Always Read the Label Chapter 23 Supply and Demands

Emma must have had some clothes hidden somewhere 'cos she's slipped into them while we clean up Johnnie. He'd announced his arrival back home with a door slamming so loud I was convinced it was a raid. To make sure we didn't try to get back to sleep he shouted up there'd been a fight and he needed some help.

From sweet, satisfied dreams to disturbing, inescapable waking nightmares. He wasn't that badly hurt, a fair amount of smeared blood had made the injuries look worse than they were as Emma got to work with the TCP and a dampened towel. With the attention focused on his wounds and damaged pride, he started to unravel what had happened after they sold out all their wares and came to split the proceeds.

"Cheeky cunt tried to fob me off with a hundred quid at the end of the night, said he'd done all the running about and arranging. No chance, it was meant to be 50 50 right down the middle".

He's developed that parasitic London inflection I heard and hated so recently in my own voice.

"I wouldn't mind but he knew the score and tried to pull a fast one. I'd have agreed if he was out of pocket. I guess I was lucky the rest of his firm weren't there and it got split up by some bouncers he didn't know".

"What do you mean the rest of his firm? Who exactly have you taken on? Is his last name Kray?"

"He's part of a bigger firm that take care of a lot of clubs. That's why he gets such big discount. He asked me if I wanted in cos I know some of the punters he didn't".

I suppose it's one interpretation of the enterprise spirit we're being encouraged to embrace. He'll be buying a council house, stopping milk for school kids and invading some pointless Islands no one's heard of next.

"Last thing he said to me is this isn't over. I'm fucked if I'm scared of him, but there's loads of them spread about all over the place. I know a few, but the rest I've no idea about. They could jump out anywhere or anytime. They might be on their way over now".

I sneak a look at Emma and see I'm not the only one shitting it at this thought. It's the middle of the night and the police aren't exactly keen to make their way onto the estate. I slip off towards the cupboard to dig out my hammer and go to check the door's properly locked.

"I'm happy to fight him, he's just a jumped up mouthy cockney, but he's bound to go crying to his mates saying I started on him when he wasn't ready. Make it look like he could have won".

Jesus, he's just kicked off a fight that he can't win and he's pinning his hopes on the Queensbury rules being followed by a load of would be gangsters from Queen's Crescent.

"Get some sleep. Your face is OK, you're still as ugly, but the cuts'll soon heal. He seemed alright when he was round earlier. Try to forget it for now, there's nothing you can do till the morning".

Even crushed up next to the warmth of Emma I'm cold with fear and can't nod off. Uncertain whether the doors about to be forced open, the only certainty I have is I really don't want to be dragged into this.

It's fun at first living with a drug dealer. The weekends are endless with no end of people popping round who you end up going out with in the evening and not coming back till the morning. One non-stop instant, messy party. But to find out what it's really like, pop round mid week. Or try a Tuesday. When everything's run out, there's just a hangover left and nobody's answering the phone so you can't get that hair of the dog sorted. Or all the food in the freezer has defrosted cos someone hasn't got the money to recharge the electricity meter key, and if they had, they still wouldn't bother to get it together to do it.

Prefer to stick with the dream? Then wait till Thursday before you pop round, when the phone's been answered, the electricity is back on and all the stock delivered. You'll find them heading out the door having sampled everything, pockets bulging with what's left, on their way to making sure you have a good time.

Except tonight you never get to see Johnnie, the guy you've started to rely on to turn up and make your night go with a swing. Someone with a badge spots him first and he has to show them what those bulges in his pockets are.

After the fight he'd turned up the defiance a notch by going straight to the dealer Baz had introduced him to in an attempt to both cut out and insult the middle man. As soon as he got his pockets turned out, he knew he'd managed both and the middleman had been involved in making sure he couldn't do it again. Not directly, that would be grassing, but he'd made sure the message got through that Johnnie would be carrying and where he'd be heading.

