The Evil And The Pure (34 page)

“I’m not.” Teeth chattering.

The Bush broke eye contact, gazed around the office. “How close do you think you are to cracking it?”

“It could be weeks, months, years.” The Bush glanced at him sharply. Phials licked his lips hastily and grinned sickly. “More likely weeks or months.”

The Bush grunted. “I wish I could believe you.”

“I’ve never given you reason not to.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not.” The Bush turned slowly until he was looking at Big Sandy, who stood impassively, staring at Phials. The chemist studied the giant of a man, his cold eyes, his scarred knuckles. Big Sandy looked more surly than usual — Julius had been chasing him about investments, and dealing with figures always put him in a foul mood. But Phials knew nothing about that. He thought Big Sandy was pissed at
him
.

“I swear,
” he mumbled, “if I could hand it to you right now, I would. I’d never cross you, I’m not dumb, I know the punishments if I tried to screw you. You’ve been good to me, afforded me sanctuary when everybody else turned me away, weaned me off the drugs, protected me from myself. Don’t do this to me, Dave.”

“Do what?” the Bush asked softly.

Phials shook his head. He couldn’t answer.

The Bush leant across and gripped Phials’ knee. “I have to know,
” he said. “I have to be sure.”

Phials laughed chokingly.
“Give me a lie detector test.”

“You know how to fool the machines. You did it before.”

Phials winced, recalling his previous boasts. He should have kept his big mouth shut. “So what do we do?” he croaked. “How do I make you believe?”

“
Deliver the formula.”

“And if I can’t?”

The Bush held his knee a moment longer then released it. “You have a week. Sandy, what day is it?”

“Thursday
.”

“Thursday,” the Bush repeated thoughtfully as
if making a spur of the moment decision. “I’ll give you until Friday week. Nobody will interfere with you until then. On Friday morning Sandy will return and ask if you have anything for me. I hope you can tell him that you do.”

The Bush stood
and made for the door, not a hundred percent sure that he was playing this the right way, but needing the formula, the money, the means to buy the club he loved. If it blew up in his face, he’d accept the consequences. But he couldn’t stand by idly, do nothing and just let the dream die.

Big Sandy opened the door for his boss and let him march out. Started to follow. Paused, turned back towards Phials and walked over
, three giant strides. Phials stared at him, trembling. Big Sandy stuck out a hand. Phials didn’t respond, so Big Sandy picked up the chemist’s hand, smothered it with a massive paw and lightly crushed it, making Phials grimace, careful not to crack any bones. He let go and stepped back. “Best of luck, doc.” A calculated pause. “See you soon.”

Big Sandy exited and
closed the door. The Bush was waiting outside. “You did it like I told you?”

“Yeah
.”

The two men returned to the
taxi and went about their business. Tony Phials sat shaking in the lab for hours, not moving from his chair, eyes filled with tears, flashing forward to Friday week, imagining Big Sandy’s hands at work, already feeling the pain. Finally snapped out of his self-pity, turned his thoughts inwards and put his brain to work, searching for a way out of the hell which awaited him.

THIRTY-EIGHT

Clint in a pub with Gawl, late Thursday, when his mobile rang. He switched it off witho
ut checking the incoming number and ordered another round. He was telling Gawl about Shula again, describing her to the uncomfortable Scot, talking about his plans to woo and win her. Gawl saying little, trying without success to change the subject. Hoping Clint never worked up the nerve to go see her, as he was threatening to do. Nightmarish visions of Clint sitting down with her, talk turning to the rape, Shula saying it hadn’t been Larry Drake, instead some large guy with a Scottish accent and half a left ear, Clint stumbling to Dave Bushinsky to spill what he knew, the Bush’s men coming for Gawl, his friendship with Clint the worst mistake he ever made. He was playing with fire. Afraid whenever the Shula subject came up that it was going to burn him to the bone.

