In the UK, the practice of “cuckooing” has become increasingly prominent, particularly through its highly mediatised connection to county-line drug cases, where drug sellers sell substances across wide regions.
Cuckooing refers to when a home or property becomes occupied by people selling or producing drugs. Despite cuckooing happening since at least the 2010s – if not earlier – attention on it has recently spiked: a Freedom of Information request by the BBC showed that police investigations into cuckooing in London alone nearly tripled from 2023/24 to 2025/26.
Those targeted for cuckooing tend to be people with specific vulnerabilities: they struggle with drug addiction, are either children or elderly, or have physical or mental disabilities.
Currently, cuckooing is not a specific criminal offence, but this will soon change. The recently passed 2026 Crime and Policing Act will criminalise cuckooing, defining it as “controlling another [person’s] home for criminal purposes”.
On the one hand, this represents progress in the battle to recognise the detrimental impacts that cuckooing has on its victims. But on the other hand, it is likely that in Britain’s punishment- first approach to drug control, this new legislation will deal with this complex issue by resorting to reductive binary narratives of victim vs perpetrator and exploited vs exploiter.
But what the phenomenon of cuckooing shows is that drug-related crimes, including use and distribution, often complicate our understanding of victimhood, criminality and exploitation. While the people whose homes are taken over are victims of exploitation, many of those cuckooing houses – often children or young adults involved in drug dealing – must also be understood within the context of the same violent illicit drug market and the broader inequalities (like social exclusion, economic precarity and/or drug dependence) that push people into dangerous economies.
This complex web and the reality of the drug market is made very clear in the story of Matty*.
Matty’s story
I’ve known Matty for around 10 years through my work in an opioid agonist therapy (OAT) prescribing service.
Matty is in his early 40’s and has used heroin and crack for the past 25 years. Through this period, he lived with his partner and child, paying rent on time with few issues while he worked in construction, doing all sorts of jobs to keep him going.
With drug testing a common reality in the work, he gradually began “running out” of places that would take him on. At this time his heroin and tablet use was increasing and with fewer options for work, he started committing petty crimes. Because Matty was spending all of his money on drugs, his relationship suffered and his partner ended things. Matty moved out to a place on his own.
Through the local social housing provider, he got his own place: a terraced housing with the front door directly on the pavement, which usually has one bedroom or a bedroom plus a box room. Matty started to dabble more and more with crack. He was aware that around his street, there were a couple of other properties being “cuckooed” by low level street dealers who he sometimes bought crack from.
Matty’s issues began when these same dealers asked if they could ‘cut up’ drugs (bulking them out) in his kitchen for a night. Things quickly spiralled from there.
A constant human stream
From that point on, there were never less than five people in Matty’s house at any moment. At times, there would even be up to 20 people streaming in and out of the flat, all either buying, selling or passing through to get some crack. Those involved in the selling were young, aged between 13 and 20 years old, while those coming to buy ranged from teens to people in their 60’s. Crack prevalence has grown in the UK over recent years, and locally its use amongst younger groups and those not accessing traditional treatment services has been on the rise.
In return for access to his house, Matty was paid ‘rent’: £40 worth of crack each time stock was replenished. There was never more than £300 worth of crack in the house at a time. Sales happened all the time: people simply came to the door or shouted at the window, day or night, to pick up. Word of mouth served as local advertisement.
Within days, Matty lost control of his home: he often spent his time ‘cabined up’ in the bedroom while those selling drugs now ran the house. They operated on a paid shift basis, with people working shifts of about six hours at a time. But with shifts covering the full day and night, for Matty this meant 24/7 activity, constantly impacting his sleep or ability to take care of his needs. Any food or possessions had to be kept in his bedroom with him to stay out of the way. Even when he needed to go out, they remained inside his property. I have heard from other victims of cuckooing that there’s even been times where locks from external doors were removed to ensure the sellers were never locked out.
Matty recalls that the only time his home was empty in those months was when he went to prison for a 28 day sentence. The sellers simply moved around the corner to another property owned by Matty’s family member after they pressured him to allow them in so they could honour their working arrangement. This targeting of the same person multiple times is a common cuckooing tactic. As soon as he was released, both Matty and the occupiers returned to the house.
