Damien Exton – Fiction

If you met me you’d take me for a scumbag. You’d clock me as just another rat in the sewers of the dodgy old world I scamper through. I’d have an air of menace, to be sure. No mug. You’d just sense it. You’d see it in how I carry myself. You’d hear it when I talk. You’d see me and think, That one looks like he can handle himself; or you’d say to yourself, I’ll make sure not to get on the wrong side of that one. And you’d be right. I can be the hard man. 

What you wouldn’t sense though is that it’s all just an act. It’s a disguise I dress up in for my job. I get up in the morning (or in the middle of the night: different job – different variables) I shit, shower, shave; the usual gubbins. I have a coffee, I grab a bite (if I’ve time), then I grab my keys, my wallet, my coat, and then the most most crucial thing: I put on my act. I like to think it hangs there, just next to my Stone Island jacket, right by the front door. 

Now, I know what you’re thinking – oooo, Stone Island… Must be one of those football hooligans I see on the news. And yep, you’d be right, I have been that. I’ve got stuck in; I’ve gone toe to toe in a rumble when I had to. 

I’ve also been a master car thief. But you probably wouldn’t sense that. How could you? You – as a normal person (for want of a better term) – wouldn’t quite pick up on that nuance. You wouldn’t be able to distinguish the patter; you wouldn’t spot the moves that go hidden in plain sight with that particular skill set. You don’t move in that world. 

But I do. 

I recognise those movements. I know the buzzwords. I need to know them to survive. I need to fool those fuckers into thinking I’m one of them, see?

But I’m not not one of them. I’m the other. I’m the anti-them. I’m the good guys. I’m the fuzz. The five-o. The copper. The rozzer. The pig. 

I’m the police. 

But you wouldn’t pick up on that either – unless I let you pick up on it. And the bad guys, they don’t pick up on it either. Why don’t they pick up on it? Because I’m good at hiding it. And you know why I’m good at hiding it? ‘Cos I’m a fucking excellent liar. 

You have to be a good, natural, confident liar in this job, so that you can convince the rotters you’re one of them. There has to be zero doubt that you’re from their world, because there are two things about those guys that stacks the odds against you: firstly, some of them are very very cunning – don’t ever doubt it or underestimate them. The second thing is they are extremely paranoid. They’re paranoid because they know full well there are geezers like me out there hunting them down. 

But I’m good at this. That’s why I’ve been successful in undercover police work for going on ten years now. They bought me as a top boy of the local footie firm. They trusted me to go out and TWOCK (Taken Without Owners Consent, to you) any particular wheels they wanted – within reason of course; I’m good but I’m not a miracle worker, don’t ask for a two-tone Bugatti Chiron or anything. 

But the lie I am best at these days is the one about me being a high level drug dealer. And I’ve got access to top notch gear to help sell that lie. 

The reason I’m good at being a liar is I know that the easiest lies to sell are the ones that are closest to the truth. For example, you can’t pretend to be a top notch counterfeiter if you know nothing about fake tens and twenties. You can’t convince the lowlifes you’re an expert on peddling priceless stolen antiques if you don’t know thing one about Ming porcelains or Francis Bacons. They can smell a lie; because that’s what they are too: liars. 

My truth though is pretty close to the lie I pretend to be, that’s how I’ve excelled for such a long time. 

I started my young life as a petty criminal; most lads did in the area of Sheffield I grew up in. I know the ways, the lingo, the swagger, how to effect the menace. Luckily for me though my dad twigged on about the way I was acting up and did something about it. 

I got a visit from a good mate of his who was a copper, and he gave me a blunt choice: either I quit fucking about and got my head down, go to school, pass my exams and then apply for the police force, or he would shop me in, slam a criminal record on my head, and cement me in that loser’s life for good. 

I’ve never been dumb. And in spite of how I act, I’m not the hardest guy in the room. I was never into crime for the kudos. I never even made any decent money. I was just a lost kid looking for something to pass the time. I’m pretty resilient though, and I know a good deal when I see one. I took him up on it and it was the best choice I ever made. I loved being a copper. And being a detective, that’s the best buzz there is. 

