The Pure (4 page)

When he arrived in Camden he was sweating horribly and needed a drink. By this time his anger was waning, leaving him feeling resigned, drained, soiled. He bought a few cans of lager and found a quiet spot by the canal, amongst the bushes, where he smoked a spliff and watched the water move lazily by.

Gradually, the world seemed a better place to be. Then he lay on his back in the sun-bleached grass and looked up into the greyish, boiling atmosphere. For the first time in months, he found himself thinking about Noam. How old must he be now? He couldn’t remember. Couldn’t even remember, how about that. Still, it was understandable. The boy was his in name alone; they had no connection really, no relationship to speak of. He wondered if his hair was still blond, or if it had grown darker over time. He wondered if he was still at school. For a while he tried to recall at what age children leave school. Sixteen? Eighteen? Something like that. He wondered if the boy had a new father. He had been away a long time.

He sucked deeply on the spliff and allowed the fragrant smoke to filter into the very bottom of his lungs. Then he held his breath, feeling his head grow dizzy and his legs become lighter than air. He was alone, profoundly so, and he felt it. Parents? Dead. Wife? Estranged. Siblings? Roi didn’t count. He had double crossed his own brother on his father’s will. The bastard. Uzi knew his life was bleak, he was utterly alone in the world. If he weren’t stoned, he’d probably be crying. On the other hand, if he weren’t stoned, he’d never be thinking this way. Who gives a fuck, he thought to himself. Who gives a fucking fuck. And he smiled.

It hadn’t always been like this. Uzi’s dope habit was unremarkable at first, when he was in the regular army. Most people did it. Even when he was selected for the Navy commandos, the occasional dalliance was not out of the question, after a difficult operation or a long tour of duty. But to the Office, dope was unacceptable. He wasn’t a heavy user at that time, was surprised that they were so concerned about it. But it could be used against him, they said; lawbreaking compromises operatives. In the end, he had to admit it made sense. The organisation could ill afford any embarrassments, especially since the year before, when a pair of rookies had been spotted by a member of the public planting a dummy bomb under a car in a Tel Aviv suburb; the alarm was raised, and the Office’s training methods ended up all over the press. Not, he had to admit, good for the image of the organisation. So he agreed, and for the first six months he kept his word. Not, of course, that it matters any more.

Uzi was halfway through his spliff when he heard someone approaching along the towpath. He sat up sharply and his head swam. Before he could get to his feet, a figure emerged into view, dark against the sun. A woman, good-looking in an old-fashioned way, like an actress from an old film, dressed in tight-fitting chinos and an open-necked black shirt. She saw the spliff in his fingers and slowed down. His feet blocked the path.

‘Walking by yourself?’ said Uzi.

‘I have friends,’ replied the woman guardedly. ‘Can I get by?’

A sassy voice, low and unhurried, with an accent that Uzi instantly placed as East Coast American. There was something in the way she phrased the question that made him think he could make her stay. He lay back in the desiccated grass and nodded to the space beside him.

‘Join me for a few drags. I could use the company, and I’m too stoned to try anything on.’

‘But I don’t know you.’ She didn’t move to walk on as she said this, and Uzi knew then that she was his.

‘I don’t know you either,’ he said. ‘Who cares?’

‘You going to charge me for this?’

‘You should be charging me.’

‘You are stoned, aren’t you?’ said the woman, smiling slightly and resting her head on one side. Her mahogany hair fell over one shoulder; her eyes were the colour of coffee.

‘Save me from myself,’ said Uzi. ‘This is some strong shit. Or you can carry on and meet your friends. I don’t care either way.’

The woman shrugged and sat down, and Uzi passed her the spliff. She felt familiar somehow, in a way he couldn’t place. This was reckless, Uzi knew that, but he didn’t care. Death, that’s all anything could bring, and so what? Anyway, as Avner had reminded him, he wasn’t on operations any more. He took a drag and passed the spliff to his new companion, smoke threading between his fingers and disappearing into the greyness of the atmosphere.

‘Thanks,’ she said, propping herself up on her elbow and drawing heavily, professionally, on the spliff. She adjusted her position, and Uzi noticed a diamond-encrusted watch on her wrist, a Versace handbag in the dirt beside her. He was surprised that such a woman would be sitting here beside him in the grass like a teenager. But his head was too fogged to make sense of it. ‘Just what I needed,’ she said suddenly. ‘Hits the spot.’ She inhaled again, deeply, then passed the spliff back. ‘You got any to sell?’

