Breaking Out

by Janice Nix

  ‘How often would I have to do that?’

  ‘Couple of times a week. I won’t ever come to your house unless I have to. I’ll hold a house key for emergencies, but apart from that, I’ll stay away. The police might be watching.’

  Those words scared her. ‘Um,’ she said, ‘um, look – I’m not sure.’

  ‘Sab, I’m always careful – really careful. I’m working with experienced guys now.’

  ‘Who are they?’

  ‘The top boss in London. He’s got contacts all over.’

  ‘My God, Jan. Are you sure you know what you’re doing?’

  ‘Babe, it’s okay. The people at the top of the game – they’re always in control. No taking chances. No using the product. No getting all mashed up and losing judgement. We manage risk very carefully.’

  ‘Risk?’

  ‘Yes, some. But it’s on me. I won’t let it fall on you.’

  She was still frowning.

  ‘But these are people I don’t even know,’ she said worriedly.

  ‘No one else knows who you are. Information like that is controlled. It’s my safe house. You’ll just be working with me.’

  This seemed to reassure her.

  ‘Okay, JanJan. Okay. And the money would be nice.’

  ‘So let’s do this.’ I smiled at her to break the serious mood. Then I noticed a graze on her cheek.

  ‘Did you walk into a tree, Sab?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’ve scratched your cheek. It looks sore.’

  ‘Oh.’ She raised her fingers to the mark on the side of her face. ‘Yeah – actually, I did. It was ridiculous.’

  ‘You got some antiseptic?’

  ‘Yeah, I’ll use it. It’s fine, Jan. It’s nothing.’

  To Sabrina, all this had been just words, and I knew it. She didn’t truly understand how far down this road I’d gone. That was fine – she didn’t have to understand. Although I trusted her, the less she knew the better, for her own peace of mind.

  The voice on the phone was hoarse and strained.

  ‘Hey, Mama J. I’m in trouble. Can you help me out?’

  ‘Ivan?’ I said. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘I – I got robbed.’

  ‘You got what?’ I thought quickly. ‘Let’s not discuss this on the phone. Why don’t we meet?’

  I’d got to know Ivan pretty well. He was a runner, helping to make drug deals that reached across the world to Venezuela, Guyana, Africa, Brazil. Scully always gave me a heads-up when an international customer was bringing in their work. Agents in London took delivery – guys known as contacts. A good contact was the key to keeping the business running smoothly. Once the work had landed safely, the phone would ring and the sale would be arranged.

  I checked the quality myself before I bought. The men I dealt with were amazed that I could be the chemist, taking my sample from the middle of the parcel of white, then heating it to see how well the stone would form. If it was peng – the kind of quality I wanted – I’d pay the agreed price right away. If it wasn’t, I would walk away. There had never been a problem with Ivan. Up to now, I’d had him down as a pretty chill guy. It was hard to imagine how he’d made such a serious mistake.

  We met at the Hot Pot in Landor Road, Brixton. He was sweating. He told me he’d been played – swindled into handing over two ki with payment for just one. Then he never saw the guy again. He was angry with the dealer who had tricked him, and angry with himself – but mostly he was frightened.

  Now he was down a ki – and that could mean big trouble. The missing merchandise belonged to a major player called the Captain, based in Guyana, South America. When the Captain found out that he was thirty grand short, he was going to be very unhappy. The problem would be proving that the robbery had taken place at all. How did the Captain know that Ivan hadn’t sold the missing ki and pocketed the proceeds? He would have to explain it – and he wasn’t sure how. No wonder he was sweating.

  I saw a way to help him. It meant taking a risk – but to my mind, a good runner was worth keeping.

  ‘Here’s what we do,’ I told Ivan. ‘I’ll buy another ki from you and smash it out for sale. If we sell in smaller amounts, we make more on it. That way, the Captain gets some money back at least.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Yeah – that might help. And at least he’ll know I tried.’

  ‘Exactly. If you’d been trying to cheat him, you wouldn’t bother trying to make up for it.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘Janice – this is serious shit. What if he doesn’t believe me?’

