The evil and the pure, p.25
The Evil And The Pure, page 25
“You’ve no reason to be afraid of me, Tony.”
“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 without 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 staggered 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 woke 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?”
“Clint, 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, “Yuh-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 flinched, 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 blinked. “Huh?”
“You can’t use it against me.”
“I could tuh-tell Dave.”
“To what end?”
“He pruh-promised me a sh-sh-sh-share. A muh-million pounds. Maybe two.”
“I remember,” Phials snorted. “Now you can see that what I said at the time was true — two million’s peanuts for a wonder drug like this. But that’s irrelevant, since you no longer have a stake to sell.”
“How do you fuh-figure that?” Clint asked stiffly.
“The deadline,” Phials reminded him. “Your only hope of getting in on the deal was to find out if I was hiding the formula from your cousin. He didn’t want to threaten me in case it distracted me from my work, so he sent you to trick the truth out of me. For that he might have rewarded you. But now the threat’s been made. The torturers stand poised. You could tell him what you know, but you’d only be saving him a few days. How much do you think he’ll pay for that? How much is a week worth to any man, no matter how rich he might be? Knowing Dave as I do, I think he might toss you a few thousand to be kind.”
“So you’re telling me this just to spite me,” Clint hissed, shaking with cold rage. “You’re paying me back for what I duh-did with the Tynes.” He stood and spat. “Fuck you tuh-too, doc. At least I won’t be duh-dead this time next week.”
“I don’t want to die,” Phials said quickly, grabbing Clint’s sleeve. “But I will be executed, whatever way I play it. Exclusivity is essential if Baby P is to hold its value. Once Dave has the formula, he won’t risk letting me fall into a competitor’s hands.” Clint stared at him suspiciously. Phials let go and lowered his gaze. “I didn’t bring you here to mock you. I want to cut a deal.”
Clint sat slowly, eyes tightening, brain churning. “What kind of a deal?”
“Freedom for the formula.”
“You want me to put in a good word for you with Dave?” Clint frowned.
“No, you idiot,” Phials snapped. “I want you to break me out.”
Clint stared, slackjawed.
“I have contacts in the States,” Phials said quickly. “If you get me out, we can sell the formula ourselves, split the profit fifty-fifty. We won’t make the billions we could if we were manufacturing it, but we’ll be able to demand way more than your cousin was going to pay. Fifty million dollars, maybe more. This is your chance to hit New York in style, as a man of substance. How’d you like to burn a trail through the Big Apple with twenty-five big ones in your back pocket? And a reputation second to none — Clint Smith, the man who delivered Baby P to the world. How do you think Shula Schimmel would view your advances then?”
“You’re insane,” Clint croaked.
“I’m a visionary.”
“Cross cuh-cousin Dave — are you out of your fuh-fucking mind?”
“This may come as news to you, but your cousin’s small shit, Clint. A big fish in London but a minnow elsewhere. Baby P would change that, but he’s got no God-given right to it. If you get me out of here and we cut a deal with the right people, he won’t be able to touch us. We’ll be sharks.”
“Even if I wuh-wanted to…” Clint muttered. “The security here…”
“It won’t be easy. I know it’s difficult. But they won’t be expecting it. They don’t suspect you. We have a week to work on a plan.”
“If it wuh-went wrong…”
“Then you stand to lose everything. But think of your dreams of Shula and the States, weigh the possible losses against the potential gains. This is your title shot. Have you the balls to step into the ring and put your money where your mouth is?”
Clint said nothing. He was staring off into space, thinking about twenty-five million dollars, impossible to imagine so much cash. The world would be his. No way he could spend that much in one lifetime. He could gamble, invest, spread it about, do whatever the hell he wished.
“Go think it over,” Phials said. He took Clint’s elbow and guided him to the door. “Run it through the old brain cells. Sleep on it. Just remember the deadline, and that an offer like this will never come your way again.”
Clint nodded and let himself out. He stood panting on the other side of the door, white-faced, head whirling. Fast Eddie stared at him. Clint shook himself and pushed on, thoughts spinning, mind afire, thinking The Godfather, thinking Escape From Alcatraz, thinking Shula Schimmel. Also thinking about the cost of failure, torment at the hands of cousin Dave’s thugs, strung up alongside Phials, maybe fed to the hounds. Terrifying thoughts. But… twenty-five million…
On his way to the Church of Sacred Martyrs, having ducked home to get his wares, no reason not to keep his Friday clinic, wanting to stay busy, hoping that if he distracted himself he might find it easier to think clearly. Arriving late, he nodded apologies to his regulars, made himself comfortable, got on with business. Level-headed, the usual patter, whispering professionally as he dealt, no giveaway signs that his brain was shooting off in twenty-five million different directions all at once.
Towards the end Gawl stumbled into the church, looking rough. He waited for the last of Clint’s customers to leave, then slid in beside the dealer. “How’s the head?” he groaned.
“Fine,” Clint answered softly. Studying Gawl, calculating. If he was going to bust Phials out, he’d need help. But could he trust the Scot? Did Gawl really have what it took? He’d changed Clint’s life, and Clint wanted to cut him in for a slice of the action, but was he the right man for a challenge this size?
Clint was considering whether or not to mention his visit to the lab when Kevin and Tulip Tyne entered and passed them by. Gawl dug Clint in the ribs and nodded at the girl. “A tasty piece, right? I wouldn’t mind a crack at a bird like that.”
