Pegden Part 5

 

The door opened a crack. “Good it’s you.” Says Pegden peering through the crack, he opened the door to let me in. There was a bed in the corner, unmade. The duvet crumpled up. In the corner a flat screen TV. Next to it a small table with a plant in a pot on it. The plant had long since given up any hope of living. A few dog ends in the pot, kept the dead plant company in the afterlife. A wardrobe stood with a door hanging from one hinge. Opposite the TV was an armchair. The arms worn through to the lining, with cigarette burns all over the ends. In front of that, a coffee table strewn with empty beer cans, a full ashtray and a tobacco tin and papers. A wooden ski held a joss stick slowly burning away. The room smelt of Sandalwood and weed. I’d smelt worse. “Welcome to my abode.” Say Pegden. “It’s not much, but you know, this is just temporary, better things are on the horizon.”

At that moment I knew better things were never going to be on his horizon. For all his tall tales and adventure. This was it. “Nice.” I said. “Seems cosy.”

“It’s great here." he was trying to sound enthusiastic, but failing. "Close to town. But far enough away from trouble. It’s quiet down this street. Then I’ve got Skyla downstairs…”

“I think I met her on the way in.”

“She’s lovely. Heart of gold, that girl. Very intelligent. Had a good education. Not like me. University of life me.”

“She seemed nice enough. Only spoke to her briefly. She was on the way out.”

“oh yeah it’s that time. She usually goes out about now. Looking for work.” He gives me a knowing nod. “Anyway you’re looking for a quarter.” He stresses the word ‘quarter' and laughs

“OK don’t rub it in.”

“Have a seat, you’re not in a hurry are you?”

“Actually I am. I’ve got to get the gear to that friend of mine.”

“The guy with cancer yeah. Sorry. Give me a minute.” He rustles through the top drawer of a chest of drawers. On top of which was stored various aftershaves and spray cans of lynx.” Here we go.” He pulls out a tin, opens it carefully and after sweeping aside some cans lays it down on his coffee table. “Now then 10 grammes is it?”

“Yes about that.”

“Then about that, you’ll get.” He carefully transfers a portion of his stash into a small plastic bag. “That’ll be about right. What do you think? Enough?” He holds it up for me to see. I haven’t a clue. It looks OK. What does ten grammes of weed look like? I’d never thought about it.

“Looks good to me Pegden.”

“I think so too.”

“How much?”

“Well it’s eighteen pounds for ten grammes.”

“Eighteen? It was Eighteen a quarter when I was at Uni.”

“There you go. What a bargain. AND you’re getting more. Go on, give me fifteen and we’ll call it a deal.”

“You sure?” I guessed it was not the whole ten grammes.

“Positive. What are mates for?”

I thought to myself "Mates mug you but with gentleness and finesse, so you don't mind." I took the bag and put in my inside coat pocket. “Thanks Pegden. You’re helping a good friend out.”

“I hope so.”

“I’d better get going.”

We shook hands and I went out the door, clattered down the stairs and into the night air.

“See you down the pub sometime.” I looked up Pegden was leaning out his window.

“Sure.” I said. “See you there.”

I walked back to my car. It was still there. I stood and listened a moment. The road was silent. Pegden was right about one thing, this is a quiet road.

TBC

Pegden part 4

 

After the Beer Festival, Pegden disappeared again. It wasn’t unusual. I never knew exactly what he did or where he was. He would just show up when he was good and ready. I never chased him. He is what he is. Flighty.

I get a call from Pete. He’d been diagnosed with cancer and he was in a bad way.

“Mike I need a favour.”

“What’s that? Anything I can do… you know.”

“I need some weed, grass. I’m having a really bad time right now.”

“I don‘t have any.”

”But you’ve got contacts. You know people. What do you reckon? Can you get some? I’m desperate.”

“OK Pete. For you’ll I’ll try and sort something.”

It’s not something I deal in, but I can’t have a friend suffering for the sake of some weed. I make a call.

“Pegden?”

“Mike. How are you?”

“I need your help.”

“What’s the matter?”

“I need to get hold of some weed.”

“What you?” He laughed.

“No not for me. For a friend. He has cancer. He’s in a bad way. I’ve got to try and help him out.”

“OK.” He thought for a minute, “I can probably help you out.”

“Great.”

“How much you looking for.”

“A quarter?”

Hysterical laughter came down the line. “When was the last time you bought weed?”

“I haven’t. But at Uni that’s what they bought and sold it in.”

“Mike, you’re precious mate. Un-fucking-believable.”

“Come on Pegden, don’t take the piss. Help me out here.”

“OK it’s sold in grammes now. How many grammes do you want?”

“I don’t fucking know. What do you think? You’re the expert. How many grammes is closest to a quarter?”

“It’s 10 grammes, but that’s a little more than a quarter I think.”

“OK have you got any?”

“Yes mate. For you I’ve got ten grammes.”

“Can I come and get it?”

“Now?”

