Queen of Green (Queen of Green Trilogy Book 1)

by V E Rooney

  “Alright, you Jenny’s mate?” I asked by way of introduction.

  “Aye. Two eighths,” he said in a blunt way.

  We had pre-agreed the order through our respective intermediaries but I couldn’t tell if this was a question or an order. I didn’t like his tone. Something was making me uneasy but I couldn’t tell what. All I knew was that the hairs on the back of my neck suddenly went ramrod straight up. Call it intuition or instinct. Something primal was pricking my senses. Karate skills or not, I wanted to get out of there and back to the disco as soon as poss.

  “£40 quid,” I stated.

  Runt mate spoke up. “Nah, give us a look at it first,” he said.

  I didn’t like the way this was going. Who the fuck were these two mardy sods giving me the odds? Fuck it, I just wanted out of there. I groped in my pocket for the wrap and held it out to them.

  They looked at the wrap, looked at each other and then back at me.

  Sergio brought his right fist up and smashed me in the face, knocking me to the ground. The pain came instantly. I thought my left eye was going to come out of my socket. Runt snatched the wrap out of my hand. I lay on the ground trying not to cry, like it made any difference. I was nine years old and back in the jungle again.

  The pair of them ran off laughing. “Cheers, you stupid cunt,” they howled as they disappeared out of sight. Cunts. But I was the biggest cunt of all. How fucking stupid was I? As I writhed around on the ground in agony, I realised I’d had it coming to me. I thought I was so fucking sharp, this girl who thought she could sell weed to people without any comeback, that no one would rip me off. Sooner or later I was going to pay the price for my arrogance, and here I was paying for it with pain and blood streaming out of my nose. It was also a valuable life lesson in learning to trust my instincts.

  Here’s the real kicker. Although I wanted to track the cunts down and disembowel them, I am glad that I got that kicking. If it hadn’t been for that incident, who’s to say whether I wouldn’t have received a more severe doing-over from some of the more unsavoury characters I would run into over the years?

  If you’re born a girl, growing up on an estate like mine where casual violence is the norm, you learn very early on in life that no matter how cautious you are, no matter how well-protected you think you are, there will always be others wanting to kick seven shades of shit out of you for no other reason than because they can. I’d seen enough women with black eyes and broken noses down the Boffin and in the townie to know that.

  It doesn’t matter why, whether it’s because of some perceived slight, whether you looked at someone the wrong way, whether it’s just for the buzz of smashing someone’s face in, even when you don’t even know the fucker – someone will always want to do you over because they can. No matter how much you’re willing to bend for someone, some fucker will always try and break you.

  I had an epiphany of sorts as I sat on the ground, tears of pain streaming down my face converging with the trickles of blood. I had just been done over for the sake of a few joints. What a fucking waste. I realised things had to change. I had to have some form of protection from now on. I’m all for sisters doing it for themselves and everything, but it’s times like this that make you realise fully just how different men and women are. I could be the cleverest fucking dealer on the planet but if I didn’t have the pure muscle to protect myself, I would soon end up bleeding to death in the gutter somewhere. I couldn’t go it alone any longer. I had to get some help.

  Who would’ve thought that the Boffin would be the location where I found my salvation? Don’t get me wrong, the fellas who drink in there by and large can handle themselves in a fistfight. I had seen enough bloodletting in there over the years to know who were the best brawlers. I also knew which ones were just pure psychos who would kick off at the least provocation. Those types were to be avoided. I didn’t want any hotheads making trouble for me. I needed someone who knew when to back off and when to get stuck in. Someone who was willing to go to war on my behalf for the right price and dish out some instant justice to anyone who tried to take the piss.

  Ste was usually the biggest bastard in any room. He was 6ft 4in his bare feet with the build of a rugby player, although boxing was his thing. He had a jaw like an anvil, and this heavy-set ridge above his eyes, like he’d inserted an iron rod across his forehead. Shoulders that could easily seat one person on each shoulder comfortably. I actually felt sorry for his mother. Imagine having to push this bag bastard out. Ouch.

