Bruises on the Fruit

Chapter Seven

March 5th, 1996

Ty and I had some preparation to do. First, we trawled the charity shop for clothes that would make us look inconspicuous. We needed to be sure that Zed wouldn't recognise us, and Keith wouldn't glance twice at us. In the end, we picked out two tracksuits and two baseball caps.

"We need to get dirty," said Ty. I almost felt my jaw hit the floor. "Do you think an addict gives a fuck about clean clothes and personal hygiene? They've got bigger things to worry about. And don't wash your hair." I ran my fingers through my hair. It really needed washing. "We need to pass as junkies," said Ty, "Keith won't give a shit about a couple of junkies unless he thinks we're looking to score. You think an addict has time to nip home and wash their hair before going after the next fix?" I felt a pang of sadness, although I didn't fully comprehend what he was talking about.

Next, we went back to the park, wearing our new tracksuits. Ty found the muddiest part of the park and sat down. He gestured to me to sit next to him and then lay down and shuffled around in the grass.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"Getting dirty," he winked. For a second, he looked just like his brother. I lay down on my side next to him.

"Come on," he urged, "You gotta wiggle about a bit, get your tracksuit grubby. Make it look like you've slept on a dirty floor for a week." I did as I was told. I let out a giggle and he smiled, a wide, genuine smile. I remembered the look on his face when I'd first met him. Nervous and yet stern and secretive.

"You're like two different people," I said. His smile disappeared abruptly and he stood up.

"Actions," he said. "We want to look like addicts, but not like we're looking to score. We can't be rattling."

"Rattling?"

"Desperate for the next fix, shaking and that," he explained. "Right, so don't be shaking, but don't be confident either. Look at the floor. Look at your hands. Look nervous. Do not look directly at Zed, or Keith, or anyone, basically." He pulled his baseball cap down over his eyes. He had gathered his long hair and tucked it under the cap. Looking at the floor, he started to pace up and down, his eyes occasionally darting left, then right. "Now you try." I copied his every move.

"How do you know so much about addicts?" He looked at me as though I'd fallen out of a tree.

"I live with one."

"Yeah but... Zed doesn't act like this."

"Well, not all the time, no. But out on the street, that's where there's something to be afraid of."

At six o'clock exactly, Zed left the run down terraced house he lived in. We were careful to follow at a pace close enough that we wouldn't lose him, but far enough not to arouse suspicion. We trudged several blocks, making sure to keep up the walk we'd practiced, before Zed disappeared into a house. The house was semi-detached and had a silver Mercedes parked in the drive. Across the road was a bus stop next to a low wall overlooking an overgrown field. We sat on the wall, facing each other while trying to surreptitiously keep an eye on the house.

Several minutes later, Zed came out of the house carrying two large holdalls. Keith Jenkins followed close behind. He had a crew cut and wore a Burberry jacket that looked brand new. They got into the Mercedes and pulled away. As they left the drive and rounded the corner onto the road, a man appeared from nowhere and threw himself in front of the car. The breaks screeched and Zed stepped out of the passenger side.

"The fuck you playing at?" shouted Zed. The man mumbled something, looking at the floor. He offered Zed a screwed up note. Zed looked around, grabbed the money and quickly handed the man something from his inside pocket. He got back into the car. The car drove away.