The Pure

leaving me alone.’
    ‘Believe,’ the Kol said.
    ‘I don’t want to hear from you again today, OK? I’m serious. The whole day.’
    ‘Believe in yourself.’
    Back on the street, the weather was no cooler and more people were about. A smell was in the air, a bonfire perhaps, or a barbecue. Uzi thought people were looking at him strangely, avoiding him. Exhaust from buses swirled hot around his ankles as he made his way down the High Street in the direction of Inverness Street Market. When the sun broke through the broiling clouds the glare was unbearable, and before Uzi knew it he had bought a pair of sunglasses from a street vendor for £8.99. Camden was dimmer now, and he liked it that way. He was in a smiley haze, enjoying this new dusk. He was being careless, he knew that, and if there was trouble tonight he would only have himself to blame. Selling a rucksack of stash while stoned: this was the behaviour of an amateur. But, according to Squeal, these people were safe. Squeal was the only person Uzi knew in England who he wasn’t trying actively to avoid. At least, not usually. They had met the day after Uzi arrived. Uzi had knocked on his door and asked to borrow an egg. Nothing unusual there, of course, one neighbour borrowing an egg from another. Uzi also wanted to get the gossip on the residents of the block. He couldn’t afford trouble on his doorstep; for the first time in his life he didn’t have a safe house to go to.
    Squeal was an albino Ghanaian, extremely thin and rather short, top-heavy with a mass of vanilla dreadlocks hanging down his back. He wore sunglasses to protect his eyes, and his wiry frame, together with his unusual way of moving, made him look like a stringed puppet. His voice was soft and lisping, and at first one would never have associated him with the nickname. However, upon getting to know him the reason for his nickname became obvious.
    ‘Eggs?’ said Squeal, folding his arms and unfolding them again. ‘What the fuck. You taking the piss?’
    ‘I’ve just moved in,’ Uzi replied. ‘I need some eggs. One egg, even. One egg.’
    Squeal looked bemused.
    ‘I know you’ve just moved in,’ he said. ‘I know every fucking person that moves into this block. And out of it. Every fucking last man Jack. What’s your name?’
    ‘Tomislav. You can call me Tommy.’
    ‘You’re not fucking Polish, are you?’
    ‘Russian.’ Uzi paused and sniffed the air. ‘Dope?’
    Squeal began to close the door, muttering something unintelligible. Uzi wedged his arm into the open doorway.
    ‘Fuck off,’ said Squeal, ‘or I’ll call the police.’
    ‘Don’t worry,’ said Uzi. ‘Look, I just want an egg. One egg. That’s all.’
    Squeal stopped pressing the door and looked closely at him. ‘Hang on a minute,’ he said, breaking into a hesitant grin. ‘You’ve got the munchies, haven’t you? You’re stoned, aren’t you? Aren’t you?’
    Despite himself, Uzi smiled broadly. Then he heard Squeal laugh for the first time. He sounded like a puppy.
    ‘Come in, dude,’ said Squeal. ‘Make yourself at home, yeah? The eggs are on me.’
    Uzi stepped through the door into the gloom. ‘I’m making shakshuka, he said. ‘I need shakshuka. You ever had shakshuka?’
    By the time Uzi arrived at Inverness street market, the stalls were closed and the road was bald and barren. Detritus lined the gutters. He ambled at a diagonal across the cobbles, shaking his head to clear it. It was hot and his trainers were sticking to the pavement. The stash in his bag felt unnaturally heavy, the way it always did before a drop. The bars and restaurants were empty yet pristine, all primed for an influx of customers later in the evening. He removed his sunglasses, tried to pull himself together. Over the years he had been part of countless high-pressure, ‘no zero’ operations where the outcome could be nothing but decisive. Yet now he felt nervous. His life wasn’t threatened, this was a straightforward sale, and he was nervous. To steady himself he lit a cigarette, but could only manage half of it because he was keen to get to the meeting. Dropping it into the gutter, he headed for the Blue Peacock café.
    A girl in an apron approached him as he entered. She was very pretty, and he smiled at her. He thought she reminded him of a woman he could have known long ago, but he wasn’t sure. She spoke with a Polish accent and in a moment of hazy generosity he considered buying her a drink, buying