  He was two years older than me, and now that he was legally allowed to drink, he could usually be found on his lonesome in the corner, watching the horse racing on the small telly bolted to the wall or reading the Echo or the Racing Post. Pint of Guinness always in front of him, that was his tipple of choice. Sometimes when he was feeling more sociable, he would hover by the pool table engaged in winner-stays-on. He was a quiet type and didn’t go out of his way to look for trouble, but if you tried to diddle him at pool or took the piss too much, he had his snapping point. Otherwise, he appeared solid, reliable.

  I had seen him in action a few times over the past few months and had watched on admirably. One afternoon, when the pub was only a third full, two lads were arguing by the pool table.

  You fucking moved my ball.

  No, I fucking didn’t, soft lad.

  You fucking did and all, you prick, I just saw you.

  Oh, get fucked, wanksplash.

  Next thing, one of them flung his half-full pint in the other’s direction, and it smashed into the wall. As everyone looked around to see who was kicking off, I saw Ste in his usual corner, peering at them over the top of his Racing Post. Then the two lads squared up to each other and began the push-me-pull-you routine so beloved by dickheads who aren’t sure whether they want to throw the first punch. Then one lad clattered the other over the head with his pool cue and it kicked off properly.

  But within three seconds of the pool cue coming down on the lad’s head, Ste had already shot up out of his seat and was next to the lads with four strides of his tree-trunk legs. He hauled both of them up by the collars of their T-shirts and dragged them towards the door like he was taking a couple of rubbish bags out. Then he hauled them both upright and with one seamless, effortless movement, launched them through the door at the same time. He growled after them.

  “Don’t you fucking kick off in my boozer, bell-ends.”

  The pub broke out into a smattering of polite applause and the barmaid said: “Nice one, Ste, here, have a Guinness on the house.”

  At this, the stern expression lifted and he looked like a bashful kid being given a sweetie by a kindly granny.

  “Aw, thanks. Nice one, love,” he said with a smile on his face as he ambled over to the bar for his reward.

  Maybe he would be glad of some extra money on top of the dole. It couldn’t hurt to ask.

  It was a drizzly Saturday afternoon with the pavements shimmering underfoot like dull cracked mirrors. I entered the Boffin and had a quick glance around. Not that busy today, but then again there would be a stream of fellas traipsing backwards and forwards between the pub and the betting shop down the road. I clocked Ste sitting in his usual spot, head down with his paper and checking the footie fixtures. I went over to the bar and ordered the drinks off the landlord.

  “Alright, Ali, love. How are you?”

  “Not bad, lad.”

  “What can I get you?”

  Now, the thing is, I’m still only 16 at this point and even though I only want an orange juice, the landlord can’t serve me alcohol.

  “Orange juice for me. And a pint of Guinness, please.”

  The landlord frowns at me. “You know I can’t do that, girl.”

  “It’s not for me,” I say, nodding over at Ste in the corner. “It’s for him over there.”

  The landlord’s looking at me with an incredulous expression. “What the fuck is this? Compliments of the lady and all that? Trying to get in there, are you?�
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  “Behave. Look, I know you can’t serve me alcohol. But there’s nothing saying that I can’t pay for it and then you serve it to someone else. Is there?”

  He puffs his cheeks out at me. “Alright then. Just this once, mind.”

  So the landlord pours the Guinness, takes it over to Ste and plonks it down on the table. I hear Ste saying: “What’s all this?” And the landlord is nodding at me as I make my way over and sit down at Ste’s table before he can say anything else.

  Ste’s eyebrows shoot up like a pair of caterpillars rearing up for a fight before settling down into a ‘what the fuck’ kind of frown. I give him a hesitant smile and nod at him. “Mind if I join for a bit?” I ask.

  Ste looks at me, his mouth about to say something but stopping because he really hasn’t got a clue what what’s happening. “Er, alright.”

  “I’m not trying to get off with you or anything, just so we’re clear, right?” I say. His eyebrows rear up again.