If any crack was missing or a count was down, Matty was held responsible, and the missing amount was deducted from his rent. Those running the house wouldn’t use any crack, preferring instead to smoke joints, take pills (like pregabalin or zopiclones), or the occasional nitrous canisters. With crack as the carrot keeping Matty in line, he wasn’t likely to complain.
From early on, Matty started to feel powerless in his own home and regretted letting anyone in. How had taking some crack and needing some cash turned into this? Even if he did feel able to act, what options did he have? Those occupying the house often had multiple machetes and hammers around the property.
But as his synapses cried for more, he continued to let people in, worried more about dealing with his cravings than the long term consequences.
Lack of support
When Matty did reach out for help to housing officials, they told him – and me – that they were unable to act unless a police inspector confirmed what was happening. Without that confirmation, Matty couldn’t be rehoused while still holding a tenancy. Although this was before cuckooing became a standalone offence, safeguarding measures were still supposed to exist, yet were not implemented.
Matty said the police even stopped him in the street to confirm they were aware of what was happening. They offered to help, but only if he helped them by providing information about the people supplying drugs.
His hopes that this nightmare would soon be over faded when he realised the police was more concerned with catching those supplying drugs in the whole area – those above the ones occupying his house – than helping him get back control of his place.
Matty was in disbelief. Meanwhile, the scale of the operation taking place in his house was growing. Drugs were restocked multiple times a day, giving police ample opportunities to find the big suppliers while helping him get his house back. But this never happened.
Why did nobody act?
This is where who is selling and how much value is in the property become important. Maintaining a maximum of £300 of crack in the property lowers the incentive for the police to raid the house. By using children to sell drugs, this reduces the likelihood of anyone receiving a custodial sentence.
Should the drug sellers deny knowledge of the drugs, the only person to hold accountable is Matty – the legal tenant of the house where they’re stashed. Conversely, should the police confiscate the amount through arrest, or if the stash is ‘taxed’ by a rival group, at £300 it can easily be ‘written off’ without impacting the business, with the amount then charged to the victim or the low-level sellers if the larger supplier considers it their responsibility.
That leaves people like Matty with little bargaining power to pull the police into action.
In his case, the police never acted. This isn’t new; from my experience, and in conversations with others working in drug services, these drug selling houses are rarely closed down by law enforcement. Instead, what usually happens – and what happened in Matty’s case – is that the house is ‘closed’ by the local authority after repeated anti-social behaviour complaints.
Once the Closure Notice was in place, Matty was told to report himself homeless, then be verified as rough sleeping, which can be a lengthy procedure. After this, he was offered a room in a hostel. He remained there till he felt no longer able to cope, so he started staying with a sibling. Unfortunately their landlord now wants him out, so he wonders where he will go next.
Unwinding the web
What can be done to support Matty? How can we recognise that there may be other people who are also victims here?
Cuckooing and Matty’s story illustrate just how fluid, entangled and complex the boundaries between victimhood and criminality can be when it comes to drug-related crimes. Often, those involved do not fit neatly into categories that the criminal and legal systems impose. Matty himself is far from a “perfect victim”: he allowed people into his home to sustain his drug use. But that does not detract from the very real exploitation, coercion and violence he experienced; it also does not excuse the lack of support he received from police and other institutions, where his safeguarding was conditional on his cooperation.
The same is true for the people that occupied his home: at the same time that they are inflicting harm on Matty, they themselves are victims of the poverty and social inequality that draws them into violent drug markets.
This understanding has already entered discussions on county lines trafficking. Organised criminal groups have targeted vulnerable children and youth to sell and/or cultivate drugs, but there’s an understanding that they could be victims of trafficking or slavery.
Current dominant, punitive narratives around drugs and drug-related crimes that prioritise punishment and stigmatisation over keeping people safe usually leave little room for these nuances. But as cuckooing legislation is still nascent, there is an opportunity to build this understanding into a legal framework that actually prioritises safety for all those involved.
*Matty’s name has been changed for this article; his story has been retold here with his consent.