Uzi shook his head. His mouth was numb and he couldn’t be bothered.

‘Where you from?’ said the woman.

Uzi was about to say Russia, or France, or Canada, but he didn’t have it in him any more.

‘Israel,’ he said.

‘Oh?’ the woman replied, coughing into an almost-closed fist. Uzi thought he saw a strange expression flit across her face, one that he couldn’t define; but it may have been his paranoia, he may even have imagined it. ‘I was there only a month ago,’ said the woman. ‘Whereabouts?’

‘Tel Aviv,’ Uzi replied shortly. ‘What were you doing there?’

‘Visiting family.’

‘You have family in Israel?’

‘Sort of. You know, not close family.’

‘You’re Jewish?’

‘Half Jewish.’

‘The right half or the wrong half?’

‘I hate that question. The wrong half.’

There was a pause, and Uzi became aware of the background noise, the constant ebb and flow of the traffic that he only noticed when stoned. The occasional call of a bird. Without any reason, he smiled. This woman was obviously from a rich family, or married to a rich husband. And she wanted to rebel.

‘They call me Daniel,’ he said dreamily.

‘That makes me the lion,’ said the woman. ‘I’m Eve. This is some good shit. How did you come by it?’

‘Here and there,’ Uzi replied, ‘you know how it is.’

‘What do they call this stuff now? It’s new, isn’t it? Stronger.’

‘Fuck knows. I smoke it, I don’t make love to it.’

There was a pause.

‘Come on,’ said Eve again, ‘tell me where you get it. Or do you grow your own?’

‘Just smoke if you’re going to smoke,’ said Uzi.

She snorted and pulled on the spliff with her mouth, closing her eyes as if she were in a hot bath.

‘I just love this shit,’ she said, half to herself. ‘I want to buy shiploads of it. I want to go to sleep with it every night.’

‘Look,’ said Uzi, raising himself on his elbow and glaring at the woman, suddenly disproportionately angry, ‘are you police?’

‘Do I fucking look like it?’ Eve replied.

‘Then smoke and be happy,’ said Uzi. ‘I don’t like the way you’re talking. You’re asking too many questions.’

‘Take it easy,’ said the woman. ‘I’m only asking.’

For a while they smoked in silence. Uzi was stoned, and he didn’t give a shit. He was ready to die, and he didn’t give a shit.

‘I think you’re the dealer,’ said Eve suddenly. ‘I think you’re selling this stuff.’

Uzi finished the spliff and tossed the butt into the canal. Then he sat up slowly and tried to get his bearings. For a moment he couldn’t remember where he was. He had the idea that he was on operations somewhere, Moscow perhaps, or Beirut. Then it came back to him and he checked his watch. Twenty to seven.

‘Look, I’ve got to go,’ he said.

His companion made no reply. The world tilted slightly as Uzi got to his feet, but he steadied himself and lumbered off along the towpath.

‘You did well,’ said the Kol – the younger voice again – out of nowhere. ‘You did well with that woman.’ There hadn’t been an itch. Why hadn’t there been an itch?

‘How many times do I have to tell you?’ said Uzi. ‘You’re supposed to be leaving me alone.’

‘Believe,’ the Kol said.

‘I don’t want to hear from you again today, OK? I’m serious. The whole day.’

‘Believe in yourself.’

Back on the street, the weather was no cooler and more people were about. A smell was in the air, a bonfire perhaps, or a barbecue. Uzi thought people were looking at him strangely, avoiding him. Exhaust from buses swirled hot around his ankles as he made his way down the High Street in the direction of Inverness Street Market. When the sun broke through the broiling clouds the glare was unbearable, and before Uzi knew it he had bought a pair of sunglasses from a street vendor for £8.99. Camden was dimmer now, and he liked it that way. He was in a smiley haze, enjoying this new dusk. He was being careless, he knew that, and if there was trouble tonight he would only have himself to blame. Selling a rucksack of stash while stoned: this was the behaviour of an amateur. But, according to Squeal, these people were safe. Squeal was the only person Uzi knew in England who he wasn’t trying actively to avoid. At least, not usually. They had met the day after Uzi arrived. Uzi had knocked on his door and asked to borrow an egg. Nothing unusual there, of course, one neighbour borrowing an egg from another. Uzi also wanted to get the gossip on the residents of the block. He couldn’t afford trouble on his doorstep; for the first time in his life he didn’t have a safe house to go to.

