Super Iced Grapefruit

By Ignatious Doode

Danny is Mr Careful. He has to be in his game. He can’t afford to make mistakes. He doesn’t leave anything to chance.
He has a long-term plan.
The trouble is, life doesn’t always adhere to your plans.
Gemma thought she’d found a good man; someone that she could confide in. Trouble is, you’ve got to be careful who you trust.
What happens when it all goes wrong?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ignatious Doode
• Release date: Jul 2, 2011

Ignatious Doode

Ignatious Doode lives in Cloud Cuckoo Land. First he’s an artist, then he’s a musician, then a producer, a teacher and so on and so on. Now, he thinks he’s an author.

Book preview

Chapter 1 - SLEEPYHEAD

Gemma opened her eyes and squinted at the clock. Five forty five. No way, she thought. She felt far too tired to get up yet. She’d had nowhere near enough sleep. She reached out her hand, feeling for the button that turned off the alarm and shut her eyes, planning on just another few more minutes before she had a shower and washed her hair. Just a few more minutes wouldn’t hurt. She wouldn’t fall asleep.

When she next opened her eyes, it was ten past seven.

Fuck! she said out loud, throwing the duvet off and heading to the bathroom. She sat on the toilet trying to urinate as quickly as possible. Her dark brown, almost black hair was matted and stuck to her forehead; her skin was clammy with perspiration. She smelt her left armpit and pulled a face but she didn’t have time for a shower. Once she was sure she had finished, she wiped herself and flushed the toilet. She leant over the sink and peered at her face in the mirror.

Fuck, no, she said out loud again on seeing the image that stared back at her. It looked beyond repair. She considered calling in sick but it would be the third Monday in a row and Fat Barry had already given her a verbal warning. She ran the cold water and splashed it over her face in an attempt to wake herself up. She looked in the mirror again. It was no use; she had to wash her hair. She’d just have to be late, fuck it.

She turned on the shower and waited for it to reach the right temperature before pulling back the curtain and stepping over the side of the bath. It was too hot for trousers, she’d have to wear a dress and her legs badly needed exfoliating. She didn’t have time to wax, she’d have to shave. She hated shaving; she always cut herself. True to form, today was no exception.

Fuck it, she said out loud again as the blood mixed with the water on her leg. She finished the other leg without further slicing herself up and attended to her armpits, and then she washed and conditioned her hair to within an inch of its life.

She habitually felt her breasts for anything unusual and then turned off the shower, waiting for it to cease completely before pulling back the curtain and stepping out of the bath. She wrapped a large towel around her body and twisted another, smaller one, around her head, then ran into the kitchen, grabbing a clean pair of knickers on the way. She plugged in the hair drier and brushed her hair, getting frustrated with the tangles and knots and getting later and later.

When her hair was almost dry, she ate a quick bowl of cereal, Special K, leaving the washing up in the sink for later and ran back to the bedroom to dress, realising as she got to her wardrobe that the intended item of clothing was in the washing basket. She could find nothing else as a suitable alternative so, after first sniffing it to make sure it wasn’t too disgusting, she opted for her first choice.

Back in the bathroom, she brushed and flossed her teeth before heading back to the lounge to collect her things. But her bag wasn’t where she thought she had left it. She picked up her keys while she searched for it, eventually finding it tucked under the table on a kitchen chair.

She ran from the flat slamming the door and made her way towards the station, hoping that she wasn’t going to have to wait too long for a train. When she got to the ticket barrier, she searched her bag but couldn’t find her purse. Her purse had her Oyster card and her money in and without it she was going nowhere.

Fuck it she said under her breath as she remembered taking it out of her bag the night before to purchase a book online.

She turned and made her way back to the flat. She took her time. There was no point rushing now. Rushing had got her nowhere. Rushing had made her even later. Besides, it was uphill all the way back to the flat. She stopped at the newsagents to buy some cigarettes and Rizlas. She’d have a quick one before she left.

Forty minutes later, she finally boarded a train to Victoria. She decided not to answer any of the four missed calls she’d ignored. She’d deal with it when she got there. She arrived an hour and thirty five minutes late for work.

In my office, now, said Fat Barry, his supersized frame waddling towards his sanctuary.

Gemma followed him into his partitioned box, pitying the chair he sat on. She was amazed that it took his weight.