And so, that choice led me here: undercover narcotics detective, Delta One Task Force, operating extremely fucking covertly as part of The NCA (National Crime Agency). 

My current op: Operation ‘Charles Dickens’. Main operational goal: to identify and apprehend one particular perp (and his associates) who is the head of an extremely dangerous gang which specialises in drug distribution and various other acts of nastiness – most of it violent. 

This perp – who is currently unknown to us – has been codenamed, Ebenezer, the name of which originates from a certain juvenile song recently in the charts that glorifies ecstasy (the boys do like to come up with witty ops names to keep themselves entertained). 

Unlike Mr Ebenezer and his gang however, myself and my colleagues do not think E’s are good. And that is the operation we have currently in motion: to catch these arseholes in a rather large ecstasy deal. 

My codename in operation Charles Dickens – for which many a titter was heard – is Bob Cratchit (trust me, I know…)

It’s taken me a good six months to get in with this lot. They are no idiots. They can smell a lie and sniff out a liar. I had to have my mind set to keep them from the scent of my lies. 

Personally, I choose not to wear a wire, even though some guys do. I found out early on it’s not the way to go. I have no idea how many times I’ve been padded down in the bogs, or in a car, with a knife to my throat and even a gun to my eye. I always assume this’ll happen, and sure enough, it happened with this crew. Still does in fact more often than not. 

I got there though. I worked it. I kept in character, I was patient, and I spun my web of deceit really well, if I do say so myself. The cogs are fully in motion now and I’m finally set to meet the big man. I’m on a deal to sell them a hundred thousand ecstasy pills – roughly 25 kilos of them.

Carl Mirren – Helen, as he’s known at the cop shop – is a guy with (and I quote one of my fellow officers here) “a nose like a blind cobbler’s thumb”, and truth be told, wasn’t very popular with the other cops. But I always thought Helen (as I’ll refer to him here on in) was a decent guy, and he’d come up trumps for me more than once, just as he had now, so I didn’t quite get what their problem was. Take them as you find them, I say—nose and all. 

Helen had set me up with the goods from the evidence lockup (he runs the evidence cage, and maybe that’s why he’s not trusted, he isn’t copper enough for some, no stomach for the rough stuff). 

Helen had been sitting on a mountain of non-ecstasy Mollies. I say non-ecstasy because these particular pills had been taken in a raid on a drug factory; they were tested and found to contain pretty much no MDMA at all, instead they were cut with all kinds of various powders such as vitamins C and D, caffeine, aspirin… All in all, they’d do you more legal good than illegal harm. 

These pills though looked the business, but they were a lie, and a very convincing one. I knew that with the right set up in the right location for the deal to go down, they’d be good enough for us to get the win. 

I’d been sorted with a car, Mollies packed up and in the false boot that hid beneath a spare tyre. I’d given it a quick once over and all looked well. Game on. 

The location for the meet was on a council estate that I’d spent lots of hours over the preceding months getting to know like the back of my hand. There were lots of alleyways, multiple ins and numerous outs; basically, I had a good chance of escape on foot if things were to go awry. You had to do all you could to have an out. 

Another plus for vetting the place was that my face became known to the low-level scrotes that dwelt there. When the time came, I knew my face wouldn’t raise any red flags with the fuck-wit locals. 

I’d have backup in an unmarked who would do their best to keep tabs at a workable distance, but nothing is certain, and we all have to roll the dice and do the best we can. Not wearing a wire did heighten my chance of coming a cropper, but that’s the chance I’m prepared to take. 

The day of the deal, the day my adrenaline really ramped up, I had a coffee, I didn’t grab a bite (no appetite this time), I grabbed my keys, my wallet, my Stone Island coat, and then the most most crucial thing: I put on my act; it had been hanging there, just next to my coat, right by the front door. 