“Yes this is an emergency.”

“OK. OK. Come on down I’ll sort it out for you.”

“Where are you?”

Pegden was in a bedsit in Woodston down a back street. A long row of terraced houses with cars either side of the road bumper to bumper. I parked up where I could and walked the rest of the way. The house had a low wall out front, enclosing three feet of front garden. Except it wasn’t a garden just a pile of black bin bags and cardboard boxes. I knocked on the door. I waited. Knocked again. The door opened. A girl stepped out. She was thin. Wearing skinny black jeans held up with a leather belt, round what should have been her hips. She had none. Her legs and arms, just sticks. A short black leather jacket draped her tiny shoulders. She looked at me, and, without words, apologised for existing. I smiled at her, friendly like. Nervously she looked up, down and into her hand bag. “Sorry do I know you?” she eyed me sideways, suspiciously.

“I’m looking for Pegden.”

“Oh he’s… I don’t suppose you’ve got a couple of quid.. I’m a bit short right now.”

I fetched some change out of my pocket, it was about two pounds maybe a few pence more. I gave it her.

“Thank you so much. You didn’t have to. Pegden’s upstairs on the left.” She turned aound to count the change. “Come back anytime.” She called back at me. “Maybe we could get a drink.” She didn’t sound like she needed another drink.

I went through the open door and up the stairs. The air was stale and the walls dirty. The stair carpets long since gone and my footsteps echoed round the hallway.

At the top of the stairs were two doors one had a Yale lock. I guessed that was Pegdens gaff. I knocked on the door.

 

Pegden Part 3

 

It was a few weeks before I saw Pegden again. We called him Pegden but that was his surname. He never revealed his first name. I guessed it was because it was a terrible first name for a man of mystery and adventure. After he insisted, “It’s Pegden. Just Pegden.” I never asked again.

I was at the Peterborough Beer festival 2007 lining up a group shot of drunken happy smiling faces, when Pegden leaps in front of my camera like a circus clown. A big smile on his face.

I took the last photo and “For fucks sake Pegden. How are you? Where’ve you been?”

“I’m good mate. Been here and there. Mostly there, know what I mean? ha ha.”

“But your trouble. You know the deal?”

He looked at me blankly, “What?”

“The Welland, Stanground. The money you owed.”

“Oh that. Yeah man, that was sweet, did the deal. My man in the Welland got what he wanted, paid off the guy. Slapped that fucker right in his hand. Dosh! ‘take that bastard, we’re square.’ Jus’ like that. And I got a bit of spending money left over for myself. As I say, sweet as.”

“Well I was a bit worried.”

“Jeez you know me. Always land on my feet me. Come on have a beer. I’m buying.”

“I can’t take photos and hold a pint at the same time.”

“Well don’t take photos then. Ya fuckin’ eejit. Just drink.”

“Oh OK.”

Pegden wanders off to the bar. He didn’t bother which section of the bar. To him it was just a bar, beer is beer. He comes back with two pints.

“Whatcha got Pegden?”

“Beer, whaddya think? Get it down ya.”

“..and errr where did the glass come from?”

“You ask a lot of questions for someone getting a free beer. I found it alright? Anything else you wanna know?” I did, but I didn't

“The deal. What happened?”

“It was a one off deal, to get me out the shit is all. So I got to Stanground, met up with the guy. He looked over the product. Decided it was kosher and handed over the money. Nice guy actually, you wouldn't think he was a major dealer. He lived in a nice house, not too big. Regular car in the drive. He's got kids. but, you know, I’m not making a habit of it. I made the deal, it worked, it all went smoothly, end of.”

I knew not to press him any further on the subject “So whatcha been up to then?”

"Well then. Funny you should ask. I've got to tell you about..." Pegden, now in his element, and over the space of more beers, treated me to more of his tales of drink, debauchery and adventure, before I staggered off home to Eastfield Road.

TBC

 

 Pegden Part 2

I’m bored. My thumbs are discos dancing, I work my index fingers into the routine. Denise had taught me this one day when we were bored in the pub. She was 19, 5 foot four, brown hair in a bob, brown eyes… and with such a cute innocence, you wished the devil would corrupt her. We sat in the pub, on the bench seats, music came out of the speakers and suddenly her fingers start dancing. I was mesmerised. How can a girl make finger dancing so sensual? Patiently she slowed down her moves so I could see what she was doing. I still do finger disco to this day when I’m bored, but forty years later I still haven’t got the hang of it, it looks kind of dorky.

I sometimes think of Denise. Last I heard she was living in Leeds. She went there after her brother blew his own brains out with a 9mm pistol. Our relationship took a dive after that. It's not something you just brush off and carry on. She couldn’t cope with anything let alone a relationship. Her parents split up and her father died of a broken heart, still sitting in the same armchair he’d been sitting in since the Police came round to inform him and his wife, of their sons suicide.

