do.' Again, there were no more than ten or twelve top-class wheel-men in the capital.
'So, what've you heard? Who might be the market for a three point four?'
Yul moved his chair back in and drummed his fingers on the table. He glanced over his shoulder. 'This'll be worth my while?'
Len Haslam looked up at the warder and, with an inclination of his head, pointed him at the door. Once the big man had left, Billy told Yul, 'Tommy Butler said we could make it worth your while. Said you had his word.'
'I see.' The prisoner started on another cigarette, his tongue worrying his teeth. 'Well, before we get into that, there is one thing you can do for me straight off.'
Len relaxed, feeling the fish wriggling on the hook. 'What's that, Yul?'
'Have a word with the M.O. Get me on the asthma list.'
'Asthma?' Billy asked.
'Wheeze something dreadful, I do. Ask Stevie James, who I share a flowery with.'
A flowery dell, Billy automatically translated, a cell. He winked at him. 'I think you need an inhaler. Is that what you are saying?'
'A Benzedrex one, yeah.'
A supply of Benzedrex inhalers would make Yul a prince of the block, able to exchange hits of the amphetamine - usually boiled up as a soup - for fags or favours. At Chelsea Billy had come across plenty of lads marked for Borstal who suddenly developed bad lungs and tight airways. Never mind that the inhaler was mainly a decongestant that had little effect on asthma or that the only way to get a kick from it was to dissolve the drug-soaked strips of blotting paper inside, which meant taking in a nasty dose of menthol as well. The result was the 'minty-burp', which plagued users for days afterwards. The ragged high, they claimed, was worth the continuous taste of too-good-to-hurry-mints.
'Used to be a Teddy Boy, did we, Yul?' asked Billy. The Teds liked their inhalers and their pep pills as much as their bicycle chains and cut-throat razors.
'For a bit, yeah, when I was like, fourteen. When I still had hair I could get into a Duck's Arse.' He stroked his naked scalp, as if remembering a dear, departed friend. 'But the asthma's real, straight up.' He made a noise like a pair of bellows.
'I'll see to it,' said Len.
Yul fell silent as if gearing himself for the last sprint to the finish line. 'Urn . . .' he began, then thought better of it.
'Well?' asked Billy at last.
When Yul spoke, both the policemen knew why he had been so hesitant, why his voice shook slightly as he said, 'I did hear, before I got banged up, that Charlie Wilson wanted to see me about a bit of business.'
Once the firm had dispersed, Buster washed up the glasses and the saucers that had doubled as ashtrays. He liked to keep busy. It was too early to go to the club, and June wouldn't be back from Bingo for an hour at least. All that was on TV was Compact and This Is Your bleedin' Life.
It was at times like this Buster felt vulnerable to a strange melancholy. It blew through him like an east wind, cutting into his very heart, almost making him physically shiver. He wasn't sure what caused it, but for the time it had him in its grip, there were no jokes that could crack a smile, no drink that could cheer him. A half-bottle of Bell's wouldn't even take the edge off it; if anything, it made it worse. So he had to keep active, prevent the black mood from forming.
The washing-up done, Buster turned on the radio section of the Pye and as he waited for the valves to warm, he took all the hat-sizes and placed them in an envelope to deliver to Frank Rossman at his breaker's yard in New Cross. He must remember to take a brolly along, just in case. Frank, who was half-gypsy and worked in a vest in all weathers, probably didn't have an umbrella anything like the ones the City gents favoured.
The radiogram burst into life. The Northern Dance Orchestra and Bernard Herrmann came on, so he switched to Whack-O! with Jimmy Edwards, hoping for a lift in his spirits.
'Sir, sir. I am being punished for something I didn't
'So, what've you heard? Who might be the market for a three point four?'
Yul moved his chair back in and drummed his fingers on the table. He glanced over his shoulder. 'This'll be worth my while?'
Len Haslam looked up at the warder and, with an inclination of his head, pointed him at the door. Once the big man had left, Billy told Yul, 'Tommy Butler said we could make it worth your while. Said you had his word.'
'I see.' The prisoner started on another cigarette, his tongue worrying his teeth. 'Well, before we get into that, there is one thing you can do for me straight off.'
Len relaxed, feeling the fish wriggling on the hook. 'What's that, Yul?'
'Have a word with the M.O. Get me on the asthma list.'
'Asthma?' Billy asked.
'Wheeze something dreadful, I do. Ask Stevie James, who I share a flowery with.'
A flowery dell, Billy automatically translated, a cell. He winked at him. 'I think you need an inhaler. Is that what you are saying?'
'A Benzedrex one, yeah.'
A supply of Benzedrex inhalers would make Yul a prince of the block, able to exchange hits of the amphetamine - usually boiled up as a soup - for fags or favours. At Chelsea Billy had come across plenty of lads marked for Borstal who suddenly developed bad lungs and tight airways. Never mind that the inhaler was mainly a decongestant that had little effect on asthma or that the only way to get a kick from it was to dissolve the drug-soaked strips of blotting paper inside, which meant taking in a nasty dose of menthol as well. The result was the 'minty-burp', which plagued users for days afterwards. The ragged high, they claimed, was worth the continuous taste of too-good-to-hurry-mints.
'Used to be a Teddy Boy, did we, Yul?' asked Billy. The Teds liked their inhalers and their pep pills as much as their bicycle chains and cut-throat razors.
'For a bit, yeah, when I was like, fourteen. When I still had hair I could get into a Duck's Arse.' He stroked his naked scalp, as if remembering a dear, departed friend. 'But the asthma's real, straight up.' He made a noise like a pair of bellows.
'I'll see to it,' said Len.
Yul fell silent as if gearing himself for the last sprint to the finish line. 'Urn . . .' he began, then thought better of it.
'Well?' asked Billy at last.
When Yul spoke, both the policemen knew why he had been so hesitant, why his voice shook slightly as he said, 'I did hear, before I got banged up, that Charlie Wilson wanted to see me about a bit of business.'
Once the firm had dispersed, Buster washed up the glasses and the saucers that had doubled as ashtrays. He liked to keep busy. It was too early to go to the club, and June wouldn't be back from Bingo for an hour at least. All that was on TV was Compact and This Is Your bleedin' Life.
It was at times like this Buster felt vulnerable to a strange melancholy. It blew through him like an east wind, cutting into his very heart, almost making him physically shiver. He wasn't sure what caused it, but for the time it had him in its grip, there were no jokes that could crack a smile, no drink that could cheer him. A half-bottle of Bell's wouldn't even take the edge off it; if anything, it made it worse. So he had to keep active, prevent the black mood from forming.
The washing-up done, Buster turned on the radio section of the Pye and as he waited for the valves to warm, he took all the hat-sizes and placed them in an envelope to deliver to Frank Rossman at his breaker's yard in New Cross. He must remember to take a brolly along, just in case. Frank, who was half-gypsy and worked in a vest in all weathers, probably didn't have an umbrella anything like the ones the City gents favoured.
The radiogram burst into life. The Northern Dance Orchestra and Bernard Herrmann came on, so he switched to Whack-O! with Jimmy Edwards, hoping for a lift in his spirits.
'Sir, sir. I am being punished for something I didn't
Similar Books
