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