He was on a side street just off Soho Square, heading to a club and thinking nothing of the guy up ahead who kept fiddling with his collar. As he drew level, the guy flashed a card he never had time to read and asked if he could have a word. From nowhere someone else appeared behind him demanding he kept his hands where they could be seen as an unmarked car drew alongside to collect their prize.

There were two packets, one in his jacket with half a dozen wraps of speed which they found straight away and another tucked into his boxer shorts which they found at the Police Station when they searched him. He was hoping to pass the wraps off as for personal use, which would have maybe worked, but the other packet had 43 pills which is a bit much for a night out, even if you're from E17. He was fucked and got charged with possession and intent to supply.

He used the one call he was allowed to phone me and ask if I could make sure his bedside lamp was turned off, which seemed weird and a minor worry given he'd just been arrested. Ten minutes later, I realised I was meant to crack the code, so went to his room and looked in the drawer beneath his lamp. There was a plastic bag filled with more pills and thrills and right next to them was the weirdest porno mag I'd ever seen, featuring pregnant women. I flushed the pills then flicked through the well creased magazine in disbelief while sat waiting for the knock at the door and the bark of sniffer dogs. When it never came, I wished I'd not flushed all the drugs. Or read the magazine. Or chosen to live with a drug dealer.

The duty brief got him bail and he had to sign on at the police station every day and was meant to be in the flat during the hours of darkness. Fat chance of that when he was looking at jail without passing go. He was determined to find out who had set him up as well. It was too neatly targeted to be a chance stop and search, especially now he realised that the guy was talking into a police radio hidden in his collar. I couldn't tell if it was paranoia, but his theory was someone from Baz's firm had been caught with a little bit of gear and had handed over his name in exchange for the charges getting dropped. Baz was definitely involved in it according to his theory and was keen to see him removed from the scene.

There was a lot of daytime speeding going on while he waited for a trial date so some of the things inside his head weren't the same as some of the things going on outside his head. He didn't want to think about what had happened or was going to happen so was keen to block it out. He'd already been caught so any thoughts of the future had to involve prison. How would anyone fill their time waiting to be locked in a cell? Maybe he needed to learn a new skill.

He came back from Camden market with a set of juggling balls and an outlet for his amphetamine energy to focus on. It was endless and any attempt to sit in the front room would end with one or more juggling balls landing in your lap when you least expected it. Continually throwing the balls up and down in the air meant he couldn't answer the growing number of calls from people he owed money for the stuff he'd had confiscated or flushed away. So I had to and found there was no sympathy, just demands about a debt that still had to be paid. No matter what happens, if you get credit, once you receive the goods you have to pay. They knew if he got sent down they'd have to wait even longer for the money so were pushing for payment. He was being kicked by a vicious circle.

Every time I came back from rehearsals expecting to find the house smashed to bits with juggling balls rolling down the walkway. It wasn't helping and I'd had a few arguments with the rest of the band about knuckling down. There was a gig coming up in Paris and we weren't ready for it. I was getting blamed for all the new material taking so long to get knocked into shape.

Mick was turning up every day with cans of Special Brew and a bottle of Vodka. Combine this with my loyal bag of weed and after a few hours only the two of us could tell what rhythm was being played. And sometimes even we didn't know. I was more interested in getting on the guest list for that night's gig or club where I could feed my growing addiction to getting recognised.

Syndrome at the top of Oxford Street was the best night out and always had other minor bands celebrating each others existence. I was always amazed at how many people approached you after seeing your picture in the music papers, but Syndrome was the ultimate ego boost. Stuffed to the gills with minor-league band obsessives who never held back in boosting egos, even for those who spent the evening gazing at their shoes and mumbling like Russell or art-school posh kids like the fumbling Seymour.

Usually I was late for the next day's rehearsal and still a bit too spaced out to understand why even the slightest mistakes were getting picked up on. I needed to get away. The trip to Paris can't arrive quickly enough.