T by Alan Fyfe

Author:Alan Fyfe
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Transit Lounge
Published: 2022-07-15T00:00:00+00:00

Yo, you best get round

to see Cardo. Loop’s

taken off. Took the kids,

nobody knows where.

He’s in a bad way.

T got angry. He had his own problems, and there was exactly fuck-all he could do about Cardo’s. Then he calmed, and self-interest staked a claim. His supply was with Lori-Bird, and she wouldn’t speak to him – she may even have taken it to sell herself, or to smoke out her regrets with friends. He had $3468 on his person that he had never trusted to the canvas bag. More than enough to reset.

Gobbo had contacted T because he and D.V had been with Cardo for thirty-six hours straight and they needed to go home for sleep. By the time T pulled up on the lawn off Greyhound Terrace, they were gone and he was expected to go in and do something. It was the same sort of pressure as making up a song – he would have to find some words to bring Cardo through. He knew he had nothing significant to offer and that he was mostly there to restock. Meat Lunch provided no particular script for this situation, and Cardo would probably be suspicious if he started talking in rhyme anyway.

Cardo was in the shed. Trance was missing, out at work, but there was another strange man who seemed to occupy the psychic space Trance usually filled. Dressed in black jeans and a worn formal shirt, the stranger perched on a stool with his back straight and said nothing; he wore a dopey grin, and his eyes were looking somewhere other than the present. Cardo was busy with a white plastic basket full of phones in front of him on the bar. There were a few of the old type of brick phone, with big number pads and small LCD displays, and many smartphones of various ages and conditions – from one in a shiny virgin state, still in bubble wrap, to battered models with jagged cracks along the screens. Cardo was so involved with sorting through the phones, he only acknowledged T’s presence with a grunt. Lord Jinglemuffins had his nose in an open feedbag in the far corner, his glossy mane now tangled and dank, his cereal and straw-laced turds at random intervals across the concrete. Ashley was there too.

T hadn’t expected to see Ashley ever again, least of all in Cardo’s shed. He had put the former dealer out of his mind, thinking that the long gap in anyone seeing him meant Ashley had stayed true to his word and rejected the life that, he’d said, cost him the things he wanted most. It really was him, though, in white tracksuit pants, loose around his rangy body, a well-preserved pair of Air Jordan basketball boots that must have been twenty-five years old, and, in his style, no shirt. He looked happy and relaxed in the way someone who is used to a drug looks when they return to it. He greeted T with a committed hug, lifting him off the ground for a second.

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