Clint s
taggered home at two in the morning, drunk and happy, fell asleep on top of his bedsheets fully dressed. Slept until eleven, dreaming about Shula. In his dreams he overcame his shyness and went to see her, found out she was as keen on him as he was on her, flew off into an American sunset with her on his arm.

He w
oke with a splitting headache, and that was when the smile disappeared and the dreams were temporarily shelved. Crawled to the toilet, hung his head over the rim, waited to see if he was going to be sick. When he didn’t throw up, he stood, unzipped and pissed. Ransacked the medicine cabinet for aspirin. Downed a handful of pills with a glass of water. Back to bed, groaning, closed the curtains to shut out the dim light. Saw his mobile on the floor. Slowly stooped, picked it up, turned it on. Undressed and slid beneath the covers. Willed himself back to the refuge of sleep and the alluring world of Shula Schimmel. Then the mobile rang. He wanted to ignore it but thought it might be Gawl. Answered feebly, “Yeah?”

“C
lint, it’s Tony. Tony Phials.”

A moment of stunned relief. Then he sat up sharply and his head exploded. Shut his eyes against the pain, fought it back, muttered into the phone, “Y
uh-yeah?”

“How have you been?” Phials asked lightly.

“What do you wuh-want?” Clint groaned, in no mood for small talk.

“I’d like to see you. I need some grass. Maybe a hit of the Tynes too if they haven’t run for the hills after last time.”

Clint blinked at the phone, trying to piece an answer together.

“Clint? Are you there?”

“Yeah.” Checked his watch but the numbers were blurred. “I’ll cuh-come later.”

“What time?”

“Later,” Clint snapped.

“Don’t forget the –”

He cut Phials off. Dropped the mobile. Lowered himself back, stared at the ceiling, feeling horrible. Ran the short conversation through his throbbing brain again. Smiled briefly as he realised this meant he was back in with Phials. Gawl would be pleased. Then he closed his eyes, focused on his breathing, waiting for the pills to kick in and the pain to recede, not prepared to move for anyone or anything until he felt at least halfway human again.

Early afternoon. The lab. Sitting with Phials in his bedroom, the chemist edgy, distracted, hadn’t touched the grass which Clint had brought, playing with a can of Pepsi, picking at the ring-pull. Clint not sure what to say. Finally decided to try an apology. “I’m sorry for what huh-happened… you know… buh-buh-before.”

Phials waved it away. “Have you spoken
with the Tynes?”

“No. Kevin made it cluh-clear he didn’t want to suh-see me again.”

“I miss Tulip,” Phials sighed and sat up straight, dark brown eyes clearing, coming to the point at last, his final gamble, all or nothing. “Your cousin came to visit me yesterday. I’m working to a deadline now. If I don’t come up with the goods by next Friday, he throws me to the lions.”

“Think you
have a ch-ch-ch-chance?”

A sudden snap as
Phials yanked the ring-pull off. He filled two glasses which were standing nearby, disposed of the can, handed one glass to Clint, saluted him. “Bottoms up.”

“Cheers.”

Both men drank. Phials drained his Pepsi in one quick gulp and spoke while Clint was still drinking. “I developed the drug months ago. I tested it on some bums off the street — Fast Eddie hauled them in for me. I gave them an overdose when I was done, to hide the evidence, but I clocked the results before I killed them. It works.”

Clint spluttered a mouthful of
Pepsi over his trousers and the floor. Gawped at Phials, astonished. “Wh-wh-wh-why are you tuh-telling –”

“It’s a magnificent concoction,” Phials interrupted softly. “I don’t know what it will come to be known as, but I
self-indulgently call it Baby P. Ten years from now we’ll be a society of junkies, everyone will be doing it. It’ll change the world completely.”

“I don’t understand. It’s just a druh-drug. How could –”

“Baby P produces a mild high,” Phials continued. “I’m sure stronger versions will be manufactured later, but in its current form it produces nothing more than a pleasant buzz. No hallucinations, no paranoia, no queasiness or the sweats, just a long-lasting, relaxing high. That’s not what makes it special.” Phials chuckled. “How many genuine addicts do you know?”

