Storms. Chris Vick

were papers, cigarettes and a small bag of weed.

      ‘I don’t really smoke,’ said Jake.

      ‘Thass all right. Make one fer me.’ He got back to sanding, frowning, focusing.

      ‘Funny that,’ said Jake. ‘It’s drugs I’ve come about. I’ve got a sort of … business proposition.’

      Ned froze for a second before he blew dust off the board.

      ‘Yeah? Thought persians weren’t your thing?’

      ‘I need some dosh for Hawaii. Quick. Money doesn’t grow on trees.’

      ‘Yeah? Whoever said that never tried selling weed.’ Ned chuckled.

      ‘I’m not talking about weed.’ Jake dug in his pocket and placed a small foil pack on the board, in front of Ned. ‘Can you tell me if this is … any good? I can get more. But I need help selling it.’ Jake carefully opened the foil envelope, revealing the powder inside.

      Ned went and turned the music off.

      ‘How much did you pay for that?’ he said.

      Jake’s brain scrambled for an answer. ‘Um. Fifty.’

      Ned shook his head. ‘Dude. You’ve been ripped off.’

      ‘Oh,’ said Jake. ‘Is there not fifty quid’s worth there?’

      ‘Oh, yeah. Fifty notes’ worth of baby-milk powder, mixed with a bit of speed, probly. But not coke.’

      ‘How do you know?’

      Ned laughed at Jake’s innocence. ‘If that was Charlie, you’d have coughed up more than that. Who sold you this shit?’

      ‘Never mind. If it’s duff I’ll take it back.’

      ‘Dealers don’t do refunds, you muppet. Anyway, why’ve you bought coke if you don’t do it yerself?’

      ‘Can you just give it a try?’ said Jake, trying not to sound impatient.

      ‘All right, just for you …’ He rooted around his shelves and drawers, till he’d found a roof slate, a credit card and a ten-pound note. He set all this up on the table, next to the board he was working on. Using the card, he carefully scraped a small bit of the crumbly powder out of the foil and on to the slate, and set about chopping at the small boulders and lumps till he was left with nothing but fine powder. He used the edge of the card to form a line. He didn’t snort it, though. Not at first. Ned licked the end of his finger, dabbed it in the end of the line of snowy powder, and tasted it.

      Fun drained from his face. He looked at Jake, dead curious. And serious. He rolled up the tenner, leant over, and Hoover-snorted the line of powder. He stood up. Stick-straight, like he’d had an electric shock.

      ‘Holy shit,’ Ned wheezed.

      ‘Well?’

      ‘Holy shit!’ Ned stood up, sniffing, blowing, walking around, like he was too big for the room all of a sudden. ‘Holy shit!’ Ned sucked in deep breaths, one after the other. He clicked his fingers, repeatedly. It was weird. ‘Holy shit.’