I’m so sorry, Barry. I forgot my purse and had to go back, she said as sweetly as possible. It was difficult. She despised him. He disgusted her.

Enough, Gemma! I don’t want to hear it. I’m fed up with your excuses. There’s always something. You’ve been late almost every day this month and when you haven’t been late, you haven’t bothered turning up at all. I’m surprised you came in today with it being a Monday. Seriously, I’ve had it with you Gemma. You couldn’t even be bothered to ring me and let me know.

She didn’t get a chance to make up an excuse about her phone. He passed her an envelope with her name on it. Beads of sweat had appeared on his upper lip. His collar seemed to tight for the folds of his neck.

It’s a written warning. I’m sorry, Gemma but I’m trying to run a business here and I’ve given you every chance. On top of that, you haven’t hit your target for the last two months. I can’t keep carrying you. This is your last warning. If you’re going to be late again, don’t bother coming in. Now get on the phone!

She went to her desk and after putting her bag in her drawer and locking it, donned her headset and punched in a number. The phone rang twice before it was answered.

Hampton Lloyd Associates, how may I help you? came a well spoken female voice on the other end of the line.

Sally Bright, please, she said into the mouthpiece.

Who may I say is calling?

It’s Samantha Worth, she said trying to sound officious. Her work name rolled off her tongue easily. No one used their real name when trying to sell advertising space.

One moment, said the voice on the other end. An insipid tune played over the line while she waited to be connected.

Marketing, came an older female voice.

Sally Bright, please? she said again. The day was already beginning to drag.

What company are you calling from? the voice had a more patronising tone now.

Essential Publications, she said then pushed the silence button before adding bitch.

The line went on hold for a moment. More ‘easy listening’. Then the same voice returned.

I’m afraid Ms. Bright is not taking calls today and would you mind not using the silence button when you are talking to me otherwise I shall have to report you to your company.

Fuck, thought Gemma and hung up. Today was not going well.

Her other call backs also proved unsuccessful due to advertising budget cutbacks or poor results from previous adverts in the same publication. Her voice belied her desperation and she found it hard to sell something that she had no interest or belief in.

Her heart just wasn’t in it. She’d been selling advertising space in Money Works magazine for just over a year now. She rarely, if ever, hit her targets. All the best clients were already accounted for.

Yes! Come on! Full colour, back page! FSA, said Paul, the gay Scouser, from across the desk. He had obviously just closed a deal. The back page was their most expensive space, selling at three thousand, five hundred pounds. His commission was ten per cent. He got up to mark it on the whiteboard and move his name up the targets list. He was now second only to Claire. Wanker, thought Gemma.

By the end of the afternoon, she still hadn’t closed a deal. She’d tried hard too, making more cold calls that afternoon than during the whole of the previous week. She needed the extra money the commission would bring in. The rent was overdue. The last thing she needed now was to lose her job.

At least she’d be seeing Lee later, she thought. He’d cheer her up. She checked her mobile to see if he’d tried to contact her. He’d stayed at his sick mum’s last night. She’d tried to call but his mobile must have been switched off because he didn’t answer. She hoped he’d got some money together. He said he was being paid for a job this weekend and would help her out with the rent.

Chapter 2 - BLOODY MONDAY

Jamie stubbed out the roach in the ashtray.

Shit, I gotta make a move, man, he said, getting to his feet. People to feed. If I don’t go now, it ain’t gonna happen.

Yeah, sure, bruv. Catch you later, yeah? Danny reached out so they could touch knuckles.

Peace, they said simultaneously.

Danny didn’t get up. He couldn’t be arsed. He couldn’t be bothered to skin up, let alone get up.

The weekend had been mental. He’d gone to a squat party on Friday night with Jamie somewhere in Willesden Green. They’d taken some blotters, little paper squares, impregnated with LSD. Hieroglyphs they were called. They had been reduced to gibbering, giggling wrecks and hadn’t left the party till Sunday. They’d ‘come down’ in Danny’s lounge, watching Saw VI. When he fanned his fingers quickly in front of his eyes, they still left colourful tracers. And he was still getting massive head rushes.