  ‘It’s the truth,’ I said. ‘If the Captain’s got good judgement, he’ll know it when he hears it.’

  ‘Can I tell him about you?’ asked Ivan nervously.

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘For sure.’ He looked relieved.

  The deal went smoothly. Ivan got his money. A day or so later, he rang me again. He sounded much happier.

  ‘Janice,’ he said, ‘you did good for me, you know. The boss says he’d like to meet you.’

  The Captain was the top of the tree – a big international operator. I knew he must be ruthless. There was no way to run a set-up like his without taking some very tough decisions. And he wanted to meet me and talk business. This was serious now. I was up there at last, with the real players. Just where I’d wanted to be.

  I flew out to Guyana and booked into a hotel in Georgetown. Next morning, a chauffeur-driven car arrived to take me to the Captain’s villa. It was a beautiful journey, close to the banks of the deep brown Demerara River. We passed the old towns of Diamond and Grove, winding our way through open fields where sugar cane was growing. As we crossed the pontoon bridge, the road gently rose and fell beneath the car. The wealthier suburbs were approaching. I saw pavements lining the road in the place of muddy tracks.

  The car slowed. I felt a prickling of nerves as the moment approached. Electric gates swung open and we climbed a gently winding slope, surrounded by trees. We came out into a wide, sweeping driveway in front of a colonnaded house. Three expensive-looking cars were parked, one of them an old Morris Oxford. As I glanced through white arches to the side of the building, I caught the bright sparkle of a pool. There was no one to be seen – but everywhere around me I could feel the Captain’s enormous wealth and power.

  Two men led me through the cool of the house then out at the rear of the building. There was the swimming pool with plush-cushioned loungers and a bar. A dark-haired man in shorts and a vest was sitting at a table underneath an umbrella, smoking a hand-rolled cigarette. The Captain rose to his feet as I approached.

  He held out his hand in welcome. I had resolved not to give this man the slightest sign that I was intimidated. Control your mind, I remembered, and your mind controls your face.

  As I greeted him, I heard screeches. Behind the pool was an enormous aviary. Inside I saw flashes of colour – the brilliant wings of half a dozen parrots.

  ‘Mama J!’ the Captain said. ‘What a pleasure to meet you.’

  He spoke with an American accent.

  He took my hand in his, and looked into my eyes.

  ‘Take a seat, please,’ he said. ‘Can I offer you a drink?’

  ‘Thanks – that would be great.’ I was glad to be under the shade of the umbrella, shielded from the strong morning sun.

  He raised his hand – hardly more than a movement of his fingers, but a young man in a smart white shirt immediately came hurrying out from the house.

  ‘Bring some rum for my visitor!’ the Captain instructed. The young man turned at once and went to fetch it. As he disappeared into the shadows of the colonnade, I noticed that the two men who had welcomed me were still standing there, half-visible, watching.

  ‘Ivan has told me about you,’ the Captain went on. ‘And about your work in London. You know Scully?’

  ‘Yes, I know him very well.’

  ‘I respect him,’ the Captain told me.
r />   ‘So do I,’ I replied.

  ‘But,’ he went on, ‘I have a question for you. The business you are in – why would a woman do this?’

  ‘Strong women know how to work with men. We can do business.’

  He sat back in his chair and watched as his young attendant returned with a tray, two glasses with ice and a bottle of High Wine rum. When the drinks were poured, he raised his glass and I raised mine. The ice cubes clinked.

  ‘Cheers!’ the Captain said.

  ‘Cheers.’

  ‘So – you helped Ivan when he made his unfortunate mistake.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Because you were sorry for him. Tell me – would a man have done that?’

  ‘Maybe not,’ I answered. ‘I don’t think a man would have such good judgement.’

  ‘It was good judgement?’

  ‘Ivan is a man I know and trust. When he had a problem, I decided I should help him. Now, if I ever have a problem, Ivan will do the same for me. That makes it good business.’

