by Ricky Fleet
“What the fuck is this all about?” shouted out one of the men. It was the one who had stabbed Malachi. Twice. The nose was still crooked with a makeshift patch below his two black eyes.
The gangsters all turned in unison at the arrival of their Don. Legacy greeted them all and Malachi took up position behind the captives until he knew what would transpire. One of the dreadlocked members was sharpening a knife while staring at the thugs, the metallic rasp carrying around the room. Another placed a skull at their feet and started to daub a thick red liquid on the floor, drawing a circular pattern around them.
“Des, what the hell is going on?” Malachi whispered.
“It’s all for show, man,” Desmond explained, stifling a laugh, “It’s meant to be old Obeah voodoo but they haven’t got a clue about the vevés so they are just drawing a pentagram.”
“I don’t like this,” Malachi replied. His initial hunch to steer clear was proving to be the right choice, except it was now too late. He was surrounded by a gang of murderers who were taking the spectacle to the extreme.
“Chill, Mal. Considering what could have happened to them, this is nothing,” Desmond assured his friend.
Malachi wanted to leave. The impulse to run screaming for the door was close to taking hold, but for some strange reason he felt a sense of responsibility for the three pathetic creatures. Their utter confusion at what was unfolding kept him rooted to the spot and as their terror grew, so did Malachi’s. He would need to ride this out, and not just to protect Desmond’s honour. By sticking around, he was fairly sure their friendship would ensure the potential rapists all walked away to face a proper trial and justice, instead of winding up in a hole in pieces.
“It is ready,” declared the fake priest.
Stepping forward, Legacy stared evilly at each of the prisoners for a few seconds, appraising them. “You wonder why you been brought here, what you could have done that requires a payment in blood.”
“What are you talking about, we don’t even know you guys,” pleaded the one who had lain atop Chloe.
Malachi started to grind his teeth in anger, the sheer animalism of the ritual speaking to him on a primal level. He had to picture Chloe’s smiling face to drive out the darkness which was settling in his heart.
“You may not know us,” Legacy snarled an inch from the man’s face, “But we know you.”
“Please, tell us what we have done. We will make it right, I promise,” begged the third man between sobs.
“Only your souls will suffice,” declared Legacy, cutting their clothing and exposing their bare chests.
“What the fuck do you mean our souls? There’s no such thing!”
Legacy leaned in close, looking around as his associates all laughed with secret knowledge, “We will see.”
Taking the pot of blood, he painted crosses on their chest where the heart was located. They tried thrashing around to avoid the liquid, but machete’s appeared at their throats, stilling the dissent.
“Des, this has to stop!” Malachi hissed.
“Soon, man,” Desmond said dazedly. He was caught up in the same reverie as Malachi, only it was more powerful. This was the religion of his ancestors, believed to have origins in the Ashanti tribes of Northern Africa. The slaves had used it to gain strength for their ordeal and work evil against their brutal masters. Malachi had been through far too much recently to make light of the ritual, irrespective of the flaws in its delivery.
“First we cut out your hearts while you still breathing,” Legacy explained, “Then we eat dem hearts.”
“No, please.”
“Oh God, I have children.”
The Don went back to chanting in a Jamaican patois, swaying and rolling his eyes for dramatic effect. All three men had reached a peak of fear, their bodily functions giving in. As the smell of urine and faeces reached Malachi, the gang members laughed at their discomfort. It was difficult for Malachi to process the link between his colourful friend, and the sadistic monsters around the room. Their upbringing had been tough, but he couldn’t understand the continued association and loyalty. England allowed people to thrive on their own merits, which Desmond had used to great effect. Their tangled relationship was beyond his understanding, so he returned his attention to the psychological torture.
“It’s time,” Legacy nodded to Desmond. The three men mistook his intent and started screaming in terror, fighting unsuccessfully against their bonds. This only brought more cheer to the cold blooded killers around the room.
“Shut your fucking mouths!” Desmond shouted, stepping into view.
“You!” gasped the knifeman.
“I told you I would see you real soon,” he smiled and turned to Legacy, “What are their fucking names?”
“Patrick Olech,” he read the driver’s license and pointed at the rapist, “Chad Trimble,” the knifeman, “And Stanley Rothmuer.”
“Now we get to deliver vengeance for your insults,” Desmond stared at the men.
“All this for a shitty flag?” demanded Patrick.
The whole room took a menacing pace forward, guns and machetes raised. The brash man shrivelled, blabbering apologies for the unintended slight.
“Des, I know what you told us, but this one is a special case,” Legacy growled, “I want him.”
“No,” Desmond placed a restraining hand on his friend’s chest, “With respect, brudda, this goes down as I want.”
“You’re lucky I love this man,” Legacy told Patrick, before throwing a punch that rocked his head back.
Spitting teeth from a ruined mouth, he tried to apologise again. “I’b thowwy,” was all he could manage.
“Mal, come forward,” Desmond said.
Malachi joined him in front of the attackers, trying to remain stoical. They were beyond pitiful and the stench was growing with each passing second. Watching him with growing apprehension, they waited fearfully for the order that would end their lives. They had tried to kill this man and rape his girlfriend; it was no less than they would expect.