  “Er, well, I should hope not,” he splutters. “You even old enough to drink in here? Hang on a minute, are you…that Clare…that’s your mum, isn’t she?” Ah, recognition at last.

  “Yeah, yeah. Listen, I need a favour. But whether you want to do it or not, I need it kept schtum, yeah?”

  “Go on,” he says before supping his Guinness. I can tell he’s debating whether to fuck me off or listen but he’s giving me the benefit of the doubt.

  I lower my voice and lean inwards. “You know how Mum and Janice sort you out every now and then with stuff?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Well, thing is, I’ve joined the…erm…family business, so to speak.”

  “Oh aye?”

  “Yeah. Listen, how do you fancy making a bit of extra dosh every now and then?”

  He looks like he’s trying to stifle the giggles.

  “What, off you? Doing what?”

  “Oh, it’s cash in hand, like,” I say in a reassuring way, because I know he’s signing on.

  He laughs now. “It’d best be fucking cash in hand, whatever it is.”

  OK. How do I explain this? Deep breath and just give him the odds. I tell him how I’m branching out by myself, but how no one will take me seriously without back-up, how I’ve had the shit kicked out of me already, and how I need someone with his skills and presence to take care of the physical side of things. And if he helps me out, I’ll bung him pocket money and he can even have a few free samples of the produce if he wants. Can’t say fairer than that.

  He stares at me, sups his Guinness again, smacks his lips and exhales slowly. Here come the caterpillar eyebrows again.

  11. PRE-LAUNCH PREPARATION

  Ste had gone to Saint Kevin’s, the Catholic all-boys comprehensive right next door to Ruffwood. There was just a narrow stretch of field separating the two schools. I had often wondered what was going through the minds of the civic planners when they agreed to this, because it wasn’t uncommon for gangs of kids from one school to chase down gangs of kids from other schools, not because of any personal animosity, but just because they went to different schools. Seemed like a stupid idea to build two next to each other, but what the fuck do I know about educational infrastructure?

  The proximity of a Catholic boy’s school right next door to a non-denominational mixed school was just asking for trouble. And the strip of land separating the two served as a staging area for pitched battles. I suppose it was one way of working off teenage energy and testosterone. Every Friday lunchtime the lads from Ruffwood would line up against the lads from Saint Kev’s, cheered on by an excitable audience of equally hormonally-crazed girls shouting encouragement.

  Go on, Tommy, kick him in the bollocks!

  Oh my God, this is fucking boss, he’s dead fit.

  I fancy the arse off him over there.

  You can’t fancy someone from Saint Kev’s, you slag.

  When the lads kicked off at the sound of a whistle from one of the Ruffwood girls, it was like watching hordes of barbarians running at each other. They’d kick and punch the shit out of each other, wrestle each other, the lot. And then the bell ending lunchtime would ring and everyone would stop fighting, pick up their bags and blazers and walk back to their respective schools like nothing had happened. Ste told me that’s how he got into boxing, after he was left with a bloody nose from being whacked in the face by a bigger lad from Ruffwood.

  August 1989. GCSE results day. I had passed six of the fuckers, with four A grades in maths, English, history and business studies. I should’ve been made up, really. But the end of school had crystallised the fact that I was going to forego further studies in favour of the thing I really wanted to do – grow and sell dope.

  I walked out of the Ruffwood school gates for the last time, shoving the results paper into my jacket pocket. I felt a tangible sense of freedom as I crossed over the road and headed into the townie with Gillian and Debbie to meet up with Ste and John. I stopped off at a phone box and called Mum to tell her the good news.

  “Hiya. I passed six and got four As,” I said, in a matter of fact way.

  “Oh my Christ. You got four As? Fucking hell, love!” she screeched down the line. “Fuck knows where you get your brains from, because it’s not from me, I know that much.”

  “Behave. Yeah, it’s boss. The teachers were buzzing, kept nagging me to change my mind and stay on and do A Levels.”

  “You should, you know. You could get into uni with those results.”