I jumped in my own motor and headed to the shop. The team had a meet and we discussed the particulars. The governor made sure we all knew our roles and off we went. It was just work, it was just the next job, but it was a pretty big one. 

My backup tailed at a discrete distance, and to the drop I went with my boot full of fake narcotics. I’d already had the call from Ebenezer’s boys telling me they’d be there at 9 p.m, and yes, they had the money, just as I had the gear. 

One rule to try and go by in these ops is to never go to the deal with the gear.  If you can help it. If they’re gonna do you over, well, that’s that. But you don’t want to make it easy for them. So I’d parked the motor in a car park behind a chip shop that wasn’t far from the meet point. 

I walked to the location and there they were, three of them in a Subaru, probably robbed and sporting fake number plates. 

I approached on foot and recognised a couple of the guys that I’d dealt with before. They were mid-level henchmen, and one of them was one huge bruiser of a guy with tattoos on his face and neck – what little there was of it – and went by the name Gravel. 

I stood by the driver’s side and Gravel wound down the window. “I don’t see you carrying anything. So unless you’ve got the worlds biggest arsehole stuffed with the gear, you’d better have a good fucking explanation,” he grumbled, making the other two lumps in the car chuckle. 

“Don’t worry mate,” I explained in a very calm manner, “it’s not far. Just making sure all looks as it should, and that you’ve got the dough. Then we can get on with it. That alright with you?” I was feeling steady enough. My eyes never left his. I was looking down on him, both actually and figuratively. The adrenaline had settled and I was well into the part. You don’t get nervous in these moments as the fear can reek to high heaven to guys like these. 

Gravel didn’t respond but got straight on his mobile and made a call. “Boss, he’s not got it. Mmm-hmmm. Yep. Okay.” 

He ended the call and relayed his orders. “Right, in the back. Take us to the fucking gear.”

“No way,” I said slowly and calmly like you might to an unruly puppy, “show me you’ve got the money, or this is over and I fucking walk.”

Gravel gave me the eyeball. I could tell he’d love to clean his shoes on my face, but he had his orders, this dog; his master had spoken. “Pav, show him the dough.” The only guy that I’d not seen before got out of the passenger side and took a duffel bag off the back seat. He put it on the bonnet and showed me a bag stuffed with bundles of 10 grand a piece. And there were lots and lots of them. 

“Right. I’ll go get the gear, it’s in my motor. I’ll be two minutes. You can even hold on to that till I get back,” I said, winking to the Asian looking guy called Pav. 

“Oh no. No you fucking don’t. In the car, now. You take us to where it is, we scope it out. All’s good – we drive the car to our place. Boss is happy… You get your money. Now, in,” Gravel ordered through the window. 

I was now in a position I hadn’t predicted and didn’t particularly relish. The power had shifted. They had the upper hand, but I couldn’t for a second let them see that I was put out by it. It was part orders and part test. Blow it now and I’d be done for. I needed to keep my head. 

“Alright. Let’s go.”  And just like that I was on a hook. I couldn’t let them see that the old nerves were jangling a bit. But jangling they were. 

We reached my car, Pav took the keys, jumped from the passenger seat and checked the boot like I’d told him. He did a cursory scan and gave a thumbs up to his boys, got in the car, and off he sped. I sat in the back of their Subaru with Russell, who I’d met once or twice but could never recall hearing him speak. He didn’t even glance at me as we dashed off after Pav and the gear with an angry wheel spin. 

“Right you,” Gravel said to me, eyes darting to meet mine for a second in the rear view mirror while he drove, “you better be on the fucking up ‘n up, I’m telling you, ‘cos if you’re not, and the boss doesn’t like what he sees and hears, you are fucking over.” And with that he solidified his words by pointing in my general direction a Baikal: a Russian-made handgun that can be converted from its natural, non-lethal state, to firing very lethal 9mm slugs. 