Danny glanced over at the clock, purely out of curiosity. It wasn’t like it mattered. Every day was the same for him. It wasn’t like he had to go to work or anything. It was five forty five in the morning. Was it Monday? Yeah, had to be. Jamie must have gone to work. Fuck that, he thought. Wouldn’t want to be doing that in this state. He thought about going to bed but the bedroom was upstairs and, nice as the idea of his bed was, upstairs was a long way away..

When he next opened his eyes, he was looking at the blade of a Stanley knife and a face obscured by a black balaclava.

WHERE’S THE FUCKING MONEY? the mask shouted in his face.

On acid this was not a pleasant experience but the effects of the LSD caused him to react in double quick time and focus his primeval intent unbendingly. It was fight or flight. His instinct chose to fight, his left hand moving upwards to deflect the direction of the blade while his right hand shot out in front, his palm connecting with the intruder’s face. The impact sent him flying back over the coffee table. Danny was up on his feet in an instant, fear driving him, ready to fend off a second attack. His heart was pounding so hard, he thought it would burst. Danny didn’t do violence. Violence was the weapon of the weak.

He scanned the room to check that the fucker had come alone, then picked up the knife that he had dropped. He stopped still when he realised the intruder wasn’t moving.

What the fuck? he said out loud. He looked at the clock. It was ten past seven. He stepped closer to the prostrate intruder, kicked his right foot and then stepped back quickly to see if he stirred.

Nothing. He wanted to go closer and take off his mask but fear held him back in case he suddenly came back to life, like some kind of Terminator. He was wide awake now, that was for sure. He was shaking. He decided his first course of action should be to skin up.

Where’s the fucking money? he’d said.

The fucking money, not your fucking money. Whoever it was must have heard about his plants. Danny’s cellar was full of cannabis plants and hydroponic, growing equipment. He grew the best gear around. Silver Haze, Luton Cheese, Grapefruit, White Widow, Northern Lights, Durban Poison, AK47 (and 8), he grew them all. That’s what he did. At three grand a kilo, it was ninety per cent profit. One of the most reliable commodities in the world. It was a seller’s market.

This cunt must have heard about it somehow and thought he’d try his luck. Danny wasn’t stupid though. He only sold his gear to a few trusted dealers and never sold less than a key to anyone but Jamie and Jamie was his best mate. He was sound. No problem there. Oh, and Jamie’s little sister but she was like family, she knew the score.

It wasn’t as if he sold it to school kids. He left that to the other mugs. As far as he knew, Jamie and Gemma were the only two people who even knew he grew it. Everyone else thought he imported it. He couldn’t have been more careful. He even used carbon filters and an ozone generator to ensure there was no smell from the plants. He vacuum wrapped it once it was harvested. He’d even bought a silent generator to avoid suspiciously high electricity bills.

All his money was kept in the house so there was no reason for the tax man to become interested in him. His deals were always overweight, ensuring continual repeat custom and no complaints. He never smoked a spliff in the car (an innocuous Corsa), a sure way of getting busted. He didn’t look like a dealer, he didn’t even look like a hippy. He never played his music too loud and he didn’t have scores of people coming round. He was the perfect neighbour - friendly but not over-friendly, chatty but not over-chatty. He kept himself to himself. His rent was always on time, paid by standing order to the estate agent, for which he claimed Housing Benefit. And he lived well within his means, spending no more than his Income Support. No, some fucker’s got a big fucking mouth, he thought. He looked at the prone body laid out on the floor. Stupid fuck, coming here alone. He’d just have to hope no one else knew he was here.

The fucker still wasn’t moving and it was hard to tell from where he was sitting whether he was still breathing. He lit the spliff and wondered what he should do next.

Chapter 3 - BLUE MONDAY

Gemma unlocked the front door then ran upstairs to the flat. Once inside, she threw her bag and keys onto the floor in the hall and darted into the bathroom. She barely got her knickers down in time. She sighed with relief as she emptied her bladder.

Lee? she called out into the flat but there was no answer. She hadn’t seen his car outside but it was always a nightmare parking in her road so it didn’t necessarily mean he wasn’t there. She couldn’t smell weed, though and that was a sure sign that he was out. She suddenly became worried that he might be seeing someone else but pushed it to the back of her mind. It was still early, only seven o’clock. He often didn’t come over till late.

It had been a whirlwind romance. They’d met after the club in Brixton, both loved up