Chapter 12

Skree scoring again in Glastonbury

I hate getting paid at midnight. Which government knobhead came up with that one? The only things open at midnight out here in the sticks are drug dealers. It’s like during Covid. The coke dealers were unphased by it and it was business as usual. Only now they were delivering and once that pattern was established it never changed. But for gear it was slightly different. The North Somerset towns, Radstock, Frome and to a lesser extent Glastonbury had avoided the county lines model that seemed to excite the police and media. The smack scene was deeply established and dealers had been plying trade with out any trouble for two decades before the county lines became a thing. Each had a tight network of friends and associates and were essentially supporting their own habit. Personally I’d always rather score off someone who took the stuff too. How else do you know how good your tackle is? When the white came in, much later than back in Leeds where I was from where you scored both off runners. The number would be valued and sometimes sold. You’d order two whiskey and a brandy. So now that white had taken over in Somerset there were a lot of crackheads who didn’t do gear. And most bought powder and washed it up themselves. Either with bicarbonate of soda that binds to the coke to crack. Or using ammonia which is essentially free basing. Most would rinse it a couple of times to get rid of the ammonia but some pipes I’ve been given I thought my lungs were going to collapse. Ammonia is a poison. I can remember my grandad helping us out with our butterfly boards by putting them in a jar with some ammonia soaked in cotton wool that gassed them before we pinned them to our boards. Fuck! That’s so 70s. We had birds egg collections too. No one, well no one sensible would do that now. Instead I use an iPhone to photograph butterflies and moths.

So having just been paid all I could find was white. Five or six places. But no gear anywhere. I thought I’d sorted some down in Glastonbury but by the time I was there the cunts phone was off. I desperately rang around starting to rattle as the thought of no gear until tomorrow lunchtime when my usual dealers came on. Scrolling through my numbers I found Steph who lives in Glastonbury and though not a dealer knew what was where, especially if I could drop her a stone off. But even she struggled to think of anyone I hadn’t already tried.

“Are you in a motor?”

“Yes. Have you got someone?”

“Beamer down in Bridgewater. He’s usually on all night or one of his runners will be.”

“Will he serve me? I’ve never met him I don’t think.”

Fuck! It was a bit of a drive and it was already 1:45am.

“He’ll be fine. I’ll ring him first to let him know that you’re ok. Can you drop me something off on your way back for setting it up?”

“Yep! Ring me back when you’ve rung him.”

I was definitely starting to cluck now. I crossed my fingers as I waited for her to ring me back. A car slowly pulled past. The first I’d seen in the last hour. They looked shifty and definitely not police. Two minutes passed. Where the fuck had she got to? I was starting to think this was not a goer.

My phone lit up with Stephs number.

“What’s he say?”

“Sounded a bit weird. He’s on some big roundabout just at the Hinckley Point turn off. I could hear a few voices but he says it’s sound. Good gear and top white he reckons. I’ll text you his number. Don’t forget me in your will.”

“Thank you so much! I’ll not forget you. You’ve saved my life!”

Thank fuck! It was a good drive but if the quality was what she said I’d be happy. It was a trick of mine back in the day when I used to hitch hike a lot. Big roundabouts were usually full of thick shrubs and trees that gave you cover from any passing drivers or pedestrians and no one goes on to them apart from occasional council landscape gardeners. Made me think of Lipton. I’d shown him the trick and we’d spent a few nights camped out on roundabouts.

With the last traces of the gear wearing off I began to get a bit emotional. What a crazy mission they’d embarked on with the Clun Druid lads and their witches. We’d done it. Succeeded in smashing Rupert Bunsens Noah project. I felt survivor guilt. I’d seen Christ blown to pieces. Even he surely couldn’t survive that. And through the psychedelic haze I’d seen the rest pulled under as the demon eel hybrid the girls had summoned up , a seething mass of conger eels drawn together into a huge sea serpent that viciously tore its way through the hole blown into the side of the spaceship, eating all and everyone it could find. It was all a little hazy. As usual it was me that was using my shamanic condition to pull at the thin dimensional membranes to ensure the demon could maintain itself in our dimension. I’d held it for as long as I could and I could see the majority of passengers were eaten alive but finally the strength of my state was fading and I could hold out no longer. I climbed aboard a pallet that had been thrown from the boat Lipton was piloting and as it dawned on me that the people I loved most were now gone I saw none other than the architect of the crazy scheme flapping about, unable to swim and likely would have died had I not pulled him out from the frothing waters.

Stephs text came through and I rang the number she had sent.

“Beamer? Steph just gave me your number. Is it ok to see you?”

“Yeah man! We’re on that roundabout.”

“Yes. She said. I know where you mean. Have you got both still?”

“You’ll have to be quick. I’m with two lunatic crusties and they’re caining my load at a hell of a rate. I’ll keep some back if you’re definitely coming.”

“I’ll be about an hour, tops. I’ll leave the car in a lay-by and come find you.”

“See you soon boss.”

Fucking sorted. Now I knew I was scoring the clucking subsided and I continued to reminisce about that day of madness. I got Bunsen ashore. His project was fucked and there’d been enough death already that day. He’d been a decent host. I’d managed to pretend that I’d been a ticket holder on his ship. At first he seemed a little suspicious but I knew enough to lie my way into his heart. I was unfamiliar with the cutlery lay out but affected a nonchalant demeanour and built a back story in snippets, returning to my room to convalesce and read the books he had in the guest room. He’d appeared to grow fond of me even, introducing me to the few survivors as the man who had pulled him from the sea. He even provided a private jet to take me home. I’d promised to keep in contact but fuck that.

These were still fresh memories and they filled my mind on the drive down to Bridgewater.

I parked the piquanto in a lay-by a short distance from the roundabout. The bushes and trees worked well and if I hadn’t already known I’d not have noticed the flicker of fire and the smoke above their fire. There was no traffic hardly and it was close to 3am now. I could hear voices. One a gruff laughter that sounded familiar and two that joked together in the street slang and the homogeneous accent shared now by teens and twenty year olds. I circled the bushes until I found a thin spot in the overgrowth and made my way into the firelight.

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