War on the Streets. Peter Cave

shrugged. ‘Does it matter? Caring goes with the job.’

      Manners conceded the point – with reservations. ‘Caring, maybe. Getting too personally involved, no. You’re getting in too deep, Paul. Maybe it’s time to think about a transfer out of drugs division for a while.’

      Carney blew a fuse. ‘Dammit, Harry, I don’t want a bloody transfer. What I want is to get this job done. I want every dealer, every distributor, every small-time school-gate pusher out of business, off the streets, and in the nick.’

      ‘That isn’t going to happen, and you know it.’

      Carney nodded his head resignedly. ‘Yeah. So meanwhile I’m supposed to just tot up the casualties without getting uptight – is that it?’ He paused, calming down a little. ‘I suppose you know we’ve got a batch of contaminated smack out on the streets in the SW area?’

      Manners shook his head. ‘No, I didn’t,’ he admitted. ‘How bad is it?’

      ‘Bad bad,’ Carney muttered. ‘Two kids dead already and one more in a coma on a life-support system. That’s just the tip of the iceberg. We don’t know yet how much more of the stuff is out there, or how widely it’s already been distributed. And on top of that, there’s this new synthetic shit which has started to come in from Europe. Early reports say that it’s really bad medicine.’

      Manners smiled sympathetically. ‘OK, Paul, I’ll get you what extra help I can,’ he promised. ‘Meanwhile, you go home and get some sleep, eh?’

      Carney grinned cynically. ‘We don’t need help, my friend – we need a bloody army. That’s a fucking war out there on the streets.’

      ‘Yeah,’ Manners said, and shrugged. There was nothing he could say or do which would make the slightest amount of difference. He turned back towards the door.

      ‘Oh, by the way,’ Carney called after him. ‘You think I get too personally involved. You want to know why?’

      Manners paused, his hand on the door-knob.

      ‘The kid on the life-support system,’ Carney went on. ‘His name’s Keith. He’s fifteen. His parents live in my street.’

      Glynis Jefferson studied the row of sordid-looking tenements through the windscreen of the Porsche with a distinct feeling of unease. This was definitely not Sloane Ranger country. This was ghettoland. Under normal circumstances, she would have jammed the car into gear and driven away as fast as she could. But tonight she was not in control; all normal considerations were driven out of her mind by her desperate craving. She checked the address on the slip of paper, identifying the block in question. Glancing nervously about her, she stepped out of the car and walked up to the front door. Rows of bells and small cards identified the building as divided into numerous bedsitters and flatlets.

      The door was slightly ajar. Cautiously, Glynis pushed it open, wrinkling her nose in disgust at the stench of filth and squalor which wafted out. She stepped gingerly over the threshold into a dark, dingy and filthy hallway, littered with junk mail and other debris. For a moment her instincts screamed out at her to turn back, run away. But then the shudders shook her body again, a pain like a twisting knife shrieked through her guts. She walked down the hallway past a row of grimy doors, most with bars or metal grilles over the glazed top half.

      She stopped at the fifth one and knocked urgently. There was a long pause before the door opened a few inches and a pair of shifty eyes inspected her through the crack. Obviously they liked what they saw. The door opened fully to reveal Tony Sofrides, grubby and unshaven, with dark, oiled hair hanging down to his shoulders in greasy, matted strands. He was wearing only a soiled T-shirt and a pair of equally filthy underpants. His eyes ran up and down Glynis’s body as though she were a prime carcass hanging in a meat warehouse.

      ‘Well, you’re a bit out of your patch, aren’t you, princess?’ he drawled, noting her expensive night-club apparel. ‘What’s the matter? Lost our way to the Hunt Ball, have we?’

      Glynis thrust the piece of paper under his nose. ‘Nigel M sent me. I need to score.’

      Sofrides snatched the paper out of her hand, scanning it with suspicious, furtive eyes. ‘Did he now? Presumptuous little bastard, ain’t he? So what did he tell you?’

      ‘That you were a reliable supplier. I need Charlie. You holding?’

      Sofrides leered at her, revealing a row of yellowed teeth. ‘I’m always holding, baby,’ he boasted. ‘Regular little mister candy-man to those who know how to treat me right.’ He stepped back from the door, inviting her to enter. ‘Come on in, sweetheart.’

      Glynis hesitated, despite her urgent craving.

      Sofrides shrugged. ‘Look, you wanna score or not? I don’t do business in hallways and I ain’t got time to fart about. Now you either come in or you fuck off. Your choice.’

      Glynis made her choice. Reluctantly she stepped into the sordid bedsit, glancing around at the filth and mess in disgust as Sofrides closed the door behind her.

      Catching the look on her face, Sofrides glared at her. ‘No, darling, it ain’t your daddy’s country house in Essex, but it’s where I live. So don’t turn your pretty little nose up, OK?’

      Glynis rummaged in her handbag and pulled out a thin wad of notes. ‘Look, can we get this over with? I just want a couple of hits to tide me over, but I’ll take more if you want to make a bigger deal.’

      Sofrides glanced at the money contemptuously, returning his eyes to her body. ‘Actually, darling, I’m not exactly strapped for cash right now,’ he said. He paused, jerking his head over to the grimy, unmade bed in the corner of the room. ‘But I am a little short on company, if you know what I mean. Wanna deal?’

      Glynis shuddered – but this time it was mental revulsion rather than the desperate need of her drug-addicted body. ‘No thanks,’ she spat out, turning towards the door.

      Sofrides jumped across the room, cutting off her retreat. ‘Wise up, kid,’ he said, grinning wickedly. ‘It’s four in the morning and I’m your last chance. Do you really think you can hold out for much longer?’ He raised his hand, extending one finger and running it slowly across her lips, down her throat and into the cleavage of her breasts. ‘Now, are we going to play or not?’

       3

      The sex was quick, violent and sordid. Afterwards Glynis felt dirty all over, and it wasn’t just the accumulated sweat and grime clinging to the grey bedsheets. Thankful that it was over, at least, she dressed hurriedly as Sofrides lay back on his pillow, grinning with post-coital pleasure.

      Glynis glared at him, undisguised loathing in her eyes. ‘Right, you’ve been paid in full. Now what about my score?’

      Sofrides leered at her. ‘I got bad news for you, princess. Apart from having me tonight, you’re right out of luck. Ain’t a snort of coke in the place.’

      It took several seconds for the words to sink into Glynis’s mind. When it finally did, her first reactions were of shock and sheer panic, quickly followed by a wave of pure hatred. ‘You lousy little bastard,’ she screamed. ‘You told me you were holding.’

      She hurled herself across the room in a blaze of fury, her arms flailing wildly. Sofrides uncoiled from the bed like a snake, warding off the attack by grasping her by the wrist and twisting her arm savagely. Drawing back his free hand, he smashed her across one side of her face and backhanded her on the other. He pushed her to the floor, where she lay sobbing.

      The dealer looked down at her without pity. He crossed slowly to a chest of drawers, opened it and pulled out a flat tobacco tin, which he tossed on to the bed. ‘I got some smack, that’s all. Take it or leave it.’

      Glynis crawled to her feet, shaking and in pain both from the violence