The Evil And The Pure (14 page)

“I hope so,” Phials said, smiling mechanically, wish
ing Clint had brought some hash. It was a lot easier to listen to the dealer when he was half-stoned.

“I could go now,” Clint insisted. “More than
seven grand in my bank account. I could cash in my shares with Dave, must be worth fifteen, maybe twenty thousand, maybe more.”

“So why don’t you?” Phials prodded him
. “It’s a good time of year, New York not too hot, not too cold. Twenty-five thousand sterling is, what, forty or more in dollars? You could go a long way on that.”

“
Without Shula?” Clint snorted.

“Maybe it would be easier to start without her. Move there by yourself. Get established. Come back for her when you’re in a position to really wow her.”

“I dunno,” Clint said uneasily. “Nobody would know me. I don’t have contacts. I wouldn’t know who to trust.”

“If I could get out of here and come with you, I could help,” Phials said, trying to sound casual. He’d been dropping hints like this every time Clint
called in, always apparently offhand. “I know people in New York. I could steer you right.”

“You could give me their names and numbers,” Clint suggested.

“No point,” Phials smiled. “I’ve been away a long time. People move, change addresses and phones, especially in my line. I’d have to track them down.”

Clint glanced at the doc, wonder
ed if he could put direct questions to him, decided to go for it. “Tony…” Hesitant, a rare use of Phials’ first name. “What are you working on? Why are you kept locked up?”

Phials hid a smile
. He’d been waiting weeks for the kid to work up the nerve to ask. Shook his head mock-glumly. “I can’t really talk about that.”

“Oh. OK.” Clint ready to drop the subject instantly.

“You could always ask your cousin,” Phials said slyly, planting the seed. “It’s probably not a problem, but you should clear it with him first.”

“
I might do that,” Clint shrugged, acting like he didn’t care. But Phials had seen interest flare in Clint’s eyes. Clint would ask Bushinsky. He’d better. Phials would have wasted a hell of a lot of time on the dull little coward if he didn’t. Not sure how he might be able to use Clint, but scenting possibilities in the weak but cunning young man.

October passing in a blur, Clint selling lots of E’s, grass and coke, but most of it on the Tube or in pubs and clubs, one-off deals, not building a regular customer base like he’d planned. The money was good, but chump change to the Bush. Clint had been thinking a lot about what Dave had said the night of Shula’s party, about contacts and Clint needing to get serious to get ahead. Clint was good at selling to students and clubbers, he could talk with them, joke with them, win their trust and make sales. But when it came to the rich people, the confident, the powerful and influential, he was lost. He didn’t know how to handle them. And without them there could be no progress, no Shula, no America.

He’d made a half-hearted atte
mpt to use Kevin and Tulip Tyne. The men who paid for their services were men of wealth and dark pleasures, in the market for all of Clint’s goods. But they had their own established dealers. They saw Clint as a pimp, didn’t take him seriously when he offered to meet their other needs too.

So Clint continued surfing the t
rains, hitting pubs, circling clubs, doing good business, making good money, but feeling stale, stuck in neutral, going nowhere fast. Until Larry Drake came to see him in a house of God.

The Church of Sacred Martyrs. Clint sat near the back, head bowed, waiting to be approached. Not a religious man, raised Protestant but hadn’t been in any kind of chapel for years, until meeting Fr Sebastian in a pub some months earlier. Fr Sebastian had seen Clint touting for business. Once he’d checked every face in the pub to make sure nobody from his flock was present, he sidled up to the dealer and muttered, “I need grass, pills, coke if you have it.” Clint on guard immediately, unaccustomed to being accosted directly. Then he saw the hunger in the stranger’s eyes and relaxed. Sold him a couple of E’s in the toilet, watched him pop them, curiously studying the pale-faced man in the shabby duffel coat, not making him for a priest but sensing something different about him.

The truth
surfaced a week later when the man came to Clint again. The first time, Fr Sebastian had left his clerical collar at home, but this time he forgot and had to hurriedly stick it in a pocket. It fell out when he was paying Clint. His face ashen, putting it back quickly, leaving without the merchandise. Clint hurried after him, caught him at the end of the street, made him take the coke, assured him his secret was safe. “I ask no questions, tell no tales. I don’t know your name and I won’t look for it. You’re safe with me. You can trust me.”

And Fr Se
bastian did come to trust Clint. So much so that within a fortnight he’d told Clint his name and where his church was, and even invited Clint to deal to him there, figuring it was safer than meeting him in public places.

On his second visit to the church, while he waited his turn for the confessional, Clint
was gazing around, enjoying the peace and calm, when he had a crazy but brilliant thought — this would be a great place to deal! At first he dismissed the notion, sold the coke to Fr Sebastian, went home. But he kept coming back to the idea. He could force Fr Sebastian to let him use the church. It would be a safe haven — police didn’t stake out churches. And if he was ever busted, he could cut a deal with the police by betraying the priest to them. They’d be much more interested in taking down a priest than a dealer.

Fr Sebastian savagely opposed the plan until Clint threatened to cut off his supply and drop a few hints locally about the priest’s fondness for nose candy.
He agreed eventually, reluctantly, on the condition that Clint only sell to those the priest sent his way — he didn’t want the dealer bringing trash into his church. It hadn’t occured to Clint that the priest might know other junkies, that he would be prepared to send them to Clint. He couldn’t believe his luck.

Clint
agreed to Fr Sebastian’s condition, let the priest supply him with a slim but steady stream of customers, told none of his own clients about the sweet set-up. But only for a few weeks. Once he’d established himself, he spread the word about his new base, telling some of cousin Dave’s crew, paying them to send their select clients his way. He was able to charge more than normal, the novelty of the backdrop a turn-on for yuppies who could boast to their friends about scoring in a church.