“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 without 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 staggered 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 woke 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?”
“Clint, 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, “Yuh-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 flinched, 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 blinked. “Huh?”
“You can’t use it against me.”
“I could tuh-tell Dave.”
“To what end?”
“He pruh-promised me a sh-sh-sh-share. A muh-million pounds. Maybe two.”
“I remember,” Phials snorted. “Now you can see that what I said at the time was true — two million’s peanuts for a wonder drug like this. But that’s irrelevant, since you no longer have a stake to sell.”
“How do you fuh-figure that?” Clint asked stiffly.
“The deadline,” Phials reminded him. “Your only hope of getting in on the deal was to find out if I was hiding the formula from your cousin. He didn’t want to threaten me in case it distracted me from my work, so he sent you to trick the truth out of me. For that he might have rewarded you. But now the threat’s been made. The torturers stand poised. You could tell him what you know, but you’d only be saving him a few days. How much do you think he’ll pay for that? How much is a week worth to any man, no matter how rich he might be? Knowing Dave as I do, I think he might toss you a few thousand to be kind.”
“So you’re telling me this just to spite me,” Clint hissed, shaking with cold rage. “You’re paying me back for what I duh-did with the Tynes.” He stood and spat. “Fuck you tuh-too, doc. At least I won’t be duh-dead this time next week.”
“I don’t want to die,” Phials said quickly, grabbing Clint’s sleeve. “But I will be executed, whatever way I play it. Exclusivity is essential if Baby P is to hold its value. Once Dave has the formula, he won’t risk letting me fall into a competitor’s hands.” Clint stared at him suspiciously. Phials let go and lowered his gaze. “I didn’t bring you here to mock you. I want to cut a deal.”
Clint sat slowly, eyes tightening, brain churning. “What kind of a deal?”
“Freedom for the formula.”
“You want me to put in a good word for you with Dave?” Clint frowned.
“No, you idiot,” Phials snapped. “I want you to break me out.”
Clint stared, slackjawed.
“I have contacts in the States,” Phials said quickly. “If you get me out, we can sell the formula ourselves, split the profit fifty-fifty. We won’t make the billions we could if we were manufacturing it, but we’ll be able to demand way more than your cousin was going to pay. Fifty million dollars, maybe more. This is your chance to hit New York in style, as a man of substance. How’d you like to burn a trail through the Big Apple with twenty-five big ones in your back pocket? And a reputation second to none — Clint Smith, the man who delivered Baby P to the world. How do you think Shula Schimmel would view your advances then?”
“You’re insane,” Clint croaked.
“I’m a visionary.”
“Cross cuh-cousin Dave — are you out of your fuh-fucking mind?”
“This may come as news to you, but your cousin’s small shit, Clint. A big fish in London but a minnow elsewhere. Baby P would change that, but he’s got no God-given right to it. If you get me out of here and we cut a deal with the right people, he won’t be able to touch us. We’ll be sharks.”
“Even if I wuh-wanted to…” Clint muttered. “The security here…”
“It won’t be easy. I know it’s difficult. But they won’t be expecting it. They don’t suspect you. We have a week to work on a plan.”
“If it wuh-went wrong…”
“Then you stand to lose everything. But think of your dreams of Shula and the States, weigh the possible losses against the potential gains. This is your title shot. Have you the balls to step into the ring and put your money where your mouth is?”
Clint said nothing. He was staring off into space, thinking about twenty-five million dollars, impossible to imagine so much cash. The world would be his. No way he could spend that much in one lifetime. He could gamble, invest, spread it about, do whatever the hell he wished.
“Go think it over,” Phials said. He took Clint’s elbow and guided him to the door. “Run it through the old brain cells. Sleep on it. Just remember the deadline, and that an offer like this will never come your way again.”
Clint nodded and let himself out. He stood panting on the other side of the door, white-faced, head whirling. Fast Eddie stared at him. Clint shook himself and pushed on, thoughts spinning, mind afire, thinking The Godfather, thinking Escape From Alcatraz, thinking Shula Schimmel. Also thinking about the cost of failure, torment at the hands of cousin Dave’s thugs, strung up alongside Phials, maybe fed to the hounds. Terrifying thoughts. But… twenty-five million…
On his way to the Church of Sacred Martyrs, having ducked home to get his wares, no reason not to keep his Friday clinic, wanting to stay busy, hoping that if he distracted himself he might find it easier to think clearly. Arriving late, he nodded apologies to his regulars, made himself comfortable, got on with business. Level-headed, the usual patter, whispering professionally as he dealt, no giveaway signs that his brain was shooting off in twenty-five million different directions all at once.
Towards the end Gawl stumbled into the church, looking rough. He waited for the last of Clint’s customers to leave, then slid in beside the dealer. “How’s the head?” he groaned.
“Fine,” Clint answered softly. Studying Gawl, calculating. If he was going to bust Phials out, he’d need help. But could he trust the Scot? Did Gawl really have what it took? He’d changed Clint’s life, and Clint wanted to cut him in for a slice of the action, but was he the right man for a challenge this size?
Clint was considering whether or not to mention his visit to the lab when Kevin and Tulip Tyne entered and passed them by. Gawl dug Clint in the ribs and nodded at the girl. “A tasty piece, right? I wouldn’t mind a crack at a bird like that.”
