, and Belle had
to look the part.
Home was new, as her parents had moved to Wavertree; that was also the place where her three-year-old daughter Lisa lived. Belle’s duties at Meadowbank would be undertaken by one of the
part-timers who filled in when necessary. ‘Lisa’s growing so fast,’ Belle told the girls. ‘She can write her name and count to twenty.’
‘You should go home more often,’ Babs opined. ‘You get a few days off every month like the rest of us.’
But everyone knew that Belle was careful with money. She saved assiduously, keeping a close eye on the balance in her bank book. Eve supplied working clothes, massage oils and food, so Belle was
steadily accumulating funds in order to acquire living quarters for herself and her daughter. Nothing on earth meant as much as Lisa did: Lisa would have a decent life and a good education with a
smoke can put it in cakes and bake it. I could sell the lot to Halewood and Speke, but we’ll get more if Holy Mary and Dopey Ginge find somebody to flog it for us.’
‘We could go to jail.’ Billy bit into his second butty.
‘Don’t talk soft.’
Billy was far from comfortable. They were stealing electricity, money and food, and living with a load of smelly weeds in a house due to be flattened at any time. ‘I seen that film,’
he muttered.
‘What film?’ Roy glared at his inferior assistant in crime.
‘They all went blind except them that were asleep or had bandages on their eyes. Plants done that.’
Roy Foley shook his head. ‘
Day of the Triffids
? That’s science fiction, you clown. No wonder you were in the bottom stream at school. These plants don’t walk, and
they’ll make us a fortune. Sneak out, cross the main road and pinch some milk off doorsteps. You’ve got to pull yourself together, lad.’
‘No. You go for a change.’
The senior executive blinked. He’d picked Billy because he always did as he was told. He suddenly realized that Billy Tyler was intending to run. ‘We’ll both go for
milk,’ he said. ‘And if you’re thinking of backing out or dashing off home, I’ll find you, soft girl, so forget it.’
‘I’m not running.’
‘You’d better not.’
Billy was beyond confused. He’d already stolen dishes, ladies’ stockings, small sieves and rubber gloves for the making of super-hash, as Roy termed the best of the crop.
They’d eaten no proper food for days, and Billy was becoming light-headed. There was enough foliage in the house to merit the hiring of a workforce, yet he and Roy
were
the
workforce, so how would they manage? It would take a month to sift the top of the crop through nylons . . .
‘Billy?’
‘What? And I want to be Bill, not Billy.’
‘Right, Bill. Where’ve you gone in your head?’
‘It’s too much for two people, Roy.’
‘Dopey Ginger will help.’
‘What about Holy Mary?’
‘Too busy doing charity work and going to church. It’s her cover. She’ll be great at the selling side of the job.’
‘So who’s going to turn that drum all day? And the thing that makes compressed hash?’
‘We’ll work it out. I always think of something, don’t I?’
Bill pondered. Roy hadn’t thought of much when they’d nearly been caught shoplifting and when they’d burgled a house on Picton Road; Bill had been dreaming about being locked
in a cell, the same dream for three nights, then he’d had a nightmare about magistrates. Roy Foley was good at ideas, but no good at keeping himself and others out of trouble.
‘Come on,’ Roy ordered again. ‘We need milk.’
They went to steal milk.
Belle Horrocks was in a state of excitement that spread the full length of the farmhouse kitchen’s table. She was going home for a week. She was going home in a grey suit
with a white blouse and black shoes and carrying a smart black handbag. Her mother and father believed that she was part of a peripatetic team used by companies preparing for audit, and Belle had
to look the part.
Home was new, as her parents had moved to Wavertree; that was also the place where her three-year-old daughter Lisa lived. Belle’s duties at Meadowbank would be undertaken by one of the
part-timers who filled in when necessary. ‘Lisa’s growing so fast,’ Belle told the girls. ‘She can write her name and count to twenty.’
‘You should go home more often,’ Babs opined. ‘You get a few days off every month like the rest of us.’
But everyone knew that Belle was careful with money. She saved assiduously, keeping a close eye on the balance in her bank book. Eve supplied working clothes, massage oils and food, so Belle was
steadily accumulating funds in order to acquire living quarters for herself and her daughter. Nothing on earth meant as much as Lisa did: Lisa would have a decent life and a good education with a
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