“Look, I’m a businessman. So chill the fuck out. And put that away, for fuck’s sake,” I said while nonchalantly looking out of the window. The safe, normal people of the world just flitted on by outside, Christmas shopping, oblivious to me and my unpleasant associates. 

“So, where the hell we headed then?” I was feeling nervy, but didn’t show it. 

“I told you. Our gaff.”

“Well that’s really useful, cheers,” I answered, doing my best to sound bored. In reality my brain was churning over possibilities and outcomes; but there were too many unknowns so I just had to go along and improvise. I could do that. I was good at this stuff. Still, you’d rather set up a situation in your favour as much as possible. I wasn’t sure if backup had managed to keep track either, but I was kind of doubtful that they had. 

The drive ended when we caught up with the guy Pav who was parked up in my car. We were in a rural area outside a building that could have easily been a barn at some point. Judging by the music booming out of the place now though I doubted that was still the case. 

“So, what’s the score?” I asked Gravel after we’d all got out of the cars. 

“Well, what’s gonna happen is this, we’re gonna neck a few of these pills you’ve brought. And by we, I mean you ‘n all,” Gravel had gotten uncomfortably close and prodded me in the chest with a hard, unyielding finger. “Boss man’s gonna have ‘em checked proper, but us lot, we’re gonna check ‘em the good old fashioned way; by getting off our fucking nuts. That alright with you, Mr Businessman?”

“Jesus fucking Christ, I’ve not got time for this. You want to do the deal? Get the boss here, and we sort it. Otherwise, kiss my arse. Deal goes nowhere.”

“No, no, no… I don’t think so. ‘Cos I’ll tell you what, this deal doesn’t happen, your body will leave here in separate fucking pieces. Got it?”

I’d tried to force the situation but it was obvious I was holding a losing hand here. Problem one: the pills were duds, and they’d find that out soon. Problem two: I was now pretty convinced I didn’t have backup. This had gone in a way I hadn’t predicted; but that’s the game, and I’m usually good at it. I had to think. At least I wouldn’t be high, that was one thing that would go in my favour. 

The goons got the packages of pills out of the boot and cut one open. They divvied up a dozen or so and handed me two. If they had been real Mollies I’d have been very worried. I’d dabbled a bit in my life and career with drugs. Mostly weed though and a touch of coke. This would be different. And you need to have your smarts in these situations. My life may literally depend on it. 

I inwardly thanked Helen for setting these blanks up. But still, my goose would be cooked once they checked them. That was the immediate problem I had to think my way through. But a bad feeling pinged in my head and wouldn’t quite come to the fore, and it wouldn’t quite leave me alone either. 

I necked my two pills, it looked like the others had more; and we headed in to the rave. The worst kind of music assaulted my senses. A fast, aggressive form of electronic dance music belted from a wall of speakers. A smoke machine spat out sweet smelling clouds that were highlighted by manic lights, creating a frenzied tableau. A varied age group of clubbers – most of whom looked highly intoxicated – went hell for leather to the abrasive music. It was my idea of hell. I was forty-years-old now; but this wouldn’t have been my scene when I was twenty. 

I hadn’t seen Gravel for a few minutes, but his partners kept a very tight leash on me, letting me know I was going nowhere. I noticed now the other guy, Russell, had the butt of a shotgun visible in his jacket. I assumed Pav had pretty much the same. 

A warm, blue, suspicious-looking drink was thrust into my hand by Gravel, who resurfaced and had a fierce excitement in his eyes. “Boss is on his way. He’s well eager to meet you, Mr Businessman. Drink the fuck up.”

“Cool,” I replied, but it sounded hollow and weak against his mad fervour and the pounding of the music. I took a sip of the drink and it tasted like saccharine puke. 

Twenty or so hellish minutes passed while I had no choice but to be clobbered away by the music in there. A bubbling volcano had been steadily erupting inside me all the while; I was pretty sure it wasn’t adrenaline, I was used to dealing with that. This was something else. 