  “And do what? I’ll just have more exams and grades but still have no job at the end of it. Nah, I’d rather start earning money now.”

  “Mmmm,” she murmured. “Well, what are you doing to celebrate?”

  “I’m meeting up with Ste and John in a bit, gonna go round to Ste’s for a party.”

  “Are you sure you two aren’t courting?”

  “What, me and Ste? Mum, I’ve told you before, we’re just mates, alright?”

  “You two are always out and about together. You must be getting up to something,” she said with a condescending manner. Little did she know.

  Ste was now my mate and unofficial ad-hoc bodyguard/enforcer. Once I had arranged a deal and drop-off point with the customer, I would phone Ste and fill him in to meet up with me beforehand. Sometimes I would go and meet him at Kirkby Sports Centre, where he would often be pummelling the punch bags and sparring with the other boxers. He had no designs or ambitions to become a professional, or even amateur. Boxing was his exercise routine, a way to keep fit and burn off aggression, even though Ste only got aggressive when a customer was dawdling about payment.

  Most of the time we had no bother with people paying up, although some people tried to take the piss. The usual hard luck stories from scallies which would come out only after I had already handed the weed over to them on their doorstep or in whatever public place we had agreed on.

  There was this one customer who was a real pain in the arse and always tried to blag his way out of paying. Gav was the archetypal scally – trackie uniform and trainers, knock-off La Coste polo shirts, crewcut and ciggie permanently hanging out his gob. He lived in Tower Hill in a terrace three-bedroom house, a stone’s throw away from the townie. I would duly trudge over there, hammer on his front door and wait for him to take his sweet time answering. Then I’d be stood there for far longer than I wanted to, as he reeled off all the reasons why I should let him have a tab or defer payment.

  Oh yeah…do you mind if I pay you next week, girl? Giro’s late.

  Aw, girl, I’m brassic this week, can I pay you next time?

  Do us a favour, Ali, you know I’m good for it.

  I was getting sick of it. So when he called me with his usual £10 order, by this point he already owed me £60, and I knew he’d keep trying to duck and dive it. That all changed with Ste. I filled Ste in on the way over there.

  “I’m sick of this prick, more bloody bother than he’s worth. I swear down, he’s allergic to his own fucking wallet. I’ve never seen h
im stick his hand in pocket, not once, not even when it’s his turn for a round,” I said with a grimace.

  “Well, he thinks you’re a mug, doesn’t he?” Ste said in a condescending way that only he could get away with. “The first time you let him off, he reckoned you were a soft touch. You can’t be doing that, girl, you may as well hand it out for free once people peg you down like that.”

  “Not any more. That’s why you’re here.”

  “Just so I’m prepared, like, what’s he like? Big lad?” Ste said as he cracked his knuckles as we walked.

  “Nah. Spotty streak of piss, but thinks he’s a hard knock, know what I mean?”

  “Oh aye? We’ll see about that,” he said confidently.

  We got to Gav’s door and I knocked loudly as Ste stepped sideways out of sight. “There in a sec,” I heard Gav shout from within the house. After another 15 seconds with no sign of him answering, I rolled my eyes. Ste shook his head. I knocked again. A shout of “hold your fucking horses, will you, girl?” from inside the house.

  “Disrespectful, that is,” Ste said, furrowing his brows and shaking his head.

  After another minute, Gav pulled the door open, wearing a pair of trackie bottoms and a white vest. He yawned and scratched his bollocks. “Alright, girl,” he said as he leaned against the door. He rubbed his eyes. “Listen, girl, is it alright if I pay you next week? Fucking Giro’s late again,” he said casually.

  I sighed. “Jesus, Gav. You must have the worst dole office ever. All these Giros not turning up. It’s so weird.”

  “Ah, come on, girl, you know I’m good for it, alright?” Then the cheeky twat held his hand out, expecting me to hand him the wrap.

  Just then, Ste stepped into view alongside me. Gav’s eyes widened in surprise and disbelief, especially when Ste hauled him up by his vest and pinned him to the wall by the door. That woke him up.