  There was a silence. I sipped my rum. Then the Captain smiled.

  ‘Mama J, they call you. People like you are very rare. I have a proposition for you.’

  ‘A proposition?’

  ‘You are good at what you do. If I could get merchandise to you – would you be able to dispense it?’

  ‘What kind of merchandise?’

  ‘Come and see,’ the Captain said.

  He rose and walked indoors. He led me down a short flight of steps at the side of the house. There was a door, fitted with three heavy locks. One of his men had followed close behind, and stepped forward with the keys. Unfastening the door took several minutes. To step inside, I had to slightly bow my head because the archway was so low.

  The Captain’s strongroom was lined with shelves. Tightly wrapped packages were stacked on every shelf. There must have been a hundred ki right there. The Captain pointed to each shelf in turn.

  ‘Peruvian,’ he said. ‘And here, Bolivian Flake. This one – Pink Champagne. The very finest quality.’

  ‘You can send this product to me in London?’ I asked.

  ‘Most certainly.’

  ‘How much? And how often?’

  ‘To begin with, five ki a time. Let’s say – a shipment arriving every twelve weeks.’

  ‘Every twelve weeks? That’s very precise. How can you bring it in so regularly?’ I questioned.

  ‘We have a reliable green channel, from Georgetown to Dover. A route where our shipment will not be examined. We have our own people in place.’

  ‘I see. Well then – yes, I guess we can handle that.’

  ‘Good. Now – would you like to see the rest of the property?’

  We strolled in the sunlight. The young man who waited on the Captain came too, in case there was anything his boss might require. His bodyguards watched us from the edge of the trees. Behind the manicured grounds of his home, the Captain had a farm. He showed me round it enthusiastically, talking at length about his animals. He was just as proud of them as he was of his opulent poolside luxuries.

  ‘Mama J,’ he said suddenly, as we leaned on the low wall alongside the enclosure where his goats were grazing. ‘There’s something I would like to know. How did you come into this game?’

  I looked at him. I thought for a moment.

  ‘I could tell you,’ I said, ‘but then I’d have to kill you.’

  There was a breath-holding silence. Then the Captain roared with laughter. As soon as he laughed, his attendants all laughed too.

  When I checked out of my hotel in Georgetown two days later, I found that my bill had already been paid – by the Captain. A few days after that, my mobile rang in London.

  ‘Mama J?’

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘I’m calling from the farm. Boss says I have to send something for you. Just making sure that you have room for it when it arrives?’

  Ivan had been robbed because he was impatient. He didn’t check out who he was dealing with. I thought hard about that.

  My contacts were always in a hurry. It goes with the job. Holding on to merchandise is dangerous. When a mule comes into London with product, he passes it on to the contact as quickly as he can. The contact also wants the shipment gone – and fast. And I could use this haste to my advantage. This was the moment to have the notes ready – and negotiate for discount.

  ‘I can’t pay thirty grand a ki,’ I would tell them, ‘but I’ll take five ki off your hands right now for a hundred grand.’

  They’d always go for it. Then I’d get in touch with my buyers. I didn’t want to sit on product either. Holding on to work was the biggest risk anyone could run.

  Go home clean. That’s what Scully taught me – every time, no exceptions. Get rid of product as quickly as you can. Above all, don’t ever, ever store it where you live.

  9

  Money talk, bullshit walk

  APRIL 2017

  GODFREY HAD BEEN AGITATED when he arrived at the probation office. Now he was becoming even more so. A heavily built young black guy, he marched up and down the waiting room, breathing hard. He looked distressed and disorganised. His clothes were dirty. Every minute or so, he kept raising his arms to his head and frantically mussing up his hair.

  ‘I’m not leaving!’ he cried. ‘I’m not leaving!’

  I was watching through the window from the safety of the office. I could see that he had a white mark on the side of his mouth – like a skin tag, as though his lips were chapped. I’d noticed this before. People on anti-depressants quite often have this symptom. He must have a prescription to help him with his changes of mood. But judging by the look of him, whatever medicine he needed, he hadn’t been taking it.

