Bad II the Bone

by Anton Marks

  The things he had seen growing up in St Catherine, Jamaica. On the islands you learned to appreciate how gossamer thin were the boundaries between the worlds.

  Yes this was real.

  Deacon made sure every inch of him was tainted with the vile liquid, remembering the classical story of how Achilles was defeated because his mother had tried to make him invincible by dipping him in the River Styx not realizing the ankles she held him by were never kissed by the river of the underworld and turned out to be his only weakness.

  He wasn’t just allowing high school stories to inform his decisions; Deacon was flowing with his instinct. He wiped liquid from his eyes and smeared it from his lips with the back of his hand, watching the shaman stand silently swaying ever so slightly mumbling with his arms at his side. The chicken foot had fallen out of his hand to the ground. Taking that as a sign the spell had been cast, Deacon stepped out of the marble basin and looked around the darkened room, his eyes becoming accustomed to the wave of flickering candles. Content that he was in the here and now, he chuckled to himself.

  His life had increasingly become a part of a world where the impossible was made possible and from time to time he had to make sure his feet were firmly set in the correct portion of that divide. Minty stepped out of the shadows with a full length towel draped over his arm and that concerned look that was now a resident expression since his boss became one of the main players in the London underworld.

  Minty and Deacon had grown up together in the mean streets of South London. Deacon was a natural hustler with a violent streak only Minty seemed to be able to channel with wise words and street sense. So, together the boss from Grants Pen, Jamaica and Minty - born in Red Hills, Kingston but left for London in his teens - climbed the rungs to gangster infamy. One of South London’s most violent gang wars had been orchestrated by these two men and ended on their say so. Small crews were obliterated, larger gangs got with the programme or they too ceased to exist and the established crime families brokered deals or dismantled themselves. Deacon swiftly established territory, distribution centers, drug routes and the brutal elimination of the ineffective bosses standing in the way of progress.

  In five days it was all over and an iron fisted peace established.

  They became known as artists in the mechanics of threat and menace, keeping their manor in check. This was what they knew and what had made them successful and what they had to deal with every hype-filled day of running their organization.

  Everything changed when one of Deacon’s lieutenants was found nailed to an inverted cross of pine wood, eviscerated and left leaning against the wall of his wine bar in Seven Sisters. Casualties of war were expected but this was some Old Testament shit and it sent tremors through him. With every twisted murder of his soldiers his belief about what was possible was spat on, trampled and burned.

  As the murders became more brazen and the messages less cryptic, he knew who he was up against. If it was anybody else Deacon would have the full force of his dawgs on them but much to his chagrin this was no ordinary man, no ordinary situation.

  Darkman was perpetrating this fuckery from prison.

  Deacon had funded a robbery that later he realised targeted a Jamaican Obeah man who had supposedly fleeced a small fortune from believers in his powers. A treasure trove of money, gold, precious stones and artifacts he was shipping back to Yard. Deacon saw it as his duty to relieve this dutty Sanfi man of his bounty, for all the false promises and deceit he perpetrated and then punish the pussies who wanted to believe there was something more to their dull existences.

  Darkman was a St Thomas bwoy whose influence had held Jamaica’s poor in thrall but here in the UK he depended on parlour tricks and menace.

  Easy money, right?

  Every general throughout history has made a decision they regretted - Hannibal, Alexander the Great - and now Deacon. Underestimating your enemy is something Sun Tzu would have chastised him for. Underestimating someone like Darkman was unforgivable. Deacon found out the hard way that he was dealing with a power, the real deal, a force of nature that could not be exaggerated in any Anancy story told around a camp fire. He was a one man army able to marshal dark forces that could murder or punish the ill prepared.

  How do you think Deacon stayed ahead of the non-believers? His success was mainly down to utilizing every advantage he possessed including the unconventional - namely his belief that there was much more to our existence than what we can perceive with our five senses.

  A fact that was saving his skin now.

  Deacon finished drying himself and slipped into a terry gown and slippers offered to him by Minty.

  “Is he alright?” Minty asked nodding over to the Voudun who was now on his knees with his forehead on the ground and his arms slung beside him, knuckles down.

  “Don’t worry ‘bout him, roots. I head hunted dis bwoy personally from Haiti. A top shottas in the notorious Ton-Ton Macoutes link wi up. He swears by his powers. Anyway if me dead because of anyting he should have done or didn’t do, you know deh programme star.”

  Minty touched the weapon strapped to his upper body in a Versace patterned leather holster.

  “Brackam!” Deacon patterned a gun with his fingers, firing at the still genuflected witchdoctor. “As long as me and dis place is shielded everyting is everyting. Business as usual.” He paused, his eyes losing their lustre and his mouth folding into a grimace.

  “Any answer from Toppa’s phone?”

  “Nothing.” Minty’s voice became almost inaudible.

  Deacon shook his head in frustration.

  “I need to find those valuables and done dat bloodclaat St Thomas Obeah bwoy. There is nothing more important, do you understand me Minty.”

  “In the meantime he’s picking off our best men one at a time and we can’t stop him.” Minty looked solemn. “Can our plans stand up to dat?”

