Crack in the night

So, like, you know, I live next door to a crack dealer. I mean, by all accounts he’s a pleasant individual. Quiet, unassuming and proffers “hellos” and well-wishes when we pass in the corridor. He even offered my flatmate a bag of perfumed soaps the other day (probably discards from his laboratory!) – which in hindsight she’s glad she refused.

You see, while we were quite certain he dabbled in herbology, last night we learned that his creativity extends to cutting-crack too. We found this out at around 8pm when twenty-odd policemen bounded up the stairs of our block of flats, making more noise than a herd of elephants, and began banging on our next-door neighbour’s door with crowbars and batons. Flatmate and I jumped off the couch, and Flatmate ran straight to the door to see what was happening.

Out of our peep-hole we saw a scene fit for The Bill. Ploddies in black vests and helmets, armed to the nines, all jabbering into their walkie-talkies. Flatmate opened the door to, “Get a better look!” The door made it to about a 45-degree angle before she was gruffly told to go back inside. At this time she began with the squeals – and squeal she did for the next hour, in between calling her friends to announce that there was a drug-raid going on next door and that our neighbour was the dealer.

The raid lasted about an hour and a half. At one point the police buzzed our door to ask if we had an extension lead – you see Neighbour had cleverly cut off his power so that the coppers couldn’t take photos of evidence once they’d made their way inside. A little while afterwards our buzzer, buzzed again. It was the copper Flatmate had chatted to earlier (when she had been dressed in tight pyjamas and jumping around like an excited five-year-old), he wanted to, “apologise” for the noise and disruption to our evening, and offered to take Flatmate on a tour of the crime scene! Not sure if this offer was kosher or not, but other flatmate and I ceased laughing at the two of them and decided to jump-in on the tour.

Imagine a hollowed-out shell of an apartment, paint-striped walls and bare cement floors. The bathroom wasn’t in too bad a state, but the ‘lab’ was pretty dismal; a few sleeping bags strewn across the floor, lots of crack pipes and other equipment, and, oddly enough, a chessboard. Dare I say, “Check-mate”?

After snooping around a little too much, I scuttled back into our nice, warm and furnished flat – passed a non-too-please handyman called in late to fix the broken door frame – and decided to call my parents to give them the update. After all, they love watching The Bill.