Gravel got in my face again, he let his hefty girth bound into me, barging anyone nearby out of the way. “These fucking pills are mint!” His pupils were now onyx black and totally wired. I just knew he was telling the truth and he was high as a kite. And that’s when I realised: the pills we’d taken couldn’t have been fakes. 

The volcano inside me had been the MDMA charging through my bloodstream. The big nutter looked excited and happy with his heightening buzz. I certainly was not and felt sick. I was sweating and my face felt waxen. Keeping myself calm had now become a major challenge. My heart pounded harder than the music. 

The dread crawled over me and my mood felt as dark and desperate as I’d ever known. My thoughts were clouded and I couldn’t think my way through the puzzle. The puzzle being, how was I high? The prep had been done. The pills were supposed to be vitamins and sawdust, pretty much. But here I was, very off my nut, just like these loons. This was really bad. 

It was then it clicked, the doubt that had niggled at my mind when we got here. The pills they thrust upon me didn’t look right. I’d seen them in the lockup at the station when they were signed out, and all was above board. But these were a slightly different colour when they opened the parcel. I was sure of it. 

A few more dark minutes passed and a creeping anxiety continued to crawl and slither over me. Finally, Gravel and the other two formed an unhealthy looking circle around me, and a hand slammed down on my shoulder. I was guessing this was the guy. The target: Mr Ebenezer. 

The words I heard next chilled my blood. “Hello Bob. I understand you’ve been wanting to meet me?” 

Bob Cratchit was my code name, not my fake name. But I knew what I’d heard. And I shouldn’t have heard it here. My panicked mind spat words out of my mouth without rational thought, 

“My name’s not Bob. It’s Dean.” A major fuck up. Dean was my birth name, not my assumed name that was fabricated for the drop, which was Jimmy. Like I said, drugs are an enemy when you’re in the field; between those and the blossoming fear, I had absolutely no idea what I was doing, and I was losing myself. 

“No. No, no… You’re Bob Cratchit aren’t you? And I’m Ebeneezer Goode. And just as you promised Bob, these E’s are good.”

My world went dark then as I felt a heavy clunk pummel through my skull. The next thing I remembered was waking up, unable to move anything but my head – my arms and legs were bound to a solid wooden chair with Duck tape. The music was distant now, it had been replaced by a ringing in my ears, probably from the smack over the head that I’d taken. 

The guise that I dress up in for the job, the act that I wear, that had now well and truly evaporated. I pretend to be the hard man, to project menace, but it must have been obvious that I was shit-scared. There was no nuance to how I carried myself now. My fate was well and truly in their hands. 

“Ahhh, here he is, look. Back in the land of the living. How ya feeling Bob? Oh wait, it’s not really Bob is it?” Ebenezer said condescendingly. I shook my head to confirm that it wasn’t. Gravel and the other two now watched from the back of the room; a dimly lit outhouse kind of set up. Very bleak. 

“Well guess what? My name’s not fucking Ebenezer.” When he said that he sounded genuinely furious that we’d given him a codename, a name that sounded idiotic too when he said it out loud. 

He stared hard at me then, hands on knees, bringing his eye level down close to mine. If he was attempting to burn into me the gravity of his anger he did a thorough job of it. 

A mobile chirped off to the right where it shone on a table as it rang;  it shuffled along a little as it vibrated. Gravel answered the phone and I heard a fuzzy, tinny voice on the other end, but I couldn’t hear the words. Gravel didn’t respond to the caller, but instead passed the phone to his boss, saying, “It’s him.”

Ebenezer, or whatever the hell his name was, took the phone, but he didn’t take his eyes off mine.  

“What? Yeah, it’s sorted. No he’s not, not yet. Woh! Shut the fuck up! Remember who’s working for who here. Take a deep fucking breath. And just have a think about how you talk to me from now on. Got it? Good. Now stop crying; your money’ll be there in a bit.” He hung up the phone. “Prick,” he uttered to himself. “Pav, send Helen his money.” Ebeneezer instructed.