I look at the news; Tony Blair is resigning as Prime Minister. Good. Prince Harry is going to do a tour in Afghanistan. I wonder if his body guards will go with him. I imagine men in black, with ear pieces and talking into their cuffs, walking behind him whilst everyone else is in camouflage combat gear. The idea makes me smile. But who needs body guards when you have a whole regiment, armed to the teeth, watching your back?

The doorbell rang, Pegden was back. He swings his rucksack, it lands heavily on my desk. “Stage one complete. Mission accomplished.”

“Mission? What’s in the bag?”

“Wanna peak?” a mischevious grin sweeps across his face..

“OK.”

He pulls the toggled rope holding the top of his rucksack closed. Then slowly and gently, like a father lifting a new born baby he lifts something out, but only half way. It’s a big black slab, about an inch thick, with a circular gold sticker on it.

“This, my son, is pure Primo Afghan Black. There’s a lot more in the bag.” He does a quick glance at the door, quickly returns it and pulls the cord tight again.

“That’s a lot of dope. Where did it come from?”

“I have a mate in the artillary, just come back from Afghanistan. S’all I can tell you, without ‘aving to kill ya.”

“What’s stage two then?” I’m intrigued and I want to know everything. My curiousity will get me into trouble one day. Hopefully not today.

“Stage two my old mate, awaits me in Stanground. I know a dealer who’ll take this lot off my hands off my hands. Right smartish. For the right money as well.”

“Presumably he knows you’re coming then?”

“Too right. He won’t want to miss this deal. He’ll wait. Right, I’d better get going it’s a long way to Stanground.”

“I don’t suppose you want a lift?” I can see it now, Mike Da Hat, drug runner. Crashing county lines, Barrelling down Perkins Parkway, Cruising over the town Bridge in my Renault Scenic with thousands of pounds worth of dope stashed in the back.

“Errrr NO! I’m good. Besides we need at least one half decent person left in this town who hasn’t been corrupted.”

"Who? Me?"

"Yes Mr Innocent. When did you last run a red light?"

"I don't."

"Exactly. Mr Clean always has been." He playfully slapped my face and he was gone again. Marching towards the city centre. My career as a drug runner finished, before it had even started.

"I can be bad, " I thought to myself. "I once got the wrong change on the London underground and didn't say anything. Just took the change, thanked the guy and walked. How bad do you have to be to be a drug runner? As bad as Pegden? Except I've never seen him do anything bad. Until today. How bad is bad?"

To be continued

 Pegden Part 1

This particular Wednesday, in the summer of 2007, was quiet, the phone wasn’t ringing and I had time on my hands. I wasn’t bothered, who needs another customer when the sun is shining? The doorbell rang and in walks Pegden. “Aye up!” he says

“Pegden, my man. How’s it going?”

Pegden looks at me sideways head slightly bowed “Not good mate, not good.”

I’ve known Pegden for years, originally from Wakefield, but now in Peterborough. He’s tall and thin, but deceptively strong. He knows how to get out of a scrape. I can’t say he’s the most law abiding friend I’ve ever had, but he’s trustworthy and straight with those who are straight with him. He puts a hand up and musses his short brown hair, it makes no difference, his hair is always a mess. His clothes fit where they touch, hanging on him like they don’t want to be there. “To tell you the truth Mike, I’ve got myself into a bit of a situation.” He nervously rearranges a rucksack on his shoulder.

“Oh mate! What’s happened?” I’m concerned, but nothing about Pegden surprises me, I don’t recall him ever having a decent job, but he always had money for a pint down the pub. I never asked. It’s best not to know; you just chat bollocks over a beer, and don’t get involved. Pegden knows how to tell a story. You just suspend belief and listen to his wild tales of adventure, debauchery, drunken nights and scrapes. You know it’s mostly fantasy, but he does tell a good story, and you have to listen.

“I find I owe a few grand to some guy.” He looks down at his trainers, white with purple stripes, they were doing a little dance all by themselves. A shuffle.

“What guy?” I ask, breaking my own rule.

“Just some guy who wants his money back tomorrow or the situation could escalate into something I’d rather it didn’t.”

“Shit! I wish I could help you out but…” I tailed off, hoping he wasn’t going to ask for money I didn’t have.

“It’s OK I don’t want any money or owt. I’ve got a deal going down on The Welland. I was just passing. Thought I’d stick my head in the door, say ‘Hello’ like.”

“You wanna lift? My car’s just outside. I can take you to Welland.”

“Best not eh? You don’t want to be anywhere near me for this one. I’ll walk. Thanks anyway.”

He slings his rucksack over his shoulder and walks out. I watch him as he walks up Eastfield Road. In five minutes he’ll be at the Regional College, in ten, Eastfield cemetery. Welland, another ten or fifteen minutes. A warm gust of wind and pollen from the conifers across the road, blew like smoke. Pegden had already got past Jacqui’s house and still walking. I went back inside to shuffle a few papers on my desk and rearrange my pen jar. It was a quiet day.

TBC