Haterz by James Goss Page A

restaurant washing dishes. It’s a great way to watch people, but it ruins your hands. I saw Jaramy at work. He was actually a great waiter and a brilliant drugs dealer. I joined him for a cigarette break or two outside. And, once we had bonded, I brought up the subject.
    “No,” he shut it down immediately. “I never deal to staff here. And never on the premises.”
    “That’s fine,” I reassured him. “It’s more that I would like you to give someone some drugs.”
    “What?”
    “I’m a reporter,” I told him. He groaned. “And I’d like you to give a celebrity some drugs. There’s nothing wrong with the stuff. They’ve just got a tracer in them—a marker which means we can find him with the drugs inside him. Just tipping us off to his location. He’ll never know you were involved.”
    “No, thanks,” said Jaramy. “I don’t like my clients, but I do like having them. I’m respectable.”
    “I’m a reporter,” I repeated and handed him over a wodge of photos I’d taken, showing him handing over drugs to a variety of interesting names.
    “Oh,” sighed Jaramy appreciatively. “Good blackmail.”
    “I thought so.”
     
     
    I N THE END it didn’t cost that much money. I had the pictures. I also told him who the victim was and he laughed. “I hate that little shit,” he sighed. “He’s a very rude customer.”
    Rude to a drug dealer?
    “No, rude to waiters. He was once smoking in the restaurant, and my friend Paula asked him not to. He smiled, apologised ever so nicely, and then stubbed the cigarette out on her hand.”
    I boggled.
    Jaramy shrugged. “She got some money out of it. No one saw because he always dines in those clam-shell booths. That’s kind of why they’re there.”
    He was disappointed when I gave him the drugs. “Where the hell did you get these from?” he asked. Brixton Market actually, behind a vegan falafel stall. “These are awful. Seriously, man, I have my pride to consider.” This was a worry—there were ingredients in these drugs which were important, I started to explain. I had done my research carefully and...
    Jaramy sighed. “Listen, don’t give me any of that genetic marker bullshit. You’ve put laxatives in here. I can tell. It’s fine and fairly normal. But the drugs you’ve cut them with are pretty pound shop.”
    Trust me, when a Frenchman says ‘pretty pound shop’ it’s kind of sexy.
    “Tell me what you’re up to.”
    I started to explain what I was doing, but I chose the wrong words. “I was looking on Google and—”
    Jaramy did a lot of laughing then. “Seriously, what kind of shit have you been reading?”
    I told him I had actually been reading about shit. Specifically, I had noted all of the prescription drugs that Harry was taking, as listed on his various charge sheets. Then looked up all the side-effects. And one of the three antidepressants reacted badly, prodigiously, with laxatives. I knew that drugs were frequently cut with laxatives, but I needed there to be a lot in order to cause the right reaction.
    Jaramy seemed a bit more impressed by that. “Fine,” he said, “I’ll cut the drugs. The things I do for you, eh?”
    He then went back to serving people food that they could take pictures of, and I went back to washing the leftovers off the plates.
     
     
    J ARAMY HELPED ME get a job at the hotel as a night cleaner. It was through the same service company who provided washers-up to Jaramy’s restaurant, so it actually wasn’t that hard, but he acted as though he was pulling a massive favour. The trick, of course, was to be on the list for at least a week before and after Harry was supplied with drugs. So that I didn’t come under suspicion. Whenever anything like this happens, the casuals rota at a hotel was bound to scatter—they knew the police would be coming, and anyone with even a spent conviction, let alone a dodgy immigration status, would run for the hills, thus attracting plenty of police attention. But,