“Loads,” Clint said numbly.

“I doubt it.” The chemist pursed his lips. “When you reduce it to the purest definition of the word, there aren’t that many true addicts in the world, people who can’t survive without their daily fix. Lots who need it bad, but very few who can’t be rehabilitated. Baby P will change that.”

“How?” Clint gasped, eyes alight. “Is it
muh-more addictive than other drugs?”

“Not particularly,” Phials sniffed. “Even if it was, we’d still only be able to sell to the converted, those who
are looking for kicks. Baby P is the greatest drug ever because it’s parasitic. That’s how we’ll convert those who don’t want to party.”

Clint frowned. “I
duh-don’t understand.”

“
It’s destructive,” Phials said softly. “The first hit you take, it starts to attack your system. It can’t do much damage that first time, not unless you go crazy and hoover up a shitload of it, but by the third or fourth toke, you’re fucked. Your body goes into meltdown. Death assured within forty-eight hours and there’s fuck all any known doctor will be able to do to help.”

Clint’s jaw actually dropped. “What are you talking about? How’s that going to change the world? Where will
kuh-kuh-kuh-killing off our customers get us?”

“Nowhere,” Phials giggled. “That’s why we won’t kill them off.”

“But you just said –”

“Doctors won’t be able to help,” Phials interrupted sweetly. “Medicines won’t help. Only one thing
will keep the body ticking over. More that that, it will keep the user hale and hearty, in perfect health for as many years as they would have had even if they’d never taken the drug. Can you guess what that is, Clint?”

Clint shook his head. Then
it clicked. “
Baby P
,” he wheezed.

Phials’ smile grew legs and
sprinted. “Correct,” he crowed. “The poison is the cure. As long as you keep taking it, you’ll be fine. Mildly high all the time, but hell, I think that’ll be an improvement for most people.”

“
They wuh-won’t take it,” Clint mumbled. “Once word spreads and they know what it duh-does…”

“That’s certainly a problem,” Phials said, faking a troubled look. “I’ve never had much to do with the supply
side of things, but I think the maufacturers will adopt a unique approach with Baby P. It’s tasteless, odourless, it can be added to any food or drink and nobody will know. I reckon they’ll cook up mountain-loads of the shit on various continents, then mix it in with every type of foodstuff they can lay their hands on, cereal, milk, flour, burgers, beer… maybe even Pepsi.”

Clint fli
nched, glanced at his drink, looked up in a panic.

“Don’t worry,” Phials grinned. “As I said, one hit won’t kill you, but
even so I’ve not fed you any. I didn’t want to cook it up, not with the Bush’s men on the prowl, couldn’t risk them finding it.

“Imagine, Clint, Baby P shipped out
en masse
, tens, maybe hundreds of million of people infected at the same time. Four or five bowls of cereal, cans of beer or servings of rice and they’re ours for life. No choice but to pay up when we stop pumping it out for free and put the drug on the open market, hooked for as long as they live. Governments will go wild, there’ll be the biggest public backlash ever, but we’ll have them by the balls, they’ll have to play along, they’ll need us more than we need them, because if they stop us producing Baby P, everyone dies.”

Clint’s eyes grew round, seeing the true horror of it now, awed and appalled in equal measures. Phials watched the tumblers clicking inside the dealer’s brain. He was smiling like a caterpillar. He knew he had Clint hooked, just as his monstrous Baby would hook so many others when it was unleashed on the world.

“If you’re wondering why I’m telling you this,” Phials said after a carefully judged pause, “it’s because the information is worthless to you.”

Clint blink
ed. “Huh?”

“You can’t use it against me.
”

“I c
ould tuh-tell Dave.”

“To what
end?”

“He pruh-promised me a sh-sh-sh-share. A muh-million
pounds. Maybe two.”