Читать книгу Storms - Chris Vick, Chris Vick - Страница 25

JAKE STOOD OUTSIDE Ned’s house. He checked his phone: another message from Hannah. Shit. He turned it off. He’d call her. Right after he got this sorted.

Ned’s workshop was in his garage.

Above the main garage door, Ned had once painted a graffiti pic of Little Red Riding Hood holding a basket of spray cans, with the words: ‘Fear makes the wolf look bigger.’ But he’d painted over it now. Maybe it was a bit attention-grabbing for a weed dealer.

Jake knocked on the door. The rap music blasting out was so loud, he guessed Ned couldn’t hear. So he walked in.

A long rack of surfboards lay against one wall. Against the opposite wall were shelves filled with foam blanks, rolls of material and sanders. The equipment of a dedicated board shaper.

Ned stood in the middle of the garage, leaning over a board on a workbench. His overalls were stained, and his hair was hanging round his face. He was hand-sanding the tail of the board. Blowing on it. Sanding a bit more. Blowing again. Smiling at his handiwork.

Jake waited for Ned to look up. Ned turned the music down.

‘Thought you’d be out surfing, Jakey boy. Getting practice for yer big trip.’

‘Been already. You?’

‘Nah, waiting till it calms down a bit. Got this fix to finish anyway.’ Any talk with Ned started this way. About surf. Often it stayed that way. ‘You here for a board to take to Hawaii?’

‘No. That’s not why I’m here. Is Rag around?’

‘Little Bro? He’s off with his mates.’

‘Sue?’

‘Sue’s history, mate. Gave me the sack, the silly mare,’ he said, grinning and winking. That was Ned. Always grinning, always smiling. He had an easy flow about him. A permanent smile, which might be due to his almost always being stoned.

‘You don’t seem too upset,’ said Jake.

Ned shrugged. ‘Why you asking about Rag and Sue?’

‘What I need to talk about. It’s sensitive.’

‘Oh, right.’ Ned went to the shelf, found a tobacco tin and gave it to Jake. ‘If yer gonna distract me from my work, make yerself useful.’

Jake opened the tin. Inside 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.’