“I see you know my friend too,” Desmond smiled, taking the knife from Legacy. He turned the blade over and over, seemingly hypnotized by the razor sharp edge.
“Oh fuck. Look, we didn’t mean anything by it, we were just drunk and acting out.”
“Acting out?” Desmond screamed, slashing the knife inches from his face.
“Ok, ok!” Stanley wailed, “They always get carried away and hurt someone. I try and keep them in line.”
Malachi had heard enough. Pushing Desmond to one side, he leaned in close, “I seem to remember you holding her down while that bastard tried to rape her.”
“They made me!”
“It looked like it,” Malachi whispered, remembering Stanley’s face poised above Chloe as he had raced down the alleyway. The way he licked his lips in anticipation of what was to come.
Desmond could see the change in Malachi and pulled him back, “Are we having a change of heart? My boys are ready to go all the way if you want, just say the word.”
Malachi had shut out the room and didn’t hear the offer. It was only himself and the three who had wronged him now. Deep inside his heart a black void opened, pulling him through into a maelstrom of rage. Out of the darkness rose a single thought; revenge. Unseen presences whispered and cajoled, seeking to set him free of the burdens of morality. Seething and bubbling with a convincing malevolence, his mind felt assaulted by the pernicious mutterings. The men didn’t appear as pathetic anymore, their twisted visages resembled those from the night Malachi was attacked. They sneered and laughed at his weakness, mocking him for being too weak to act as a real man. For some unknown reason they were now free of their bonds, pointing at Malachi and rubbing at their penis’s through urine saturated trousers.
“Do you want to die that badly?” he asked the men who clutched at their sides and roared with hilarity.
“You don’t have it in you,” sneered Patrick, “I’m going to fucking destroy Chloe
when I get my hands on her. I’ll give it to her far better than you ever could, you faggot!”
“And I’m going to piss all over her battered face,” Stanley giggled, revealing his own warped sexual proclivities.
“I’m not going to stop until you bleed out in the gutter next time,” Chad declared, “Then I’m going to cut your bitch open and watch her try and hold her guts in. Maybe there will be a baby, that’s always a plus.”
They thought he was weak, that he wouldn’t protect those he loved. All it would take was one word and they would be butchered and gone from this world, never to threaten another innocent again. He wanted to do it. Positively ached with the need which spread through every fibre of his being like a malignant cancer. It tried to crush his sensibilities, dull his predilection for mercy and understanding. The corruption pulsed in time with his heart, flowing around his body like lava in his veins. The heat settled in his right hand, and looking down he could see the knife which Desmond had been holding.
“Do it,” Stanley begged.
“Cut my throat,” pleaded Patrick, “It would be so easy.”
“Just imagine how it would feel,” coaxed Chad, “The power of life and death. The giver of divine judgement and retribution against the forces of evil.”
“It doesn’t feel divine,” Malachi said to the trio and their faces twisted in hatred and malice that wasn’t in any way human.
The grasp on his consciousness was slipping and Malachi could finally sense the external force that was invading his psyche. Creeping in the darkest crevices of his mind, it tried to play on memories long forgotten, twisting them to its own ends. The entity could feel its grip loosening and with one final, desperate surge it tried to bury itself. Malachi focused on his parents and Chloe, the purest people he had ever known, drawing on their love to break the shackles.
“NOOOOOOOOOO!” Malachi screamed, tearing at his own head.
With an inhuman howl the force was driven from his mind, retreating into the abyss from which it spawned. The room lightened and Malachi felt the burning sensation on his scalp for the first time. In his anguish he had torn the skin and his fingers came away bloody.
“What the fuck was that?” Desmond asked, startling Malachi.
The three men were being lifted from the floor. Their eyes betrayed a new level of terror that hadn’t been present at the mere thought of death.
“What happened?” Malachi asked, noticing the Yardies also regarded him with fear and respect.
“You was mumbling, then you seemed to go into a trance,” Desmond explained.
Legacy walked over, bowed slightly in deference and finished the tale, “Things started to happen in the room. Noises and wailing. It was as if the gods answered your call.”
It certainly wasn’t a god, or a benevolent deity anyway.
“It was like something was getting ready to blow, and then you screamed and it was like being hit by a truck. It wasn’t just them fools who got knocked on their asses.”
“He has the power,” whispered one of the crew to Legacy with wonderment.
“He does,” agreed the Don.
Everyone watched Malachi, as if waiting for instructions from him despite the fact he was just an outsider. He couldn’t explain the bizarre manifestation which had caused a shockwave from his subconscious. The psychic usurper, had it been imaginary or a real being seeking to turn him against himself? It had felt so real. His mind felt violated, and like a common snail Malachi could sense the oozing trail it had left as it was driven out. This would be a question for Dr. Llyod. Or a priest!
“What do you want from me?” Malachi blurted, still reeling.
“They think you are a shaman,” Desmond whispered and still they stared.
“You don’t believe in all that stuff, do you?” he asked.
“I’ve seen things in my time, but nothing like that. You have magic in you, man,” he replied.
