The London Irish

Joe liked his smack. He grew to like it via the usual soft drug route rather than falling into the arms of Morphia straight out, and he was funny with it, not a scag bore, no desperation, but chipper and bright while Aileen tiny, black hair and black leather ran fast at the mouth and was as brisk as the old man despite her own predilections for the brown. But he never sold it.

What he did sell was cannabis, bricks of it at a time. Originally a builder, he bought the gear in bulk and sold off bits to friends, which grew into a business where he dispensed large lumps to subcontractors who sold it on to the street. Joe was cute and kept his cards close to his inscrutable chest but the cops, galvanised as they were by Operation Julie, the largest LSD bust in history, a lot of which was emanating from South London estates, had their drug boots on and were determined to use them to stamp it out wherever they could find it.

When they did come for Joe, he was laying asleep in bed with Aileen. The door was knocked off its hinges and he was led into the street stark naked while they searched the premises. A giant black police officer stood on the doorstep leaning on the battering ram (known in police parlance as ‘the key’) and when Joe timidly asked, “What’s it all about?” replied, “Don’t ask me man, I’m just here to beat the door in.”

Joe, shivering, suggested that maybe he should be allowed some clothes, all the time hearing Aileen inside shrieking words to the effect, “Get out of my house,” and “Fuck off ye bastards,” and after consideration they surrendered his trousers. The Inspector was happy; this was a feather in the cap to be sure, saying: “We’ve got you this time Joe.”

“How’s that?”
“We found heroin.”
“No you didn’t, I don’t do heroin.”
“Yes, you do Joe, and we’ve got it.”
“Course you haven’t!”
“Yes, we have.”
“Where is it then?”
“It’s here,” said the officer pulling out a pack.

“Show me,” said Joe and the cop triumphantly unwrapped the package. Joe leaned over to take a closer look and then with a puff blew it out of the paper, the evidence dusting the officers uniform on its way to the ground.

“You dirty bastard,” said the officer brushing off his uniform and rendering the evidence no longer evident.

They got him in the end though and while he was inside, they impounded his Mercedes in the police station yard and left the sunroof and the windows yawning open. When Joe had done the time and went to collect his car, they jubilantly threw the keys at him knowing that the rain had done its job flooding the interior, rotting and rusting on its way and thus destroying Joe’s prize possession, a petty minded act of malicious revenge but Joe knew the rules of engagement and just shrugged his shoulders, left the keys in the ignition and walked home. C’est la guerre.