Snow Storm

4

Daryll woke in a state of confusion. He blinked at the midday sun streaming through the yellowing net curtains and took a moment to assess the situation.

The pain surged into the base of his skull as his stomach somersaulted in sympathy and his mouth began to water. He would not throw up he assured himself. He wouldn’t. He launched his slight frame across the room and plunged headfirst through the bathroom door towards the pan. His stomach emptied itself as the cranial pain was renewed once more.

Never get high on your own supply; that was the old adage. No one saw fit to mention the perils of getting wasted on cheap rum while trying to deal with the tedium of attempting to peddle the shit though.

What a fucking mess. They were a man down thanks to Leon going missing, probably having thought better of the whole thing as they’d made naff all progress so far.

Stupid fucking plan anyway. There was no way with this place. A – it was too cold, B - the people seemed to have adjusted themselves accordingly and let off the same vibe and C – when you did manage to engage the muppets they had a few trust issues going on. There was a bit of a prejudice element to it he reckoned. How precisely was someone supposed to get a foothold in this place?

All they wanted was to be the local crack dealers but would anyone give them a break? Hell no.

A series of snorting and snuffling sounds emerged from Gus’s mouth or nose. He couldn’t say which. The great pile of lard lay face down on a mess of feather filled rags that might once have passed for a mattress. He couldn’t even breathe properly. Such a basic human function and he had to make it sound like a pig was up to some serious truffle hunting on the on the other side of the room.

Crawling was the best solution to his current malaise and its inherent mobility issues. He slumped back onto the mattress knowing it would be a while before he could move again without incurring the wrath of his head but wary of the fact there was a limit to the length of time he could stay still before his weak and feeble mind took over. Once that happened the symptoms would be magnified further. Such was the state of hangover play.

This thought alone brought the stomach churning on once more and once more he made contact with porcelain. There was nothing left to give as it turned out, save for a large amount of reflexive exertion. Was this what hell would be like? Probably, although it would be a close run contest between a perpetual hangover and just one weekend in this place.

It wasn’t the Brum. That was for sure. It didn’t have the familiar haunts. There was no comfort zone to stretch out in but he’d hoped that might mean a lack of the same frustrations, no more glass ceiling to bounce his head off. They had talked about this being the promised-land. Stupid. That was back when it was all shiny and new. They still had hope then, to some degree, thought they’d do it together, like The Godfather Part 2 in the flashback sequences. They’d get rid of the established market they said, get their own slice of the pie, couldn’t be more than a few daft jocks and they were all pissed most of the time.

It had seemed a flawless plan but now, much like last night’s Lamb Bhuna, it was headed round the u-bend.

They had done some serious under estimation. This might not be a bigger pond but as far as they were concerned, there were a lot bigger fish.

Gus spluttered some more before kicking into life like some kind of clapped out over-loaded motor. He looked up from his mattress through eyes that as usual looked set to burst out of their sockets. “Well what now, man with the plan?” he rasped.

The initial chat with Edwards had been brief. Yes, the SCDEA were missing Vlad the Inhaler, was all he was willing to give away over the phone before he began quizzing Burke regarding the state of the body or part thereof that they had in their possession.

Burke sent some pictures across in a password protected file along with some info from forensics.

They had arranged a call back for later in the afternoon, following the head shrinking session.

It was around three; the point at which afternoons generally tended to sag. He often wondered what they’d done to cope with it in the past. In the days of the liquid lunch afternoons must have amounted to an endurance event. Sleeping on the job was hard enough to avoid in these more puritanical times. His system seemed to go into a sort of pre-hibernation state. It was worse in the summer, when the air con struggled to cope in a building constructed on the cheap with one eye on the public purse strings.

He went for a wander to the coffee machine, more in an effort to get the blood going than anything to do with caffeine, which, if he was honest, he needed just to function normally, never mind provide any sort of perk.

Campbell shifted awkwardly in his seat as he passed, pretending to focus on a set of generic graphics Burke recognised from an online gambling site and which popped up when the skiving chancer in question made the mouse hover over a “look busy” icon.

He didn’t actually mind Campbell being on the site but did feel reassured when any of his subordinates scrambled to hide things like that when they heard him coming. It was one of life’s little pleasures, admittedly a mildly sadistic one.

Campbell had been talking about placing a bet on the possibility of a white Christmas earlier.

Edwards had a shifty air when he finally called back. “I’m sending a couple of my team through to identify the remains if it’s ok by you,” he said. “Or at least do the best they can.”

“Yeah sure,” Burke replied.

“Just another scumbag off the street, small time pusher. Gets it all off your desk doesn’t it?”

“It does,” Burke agreed, thinking it was terribly helpful.

“First thing tomorrow we should be able to confirm either way but looking at the snaps I’d say it’s our boy.”

“Good.”

Burke attempted to extract a fairly stubborn bit of chicken from between two of his back teeth.

“And as for this other one, I’m not even sure they’re connected but as a one off finders fee let’s say…”

The chicken gave way and Burke felt a sense of victory.

“…I suppose we could, ahem, assume they are and take that off your hands to boot.”

Gotcha. A smile slowly spread across Burke’s face. A low down shrink’s trick it was but definitely one that worked and the results themselves had a certain therapeutic quality.

“Anyway,” Edwards continued, talking into the void, “I suppose we should catch up again this time tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow it is then.” Burke agreed. As he put the phone down he felt the tension ease itself out of his shoulders and his brow begin to unfurl.

He left the office and made his way home where he crawled into bed and into a state of unconsciousness for the next 12 hours.