“Twenty grand boss?” Pav asked. 

“Mmm-hmmm,” Ebeneezer confirmed. “Twat,” he spat as he threw the mobile back onto the table.

And there it was. How I’d been sunk: Carl ‘Helen’ Mirren had sold me out for twenty-large. Now I knew why nobody liked him. He couldn’t be trusted. Now I knew why he had the nose he did – it’d probably been spread across his face one too many times. I wished I could make it one more. 

He’d delivered me to the goons. And I had, unwittingly, supplied them with a very large consignment of grade A pill that Helen must have switched out before I left. 

“So, Bob,” he said to me with a new, lighthearted tone as if he was finally enjoying himself. “I’ll tell you what’s going to happen, in keeping with the theme – Ebenezer Scrooge, Charles Dickens and all that… Tonight, you are going to be visited by three spirits,” his eyes veritably twinkled at what he was about to suggest. “The Ghost of Christmas Past, the Ghost of Christmas Present, and the Ghost of Christmas Future.” I didn’t really think it was the right time to let him know he’d gotten that last one wrong. “But I’ll tell you right now what your future holds, Bob. It holds absolutely fuck all for you anymore. ‘Cos you are done for, you fucking rat.”

And with that he nodded a no-nonsense nod that left me in no doubt whatsoever that he meant exactly what he said. And I was truly terrified for the first time, not only in my career, but also in my life. 

“Look, you obviously know I’m a copper. If you kill me, you’ll be sunk. Truly,” I did my best to convince them this wasn’t needed and was an incredibly dumb move on their part. “They’ll hunt you down, they’ll find you, and you will never get out, I promise you that. Murdering a copper? Bad move. Just let me go. Look, you’ve done well here, you’ve beat us. You’ve won. That’s some serious gear you’ve got off us. So just let me roll.” I still felt hope they’d see sense. They couldn’t be that crazy and reckless, surely?

The guy’s sneer let me know how well my plea had gone down.  “I don’t think so,” he replied, with a curt finality. 

The next thing to happen was quick and brutal. Pav, who I assumed must be the Ghost of Christmas Past, raised his sawn off with a slick confidence. He pulled the trigger and took away my left kneecap with every one of the guns 12 gauges. It blew up a quick red mist that sprayed me in the face. It was oily and warm. I’m pretty sure I screamed like a child. 

While I looked at my sorry left knee and tried to understand how it was now completely obliterated, the Ghost of Christmas Present—Russell—stalked toward me then raised and fired his shotgun, and in a display just as elaborate as the knee, absolutely destroyed my right hand. The skin flapped and only my thumb remained, where it dangled pitifully, held on by no more than a wet sliver of scarlet meat.

The sound once again was a slamming cacophony, the pain was a coarse sharp blanket that enveloped me. My eyes bulged and my screams ripped apart my throat. Blue smoke slowly writhed from the barrels as Russell stood and dispassionately watched me. The room smelt of fireworks and burnt flesh. I couldn’t tell you at all what the guy was thinking. It was the first and only time I had heard him speak. But he’d not said a word; he’d let the gun say all he needed to. 

I sank into total shock while a sharp quiet fell over the room. I was overwhelmed by disbelief and confusion. I had no act to hide behind now. My mind was grinding into shut down mode. 

The bad guys had won. And I, betrayed by one of my own, still held out for an intervention that would save my life. 

So, here I sit, with no spirit of saviour, no charitable Jacob Marley seemingly about to appear any time soon, as the third and final spirit – Gravel, of course it would be him – approaches to reveal my future, with the cold, unfired gun in his meaty hands. The weapon looks like a toy in his massive grip. 

I don’t feel pain now, I’m beyond that, and I’m taking control of the panic. I dictate how things play out; and I’m no mug. I’m good at this stuff. My heartbeat has simmered to a less thunderous rhythm, and I’m breathing slow and steady. But not for long. Not for very long at all. Merry fucking Christmas.