his physical advantages, coupled with no small measure of intelligence, he would never amount to anything more than a petty criminal and grass. Put bluntly, he was too fucking lazy. Trevor Murk wouldn’t get off his arse if it was sat on a nest of fire ants, and it was well known that he’d never completed a morning’s work in his life, let alone a full day’s, and, moreover, was proud of the fact. He wasn’t work-shy, he was work-allergic.
However, it was still difficult not to like him (although Stegs tried hard enough) because in the end he was a good laugh, and his cheerily amoral demeanour was somehow infectious. Spend too long in his company and even a Godsquadder like Brian the vicar or Vokes’s missus would have probably ended up mugging old ladies or sacrificing chickens as an offering to the Dark One.
The place where he and Stegs met on those occasions when they had business to discuss was the quaintly named Cherry Tree Inn, a huge, hellish place of fruit machines, loud carpets and all the atmosphere of your local job centre, situated in Enfield, a short drive from Barnet. It suited their purpose because it was big and soulless with plenty of space between the tables, making eavesdropping or even accidentally picking up snippets of conversation a near impossibility. It also had eleven different lagers and a similar number of bitters on tap, and served big chips with the food, so it at least had a few things going for it. Not that Stegs was hungry as he pitched in there at five past one that afternoon, waiting to hear what interesting tip Murk had for him. He’d already had a McDonald’s Big Mac happy meal down the road and it had just started to repeat on him. That was the thing he hated about Big Macs: they took about ten seconds to eat and about ten hours to get rid of.
He ordered a pint of Kronenberg in the front bar, then made his way round to the much larger lounge bar and dining room, which was roughly the size of a provincial bingo hall but, today at least, was a lot less crowded, with only about a third of the tables occupied. He was disappointed but not surprised that Murk was nowhere to be seen. He’d once told Stegs that he never rose before eleven and, if entertaining, often didn’t make it out before the early afternoon, depending on the lucky lady’s looks and stamina.
Stegs found himself a seat in the corner next to a window overlooking the Cherry Tree’s beer garden: a hunched, cobbled backyard containing a handful of forlorn-looking plastic chairs and tables that was surrounded on every side by a high wall and had probably not seen the sun since some time in the nineteenth century. Then he lit a cigarette and waited, trying not to think of what Murk might be up to at this very moment in time because it would only make him jealous.
Five minutes later, just as he was putting out the smoke and thinking about whether or not it was worth lighting up another one, he saw Murk emerge from the front bar, carrying a pint of his own. Stegs acknowledged him with a cursory nod and a tapped finger on his watch, and Murk gave him a rueful grin in return. He looked about as guilty as the Guildford Four. A girl at one of the tables with her boyfriend eyed Murk subtly but admiringly as he passed and he gave her a cheeky little grin in return before sidling over to where Stegs was sitting and clumping himself down in the seat opposite.
‘Long time no see, Stegsy,’ he said, putting out a hand.
‘That’s right,’ said Stegs, taking it reluctantly, ‘about fifteen minutes longer than I thought it was going to be.’
‘You know me, my man, I don’t like to be shackled by the chains of time. You got a spare fag?’
Stegs pulled one out for himself, then slid the pack along the table. Murk teased one out and smoothed it between his lips, accepting a light from Stegs. It was amazing. The bloke didn’t hurry anything.
‘So, you had something I might be interested in.’ Stegs was keen to get down to business.
Murk tried without success to stifle a chuckle. ‘That’s right, I have.’
‘What’s so funny, Trevor?’
‘All right, all right, cool it a mo, sweetboy. Don’t get peeved. I’ve got a very tasty morsel for you. It’s just that every time I think about it, it makes me laugh.’
Stegs took a drag from his cigarette, and noticed with annoyance that the girl who’d been looking at Murk earlier was watching him again. There was no justice in this world.
‘Go on.’
Murk leant forward. ‘I’ve told you before I’ve been in a few pornos over the years, haven’t I? You know, support roles, so to speak?’ He was trying hard to look serious but it wasn’t working. Stegs didn’t bother replying, he simply sat glaring at Murk, wondering what the fuck sort of tip it was that he was offering. ‘Well, I did one once called
‘Am I meant to be impressed?’
‘Not particularly, but the point was it was quite a big film by porno standards. You know, a big budget and all that. And the star of it was a bloke called Tino Movali, better known as Tino Ten Inch. You might have heard of him.’
‘Why would I have heard of a bloke called Tino Ten Inch?’
‘Because he’s been in loads of them. As porn stars go, he’s like A-list. Anyway, during the making of
‘I’m not sure I want to hear about that.’
‘No, no, no, no. Not like that.’ He shuddered theatrically. ‘What I’m saying is, when filming was over, we went and had a few drinks together, got friendly — you know, in a having a grin together sort of way, and all that. He even offered me some work over in Amsterdam. He’s Dutch, by the way. I didn’t take it because I had something else on at the time, but I sort of kept in touch with him, and when I was in the Dam a few months back spending some taxpayers’ on a much-needed weekend R and R, we met up for a few drinks. So we’re like mates.’ He paused to take a drag from his fag. ‘Anyway, we went our separate ways, and I hadn’t heard hide nor hair from him since then, until suddenly out of the blue he gives me a bell the other night, and do you know what he’s saying?’
‘Go on, surprise me.’
‘He’s saying,’ whispered Murk, leaning forward, ‘that he’s got gear to sell, and he’s looking for a UK buyer, and would I be interested.’
‘What sort of gear?’
‘Es. He’s got five thousand pills he wants to sell, and if the price is right he can get hold of a regular supply. As much as five thousand a week. Apparently, the first batch is already in the country, waiting to be flogged.’
Stegs looked at him sceptically. ‘If he’s as big a star as you say he is, how come he’s getting involved in something this risky?’
‘He’s a victim of market forces,’ answered Murk in a voice that suggested he was imparting some great wisdom. He took another leisurely drag on his Marlboro Light and sat back in his seat, nodding sagely through a cloud of smoke. ‘You see, the thing is, these days porn stars ain’t meant to look like porn stars. It’s all like amateur stuff now; the girls and the boys are meant to look like everyday, normal people, not like beautiful models with plastic tits or giant wangers. Tino’s a handsome bloke with ten inches’ worth of prime sirloin, an allover tan and a funny accent, and nowadays that’s just no good. You’d have more chance than him at the moment, Stegsy. It’s just the way it’s going.’
‘I’ll take that as some sort of back-handed compliment.’
‘You might want to think about it, you know. It’s an easy way to make a few quid. It’s not hard work and you get to fuck some very attractive young fillies. As long as you don’t mind being watched and you can get it up on demand, then you’re laughing.’
For one terrifying moment, Stegs actually did think that it might be quite a nice little career move. It would certainly solve his ongoing problem of not getting a great deal of action domestically on the bedroom front. The passionometer
‘So he’s out of work then, is he? Your mate?’
‘Yeah, things ain’t going so good for him at the moment. There’s been a bit of a scandal as well. He’s only a young lad, our Tino, and a bit overenthusiastic where the chicks are concerned.’
‘And?’
‘And, he got caught fucking a fourteen-year-old.’
‘Christ! The dirty dog.’