Squeal was an albino Ghanaian, extremely thin and rather short, top-heavy with a mass of vanilla dreadlocks hanging down his back. He wore sunglasses to protect his eyes, and his wiry frame, together with his unusual way of moving, made him look like a stringed puppet. His voice was soft and lisping, and at first one would never have associated him with the nickname. However, upon getting to know him the reason for his nickname became obvious.

‘Eggs?’ said Squeal, folding his arms and unfolding them again. ‘What the fuck. You taking the piss?’

‘I’ve just moved in,’ Uzi replied. ‘I need some eggs. One egg, even. One egg.’

Squeal looked bemused.

‘I know you’ve just moved in,’ he said. ‘I know every fucking person that moves into this block. And out of it. Every fucking last man Jack. What’s your name?’

‘Tomislav. You can call me Tommy.’

‘You’re not fucking Polish, are you?’

‘Russian.’ Uzi paused and sniffed the air. ‘Dope?’

Squeal began to close the door, muttering something unintelligible. Uzi wedged his arm into the open doorway.

‘Fuck off,’ said Squeal, ‘or I’ll call the police.’

‘Don’t worry,’ said Uzi. ‘Look, I just want an egg. One egg. That’s all.’

Squeal stopped pressing the door and looked closely at him. ‘Hang on a minute,’ he said, breaking into a hesitant grin. ‘You’ve got the munchies, haven’t you? You’re stoned, aren’t you? Aren’t you?’

Despite himself, Uzi smiled broadly. Then he heard Squeal laugh for the first time. He sounded like a puppy.

‘Come in, dude,’ said Squeal. ‘Make yourself at home, yeah? The eggs are on me.’

Uzi stepped through the door into the gloom. ‘I’m making shakshuka, he said. ‘I need shakshuka. You ever had shakshuka?’

By the time Uzi arrived at Inverness street market, the stalls were closed and the road was bald and barren. Detritus lined the gutters. He ambled at a diagonal across the cobbles, shaking his head to clear it. It was hot and his trainers were sticking to the pavement. The stash in his bag felt unnaturally heavy, the way it always did before a drop. The bars and restaurants were empty yet pristine, all primed for an influx of customers later in the evening. He removed his sunglasses, tried to pull himself together. Over the years he had been part of countless high-pressure, ‘no zero’ operations where the outcome could be nothing but decisive. Yet now he felt nervous. His life wasn’t threatened, this was a straightforward sale, and he was nervous. To steady himself he lit a cigarette, but could only manage half of it because he was keen to get to the meeting. Dropping it into the gutter, he headed for the Blue Peacock café.

A girl in an apron approached him as he entered. She was very pretty, and he smiled at her. He thought she reminded him of a woman he could have known long ago, but he wasn’t sure. She spoke with a Polish accent and in a moment of hazy generosity he considered buying her a drink, buying her a house, proposing to her. He pulled himself together again and asked in Russian if Andrzej was there. She asked him if he was Tomislav Kasheyev. He nodded and she gave him another sort of look, as if he might be a policeman. He ordered a Scotch. Then she showed him upstairs to the back room.

There seemed to be no air and for a moment Uzi thought he would pass out. He was dehydrated. He turned to ask for some water, but the girl had disappeared. He drank his Scotch. The room was square and gloaming, with blacked-out windows and red drapes lining the walls. Incongruous music was playing in the background – Metallica. Three men sat around a table, their amber beer glasses clustered around a candle in the middle. Two were leaning back casually, and one – Squeal’s contact, Andrzej – sat hunched forward, his arms folded into his stomach. Little could be seen of them on account of the shadows; the room was lit only by candles. They looked up, scrutinising Uzi carefully. Then they beckoned him over and he took a seat among them.

‘Special delivery,’ he said in Russian.

‘Wonderful,’ said Andrzej, in the same language but with a strong Polish accent. ‘What excellent service. Wonderful.’

‘Party, is it?’ said Uzi, not letting go of his rucksack. ‘Birthday party?’

‘Yes,’ Andrzej said, ‘for one of my girlfriends.’ They all laughed and drank.

Uzi lit a cigarette and nobody said anything. One Metallica song ended and another began. Then Andrzej lit up in the same way, blowing a jet of smoke over Uzi’s shoulder. They all laughed. Sidelong, Uzi sized them up. Well dressed, but in a try-hard sort of way. Small-time. Unsure of themselves. But he knew that amateurs could be more dangerous than professionals; these men could be volatile. They were in a jovial mood, but they clearly had something to prove.