Malachi could see Desmond regarded him differently after the inexplicable psychic eruption. The last thing he wanted was to alienate one of the only friends he had ever had.
“Des, it’s me. You don’t have to be worried,” he said, reaching out a hand.
“I’m not worried, brudda,” Desmond replied, pulling him in for a reassuring embrace.
“I don’t know what’s happening to me,” Malachi said, lost and bewildered.
Desmond pointed to the captives and said, “Make a decision about them. Then we go and get you all the help you need.”
Malachi looked around at the Yardies. He hadn’t even wanted to come here, and now he had a gang of heavily armed psychopaths treating him as if he were their messiah. On top of all that he had the fate of three scumbags in his hands. Fuck! Sensing the growing darkness, Malachi could feel the tentative probes of the other. It was the only name that seemed to fit at the moment. Tired of the whole thing, the anger subsided and he made a point of mocking his inner enemy with pictures of mercy.
“Tie them up and leave them somewhere, then make an anonymous call for the police to collect them.”
Legacy approached the men, pointing a newly drawn pistol at each of them, “If it were my choice, I would carve you up. You owe that man your life. Every breath you take from today is because of his forgiveness.”
They all sobbed with relief, thanking Malachi for his decision. The vision of them mocking his ability to protect his loved ones was still raw so he glared at them all.
“If I hear you fight the case in court to get off lightly. If I hear that once you get out of prison you go back to your old ways. If I hear anything at all about the three of you, ever. My friends will finish this and it will be like you never existed,” Malachi explained, trying to sound as menacing as possible.
It was an empty threat because he would never willingly order the execution of anyone, no matter how bad they may be. The pulse of energy and the uncertainty of what they were in the presence of ensured it would be heeded, irrespective of the falsity.
“Des, you still want me to fuck them up before dumping them?” Legacy asked.
He thought about it for a few moments, then decided against it, “I think they know what we could have done to them. Tie them, drop them, and then come to the bar. Drinks on me.”
A murmur of approval went around the group and Malachi nodded his thanks. Desmond smiled back, but it had a guarded quality that wasn’t there before.
“We are still friends, aren’t we?” Malachi asked, fearing the answer.
“Of course, man. I just never seen something like that and it scared the shit out of me,” he replied.
“You don’t think I’m… bad, do you?”
“Fuck no!” Desmond said with a firm shake of the head. “You are the most forgiving person I know. There is nothing but good inside your heart.”
Malachi smiled and decided against explaining the events leading up to the psychic explosion. How he had battled the darkness within and very nearly lost. Hopefully Dr. Llyod would be available soon; he needed to talk it through with someone who might understand it.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Cannabis smoke wafted into the back of the car from the driver and Legacy reached forward, slapping him around the back of his head, causing the cigarette to fall in the footwell.
“Ave some fucking respect, man,” he growled as his drivers frantically tried to retrieve it while still navigating the road safely. It hadn’t been an issue on the first journey, but now the don was especially concerned with Malachi’s comfort.
“Honestly, it’s fine,” he said, trying to defuse the situation, “I can open a window.”
“You want to save the whole world,” Legacy burst out laughing.
“It will take more than me to sort this planet out,” Malachi chuckled.
Legacy’s smiled died, “That’s noble, man, but this bumbaclot should have asked first. He has no clue who he’s in the presence of.”
“I don’t really know what I am,” Malachi said quietly.
“You is a shaman, you ‘ave the power.”
“Fuck me, will you stop saying that,” he blurted. Fearing a violent response, he apologised.
“No worries, man. There are strange times coming, I can feel it. If you ever need me and my bredren you call, ok?” Legacy said with conviction.
“Thank you,” Malachi replied. He wasn’t quite sure how he felt about having a whole gang of murderous gangsters on his side.
Pulling up outside Desmond’s bar, Malachi was heartened to see Chloe still happily chatting with Kevin and Laura. Inexplicably he had expected her to be gone; psychically sensing the dark ritual he had been a part of and running for her life. Maybe she would be safer away from him until he could unravel the bizarre occurrences. For once his unbreakable principles bent a little; he just didn’t want to be away from this beautiful girl for a minute. Justification boiled down to the fact that in Chloe he had an anchor, a reason to try and fathom the dreams and his burgeoning telekinesis.
“Thank you, I think,” Malachi said, shaking hands with Legacy.
“It’s nothing, man,” Legacy nodded, “Des, I’ll be back when the fuckers are locked away.”
“Thanks, brudda.” Des hugged the man and waved as the BMW raced off into the night.
Malachi held Des back before he could open the door and pulled him to one side, “You can’t ever tell anyone about what you saw. I have to find a way to figure this shit out before I really hurt someone.”
Des looked hurt, “What do you take me for, Mal. It will go with me to the grave, I promise.”
“I’m sorry, mate. All this shit has got me so twisted I don’t know whether I am coming or going.” Malachi ran a hand down his face, sighing.
“Listen,” Des placed a supportive hand on his shoulder, “I know an Obeah priestess that might have some answers. Now I’m not saying that you are a shaman or voodoo witchdoctor, but she may be able to help. All religions have aspects that are taken from core beliefs; miracles, magic, good and evil.”
