of what would presumably be a dragon’s lumbar spine. Craig’s roaring with laughter, his belly wobbling up and down as his hand fumbles around for some kind of handbrake on the hilarity and he snorts as he struggles to get air in. A thrashing foot takes out the bag of Twisties, the china dragon and four or five stubbies on the coffee table.
And still the Hoff is yowling. The crowds below him are rapturous at first but as the same dirge-like verses loop over and over they visibly tire of him. Someone lobs a firecracker at him, and he ducks it mid-chorus.
Craig has sensed the mood of impatience in Berlin: he leans forward and kills the telly, turns to me with the last vestiges of achuckle dying round his cheeks. ‘I gotta go get something.’
There’s a jangling sound as he scoops up his car keys.
‘Can’t it wait? It’s, what, two a.m.’
Since we’ve rented the Richmond place together, we’ve had a loosely synchronised life. He works for the leasing company by day, while I train and annoy Wally at the shop. Then he disappears at night and I sometimes tag along to clubs and bars, but more often I leave him to his other life, whatever it is. Every so often it comes down to these Nights of the China Dragon and VB in front of the box. The ritual is a particular favourite of his. So the idea of him wanting to run errands at this hour is a little perplexing.
‘Coming?’
‘Where?’
‘Just gotta get something. What’s this, the Spanish Indecision?’
I’m too stoned to argue and quietly intrigued about what Leasing Boy might be up to.
‘Relax, you fat fuck. Bring the Twisties.’
We’re going to Doveton, apparently. In the dark interior of Craig’s Skyline, we’re locked in one of those long silences that car travel and cannabis can produce. Every few minutes an idiotic smile spreads over my face.
Later we’re deep among tilt-slab factory walls, the wrappers of two burgers at our feet. Craig’s counting off numbers and names along a concrete apron. WM Ready Panel Works , Permafilm Industrial Coatings , Aquarium Supplies Ltd. He brakes gently outside U-Store Self Storage and jumps out, sorting through his keys before a huge roller door.
‘Whose place is this?’ I ask.
‘Just some guys from FLS.’
‘They do a lot of business pre-dawn?’
Craig finds the key and hauls the door up, ignoring me. Down a narrow corridor, we come to a smaller roller-door. Inside, a miniature city of office equipment: copiers, printers, faxes, computer terminals. There’s a lot of polystyrene packaging and stacked cardboard.
Against one wall is a piece of machinery I don’t recognise. It’s not electronic.
‘What’s that?’
Craigo’s already on one end of it, lifting from the floor. ‘Grab the other end, will you?’
We haul the thing out of the storage bay and into the back of the Skyline. On the way home, he tells me it’s a pill press.
Yeah, I know.
Well, I do now. At the time, I truthfully didn’t have the slightest notion of what that meant or why someone would want one.
‘Remember the pills we had at Pulse, the night you’d made that ton against Northcote? Well that’s MDMA. The kids are calling it ecstasy. You make it in a garage for nothing and sell it for fifteen bucks a pill. Almost pure profit. Cut it with ketamine, it’s even cheaper.’
‘What’s ketamine?’
‘You don’t wanna go into that. Put it this way, it’s to do with horses.’
‘So,’ I probe, feeling the giggles wear off, ‘the thing in the back?’
‘I’m going into business with some guys,’ he says.
I feel a tug of sadness at these words.
I get it, I get it—he’s already been in business for some time. I’ve looked the other way because I prefer my version of Craigo, the affable fat man, mister dependable. Buying and selling for mates, moving a few things. Harmless, gormless. These ‘guys’ feel like an infidelity to me. Fair enough, he’s been drifting away from Wally for years. But that’s
And still the Hoff is yowling. The crowds below him are rapturous at first but as the same dirge-like verses loop over and over they visibly tire of him. Someone lobs a firecracker at him, and he ducks it mid-chorus.
Craig has sensed the mood of impatience in Berlin: he leans forward and kills the telly, turns to me with the last vestiges of achuckle dying round his cheeks. ‘I gotta go get something.’
There’s a jangling sound as he scoops up his car keys.
‘Can’t it wait? It’s, what, two a.m.’
Since we’ve rented the Richmond place together, we’ve had a loosely synchronised life. He works for the leasing company by day, while I train and annoy Wally at the shop. Then he disappears at night and I sometimes tag along to clubs and bars, but more often I leave him to his other life, whatever it is. Every so often it comes down to these Nights of the China Dragon and VB in front of the box. The ritual is a particular favourite of his. So the idea of him wanting to run errands at this hour is a little perplexing.
‘Coming?’
‘Where?’
‘Just gotta get something. What’s this, the Spanish Indecision?’
I’m too stoned to argue and quietly intrigued about what Leasing Boy might be up to.
‘Relax, you fat fuck. Bring the Twisties.’
We’re going to Doveton, apparently. In the dark interior of Craig’s Skyline, we’re locked in one of those long silences that car travel and cannabis can produce. Every few minutes an idiotic smile spreads over my face.
Later we’re deep among tilt-slab factory walls, the wrappers of two burgers at our feet. Craig’s counting off numbers and names along a concrete apron. WM Ready Panel Works , Permafilm Industrial Coatings , Aquarium Supplies Ltd. He brakes gently outside U-Store Self Storage and jumps out, sorting through his keys before a huge roller door.
‘Whose place is this?’ I ask.
‘Just some guys from FLS.’
‘They do a lot of business pre-dawn?’
Craig finds the key and hauls the door up, ignoring me. Down a narrow corridor, we come to a smaller roller-door. Inside, a miniature city of office equipment: copiers, printers, faxes, computer terminals. There’s a lot of polystyrene packaging and stacked cardboard.
Against one wall is a piece of machinery I don’t recognise. It’s not electronic.
‘What’s that?’
Craigo’s already on one end of it, lifting from the floor. ‘Grab the other end, will you?’
We haul the thing out of the storage bay and into the back of the Skyline. On the way home, he tells me it’s a pill press.
Yeah, I know.
Well, I do now. At the time, I truthfully didn’t have the slightest notion of what that meant or why someone would want one.
‘Remember the pills we had at Pulse, the night you’d made that ton against Northcote? Well that’s MDMA. The kids are calling it ecstasy. You make it in a garage for nothing and sell it for fifteen bucks a pill. Almost pure profit. Cut it with ketamine, it’s even cheaper.’
‘What’s ketamine?’
‘You don’t wanna go into that. Put it this way, it’s to do with horses.’
‘So,’ I probe, feeling the giggles wear off, ‘the thing in the back?’
‘I’m going into business with some guys,’ he says.
I feel a tug of sadness at these words.
I get it, I get it—he’s already been in business for some time. I’ve looked the other way because I prefer my version of Craigo, the affable fat man, mister dependable. Buying and selling for mates, moving a few things. Harmless, gormless. These ‘guys’ feel like an infidelity to me. Fair enough, he’s been drifting away from Wally for years. But that’s
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