The Big Whatever by Peter Doyle

myself of one of the training programs in jail. I did the Higher School Certificate.”
    I looked at my watch. “Get to the point, kid.”
    â€œI did first level science—” he paused, looked at Vic, then back to me, with a shy smile, “Chemistry, actually.”
    Vic looked at me, grinning hugely.
    I turned to the kid.
    â€œYoung feller, you have my full attention,” I said.
    â€œI found out quite a bit about organic chemistry. Especially in regard to what are called psychoactive substances. I found out cocaine and heroin are made from organic substances which are not that easy to get. But amphetamine sulphate – shit, I could make that myself.”
    Vic looked at the boy proudly then turned to me. “Yousee where this is heading?”
    â€œYou got a taste for me?” I said.
    The kid looked uncomfortable. “I’ve only made one test batch so far.”
    We were outside the milk bar. Vic said, “Let’s go in and get a milkshake.”
    We took a booth in the semi-dark at the back of the shop, ordered cappuccinos. There was no one else in the place.
    â€œSo, show me,” I said.
    The kid pulled a double-O cap from his pocket, tipped a little powder onto the glass tabletop. It had a weird glow to it.
    â€œIt’s yellow!”
    â€œIt’s not perfect. The next batch will be better.”
    Vic said, “Just give it a go, Mel, for Christ’s sake.”
    I rolled up a dollar note, sniffed it up.
    Vic put his hand on my arm. “Still a few bugs. It gives some people a headache. It goes away. Excellent piss after that.”
    My head started thumping. Every heartbeat was like a biff in the skull. Serious pain. Aneurism, haemorrhage territory. I reeled back, clutching my head. “You cunts have poisoned me.”
    â€œJust give it a moment.”
    Seconds later the headache stopped. My scalp contracted. I shivered. It was good. It was very good.
    The kid said, “I know precisely what the problem was. Next lot will be even stronger but no side effects. I guarantee it.”
    They were both looking at me, waiting.
    â€œWhat do you need? And how long will it take?”
    Within a week we had the Boy Wonder installed in a laboratory – by which I mean a tin shed way out back of a deserted farmhouse, hidden behind trees, on a dead end road, out Echuca way. The kid was very thorough, clean and careful. And he knew his science. Gave me hope for the coming generation.
    The makings had been easy enough to get, and sure enough, the next batch was sweet – no cranium-busting, just a good clean speed buzz.
    By the new year Vic had started selling the shit to his bikey mates, who by all reports were taking to powder drugs with great enthusiasm. Some of them were selling it on to interstate truckies and the like, footballers even. The brawling and troublemaking routinely instigated by those various chaps changed somewhat in character, but what the hell, life is change, is it not, my jaded little nihilists?
    I was moving respectable quantities of the powdery stuff to the Carlton heads, extracting a few spondulicks here and there. By now I’d rounded up a crew of serious speed freaks, boys and girls who liked good shit and knew they liked good shit and didn’t fuck around.
    The Boy Wonder made himself useful in his off-hours by helping me with my music gear. Soon he was setting up the stage for the whole band, handling the PA and so on – he was good with electrics – brilliant, actually. Hotted up my amp, worked on Bobby’s PA.
    When the next batch of sulphate came in I took a bag of it to show Stan. It was six weeks since the weekend house party. He and Jimmy were staying in a big old terrace house in East Melbourne. Good pad, full of dark Victorian furniture, Persian rugs and whatnot. Denise and Cathy had moved in too. Cosy.
    I banged on the door, waited a while. A movement of the curtain, then Stan opened up. Jimmy the Thug