  ‘He was like this when he came in last week, Janice,’ the receptionist told me. ‘And he said he was going to kill Emma. Are you okay to see him?’

  Probation work sometimes required us to put ourselves at risk. That was a fact. But still, there was a difference between talking to a vulnerable, agitated boy and facing someone violent and dangerous. How could we judge that risk? None of us were doctors. All we had to rely on was experience and instinct to try to make the call.

  Godfrey’s threat to harm Emma had been recorded. Any threat should be taken very seriously – but this didn’t always happen. There was pressure on all of us to carry on working, marking matters up as having been attended to. That was what the system required us to do. See the client. Tick the box. Submit the form. Next case. And do all this whether or not the situation had actually been resolved. But not everyone we saw could be dealt with in a standard way, within a tightly set amount of time.

  Under that kind of pressure, a conscientious officer might feel that she had to put herself in danger, just to meet her target. Or a fatal misjudgement might be made. I thought carefully before I replied.

  ‘Yes,’ I decided. ‘I don’t think Godfrey is a dangerous person. I think he’s making threats because he’s feeling upset. He’s not been taking his medicine.’

  ‘I’m not leaving!’ Godfrey yelled from the waiting room.

  ‘He’s feeling vulnerable here. He’s more worked up than when he arrived. I’d like to talk to him outside.’

  I opened the waiting room door, moving slowly, not wanting to startle the nervous man inside.

  ‘Godfrey?’ I said. ‘Hi there. I’m Janice. I’m an engagement worker here.’

  He stopped his pacing for a moment.

  ‘I don’t think we should stay indoors,’ I went on. ‘It’s too stuffy. Would you like to get some fresh air?’

  It was the middle of the morning. The sun was shining. The air was warm. As we walked side by side, his agitation lessened.

  ‘So, Godfrey,’ I said, ‘there’s something that’s upsetting you. Can we try to find out what that is?’

  ‘It’s – it’s –’ He raised both hands to his head, just as he had inside.

  ‘Take your time,’ I said. I didn’t want him to feel r
ushed. Important things get missed when everyone is always short of time.

  ‘It’s – oh, I don’t know, miss. I – I –’

  I touched his arm to calm him. ‘Godfrey. It’s okay.’

  ‘Miss!’ he burst out suddenly. His voice was filled with total desperation. ‘Miss, I’m homeless. I’m sick. I don’t get no attention. Bet if I got a gun and shot you, I’d get the attention then!’

  I knew I had to take what Godfrey had just said very seriously. But I didn’t want to frighten him, or harm his trust in me.

  ‘Godfrey,’ I said, keeping my voice light. ‘What did you really just say there?’

  He didn’t reply.

  ‘Because I don’t think you really want to shoot anybody. Do you?’

  ‘It’s the only way it seems like you get help,’ he muttered. ‘Do something bad to one of you lot.’

  ‘I don’t think there’s any need for that. I’d like to help you anyway.’

  ‘But miss – you don’t understand!’ He lifted his arms in distress.

  ‘What don’t I understand?’

  ‘Someone’s fucking with my head!’

  ‘Who’s doing that?’

  ‘People!’

  ‘Which people?’

  ‘They’ve called the police! They’re going to take me!’ Suddenly, Godfrey started to cry.

  ‘Please listen. I think the problem here is your prescription. You’ve not been taking it. That’s why you’re so upset and angry. If we can see a doctor and get that sorted out, things won’t seem so hard.’

  I thought he’d had enough for today. The probation office waiting room upset him, so taking him back there now wasn’t going to do much good.

  ‘Why don’t I book you a doctor’s appointment?’ I said. ‘I’ll phone you tomorrow and tell you when it is.’

  He seemed to agree, and drifted away up the street. I didn’t have much time to put a rescue plan in place. The moment I got back to my desk, I hit the phones. I had to make him a doctor’s appointment. But I quickly discovered that he wasn’t just excluded from the hostel. His surgery had banned him as well, for abusive and threatening behaviour.