I never told any of them about the clearing up me and my gran had to do after one of her bad days. Gross it was, and I didn’t talk about the low-grade smack I used to get for her from Leroy two doors down to stop her tearing herself to bits. No one needed to know about any of that, although they probably did anyway, just never mentioned it. Most of the kids had one parent or both who got rolling stoned every day—and there was none of the good stuff in our neck of the woods, I can tell you that.

Did I ever try it myself?

’Course I did. I’ve done it all, collie weed (that’s some dank-ass marijuana, that is; you can get really toked on that, know what I mean), crack, meth, black tar, all the trippy shit, you name it. First time I had some I was about six, I guess, and I remember how much it made the grown-ups laugh. I expect it was a hilarious sight watching a kid get high, although I think mostly it sent me to sleep.

My big connection to the recreationals started when I was about ten and BJ decided it was time to get me initiated into the real world, meaning his world. So next time he turned up at our place, instead of taking my ma after he’d roughed her up and helped himself to what dough she had, he took me instead.

Was I scared? You bet, but he made me feel kind of grown up, so I soon got over it, especially when he explained what I had to do.

“It’s simple,” he said. “I get the gear from the dudes I know—you don’t ever want to upset them, Archie, not if you got an urge to stay alive—and then I drive you around to make the deliveries. A kind of newspaper round, if you like, but these days we’ve moved on a bit.”

“What are we delivering?” I asked him (talk about green, but remember I was only ten).

“Stuff. You don’t need to know what it is, but it’s serious quality and it’s our job to get it to the PCs who pay top dollar for it.”

“PCs?”