The
Sacred Martyrs was soon a roaring success, Clint dropping in three times a week, Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, between midday and three. The regular church-goers were surprised by the upturn in business, but they thought it was the appeal of Fr Sebastian, figuring he must be more charismatic than they’d assumed.

On
e Wednesday, while Clint sat soaking up the silence, a man genuflected at the end of Clint’s pew then slid over to where Clint was waiting. When Clint looked up he saw Larry Drake.

“Luh-luh-luh-Larry?” Clint said stupidly, louder than he
intended.

“Quiet,
” Drake hissed, then spared Clint a nervous grin. “I like your office. I heard you’re selling good shit, blessed by the Pope himself.”

“Not in puh-person,” Clint
grinned, “but he gave the shipment his huh-holy seal of approval. What are you looking for?”

Drake
sniffed, trying to be casual. “Whatever.”

“This a one-off duh-deal?”

“Depends on the quality and how quiet you can keep it.”

“I can keep it real quiet,” Clint
said. “I can do you a good deal too – twenty percent duh-discount –
if
…”

“Go on.”

“Lots of muh-money in showbusiness. You mix with celebrities, directors, pruh-producers and the rest. If you send some of them my way, I’ll be generous, cut you a duh-discount every time.”

“I scratch your back, you scratch mine,” Drake chuckled. Every dealer he knew would
sell their grandmother for the chance to tap into celeb money. He kept most of his contacts well away from his showbiz associates, but a guy with enough imagination to deal from a church might be worth introducing to certain people. “I’ll test the shit and see if you can keep this under your hat. Later… yeah, maybe. What can you supply?”

“
Anything,” Cliff said confidently. “I always carry coke, grass, E’s. If you want something else, let me know in advance. You have my nuh-number?”

“No.”

Clint slipped a card to Drake — he’d printed off a load in a shopping mall a while back. Drake pocketed the card without looking. Clint gave the church a quick scan, to make sure nobody was watching. “What can I tuh-tempt you with?”

“Like I said,
whatever you have. I’m stocking up for the weekend.”

Clint searched through his pockets, produced a cigarette box full of E’s, a thick stick of hash, two small baggies of coke. “That enough or
do you want more?”

Drake’s eyes lit up
. “Fuck no, that’s plenty.” Snatching the gear from Clint, stashing it inside his jacket. “What do I owe you?”

“First batch on the huh-house,” Clint said freely
. He’d never given away that much before but Drake was a potential mother lode.

“You’re sure?” Drake asked, surprised but not astonished.

“As long as you’re on the level about recommending me to your friends.”

“If the shit’s good,” Drake said, rising and clapping Clint lightly on the back, “you can consider it a deal.”

Drake slid out, masking his face with the lapels of his jacket, walking fast. Clint leant back, smiling radiantly, wishing he could shout out loud with triumph, the tumblers of the future clicking into place. His shit
was
good. Drake
would
return and bring others. Nothing could stop him now. Yankee doodle Clint!

ELEVEN

Tulip lit a candle, stared into the heart of the flickering flame, pulled back slowly and crossed herself, praying silently. Kevin sat nearby, nervous, never comfortable in church even when he had nothing to hide from God, genuinely edgy now that he was engaged in unnatural acts with his sister. Not really
convinced that God existed, but if he did and was watching…

Kevin kept trying to talk Tulip out of her visits to the Church of
Sacred Martyrs, but she turned a deaf ear to his pleas and threats. She’d always been religious – talk of becoming a nun when she was seven or eight, though that soon passed – but now more than ever, now that she needed God more than before. Kevin had thought the stain of sexual sin would drive her from the church, but it had served only to strengthen her faith. Tulip believed her current pains were a test, and that only by remaining true to God could she come through them intact.

Watching her
pray, Kevin felt guilt bubble up inside him. At moments like this he could see the truth — a sixteen year old girl turned into a drug addict and whored out by her perverted brother, victim of the monster he’d become, unwilling to break free because she loved him and feared for his life if she abandoned him. He wanted to release her, seek help, engage the monster within himself and defeat it. But he was too weak. He knew that once they left the sanctity of the church, the sick cravings would return and he’d succumb. His suffering was minor compared with Tulip’s, but he
did
suffer. At times he even took comfort in his pain. If he could feel hurt, it proved he wasn’t truly evil, didn’t it?

Tulip crossed herself
and rose, her auburn hair straggly and unhealthy in the dim light, looking fatter than she was, old, haggard — but still somehow innocent. “I want to make confession,” she said.

Kevin stiffened. “Can’t you confess privately
to God?”

“I do that constantly,” Tulip replied softly. “
But I need to confess to a priest as well.”

Kevin didn’t like it – he knew she confessed
all
her sins – but at least Fr Sebastian would respect the privacy of the confessional, like his predecessor. Kevin still recalled the terror he’d experienced when Tulip first told him she’d confessed to a priest. Blind panic, jamming a bag with clothes, planning to flee London with Tulip, expecting the police to come crashing through the door. He only calmed down when Tulip explained that she’d confessed several times over the last three months — if the priest was going to break his solemn vows and inform on the Tynes, he would have done so long before now.

“What did he say when you told him about us?” Kevin screamed.

“I can’t tell you,” Tulip answered calmly. “That’s between us and God.”

Kevin threate
ned to stop her going to mass, yank her out of school, take her away from everyone she knew and everywhere she felt safe. It had no impact on her. She knew that he knew she wouldn’t stand for such upheval, that she’d send him to prison before she’d let him come between her and God. Eventually his anger abated and he let her continue going to mass and confession.