  “Believe me when I say breddrin, this is a race for survival and it is drawing to a close for him. I want what I want and him want, what him want. Him think pure power will do dis? Mi grow up inna deh street Minty. And if it is one ting mi learn, its punch above you weight but keep that secret close to yuh chest, yuh feel mi?”

  “But what of this voodoo ting, his powers ...”

  “He is not the only one who can draw on these forces. He is but a man motivated by revenge and greed like deh rest. And if I was him I would stop at nothing. But him nevah count on me, count on dis.”

  He pointed to his forehead.

  “He is hurting us though,” Minty said levelly. “He’s murdered five of our best soldiers in the space of two weeks and he’s just disappeared into the mist without a trace. How do we deal with a duppy, especially one who can call on the darkness?”

  “Same way we deal with any bwoy who tink dem can muscle inna wi business. It’s deh same result Minty, just different tactics,” he gestured to the doorway.

  They both walked casually out of the room that Deacon had modified for arcane purposes and into a utility area that branched off into an expansive kitchen. Deacon headed for his wine rack and poured himself a brandy.

  “What have we learned from the network?” He asked.

  Minty’s eyes darted up to process the question and then in moments his gaze returned to the eyes of his friend.

  “I don’t want to raise your hopes up D but the informers have finally come up with a name for the driver. If this is the same man who Jimmy left the van with before he died, then we are one step away from the treasure.”

  “Bomboclaat!” He caressed the letters of the swear word as it left his lips. “Wouldn’t it have to be in the middle of a war that him finally decide to show himself? Three years of looking feh this man with no head nor tail of him, now suddenly him surface.” Deacon paused for thought. “But it could work to our advantage still. Ketch Darkman napping, maybe. Put as many soldiers on it as possible, yuh hear mi. And mek sure you remind dem to wear deh amulets blessed by the witchdoctor. It could save
dem life.”

  “They’ll be ready.” Minty said.

  “By the way, what do you call dis bwoy. Him real name, I mean?” Deacon asked.

  “We only have an alias, so far. They call him Spokes. When Jimmy escaped the ambush it seems this guy secured the money and the goods.”

  Deacon nodded with an impatient glint in his eyes.

  “Then find him an’ bring him rass to me.”

  Y’s Crib, Acton, West London

  Friday, July 5th

  06.00

  Phase one of Operation ‘Wipe Tyrone’s Memory from Existence’ consisted of going through her flat with as much purpose as when she was spring cleaning and make sure nothing of him remained. Y stood in her modest lounge rubbing her fingers on the reinforced glass case and the fingerprint recognition lock that housed the daishō - Masamune katana and Wakizashi – her prized samurai swords. If the insurance company had not advised her of the precautions she needed to take before they would insure it, who knows she could be looking at an empty space right now? But Tyrone was aware of the small fortune Pops had spent on keeping it secure and steered clear.

  Y opened the tempered glass case keying in the code to shut down the motion sensor and used her thumb print to unlock the securing rod that held the lid in place. She gently took the Katana from the environmentally controlled interior. Twice a year and sometimes when the mood took her she would practice with the six hundred year old sword.

  Her Pops had given it to her when she was five years old, much to Y’s mamma’s incomprehension but Mas Lenny was that kind of man. As the story went in Lenny’s first year in Japan he befriended a destitute old man who camped outside of the hostel he used to live in. The old man - he called him General because of his military background - spoke good English and they became close friends. While he discovered Tokyo in the day, in the evenings he would sit with the General and be told the many stories of the samurai. The old man died in his arms six months into their friendship and left him his prized possession of a katana forged by master sword smiths in 13th century feudal Japan. It turned out to be worth hundreds of thousands of pounds and when she was old enough an invaluable part of Japanese history was given to her.

  Lenny had been travelling around the Far East for at least three years and by then he was adamant Y learned to use it one day. Y’s friends took guitar and flute lessons while she learned kendo. It became an obsession of hers to master its use and in time she became proficient.

  Y’s father’s philosophy of life was unique to only him, especially his unhealthy passion for all things oriental, but still a practical Jamaican who grew up in the ghettos of Kingston with an understanding of discipline and purpose. The relationship Pops had with Y’s mother was doomed from the beginning. Lenny’s wanderlust was fuelled by an opportunity to travel the world and after two years the union was in ruins. In letters that he sent to her every month from her tenth birthday onward he explained why he had to leave when he did. His charm and providence guided his fortunes and financially he was able to contribute to her upbringing. He wasn’t physically present for her but through his exquisite letters – they talked over the phone but Lenny loved the intimacy of the written word - she learned so much about him. With time and maturity Y understood why he had to do what he had done. There was never a doubt that he loved her, his destiny just wasn’t to be with her in the UK.

  Lenny married a wonderful Japanese woman called Yushi and Y had two younger brothers whom she met and loved immediately.

  Y slowly pulled the sword out of its scabbard and moved smoothly into Okimanzo strike, the blade perfectly balanced in her hands conflicting thoughts interfering with her focus.

  What the hell, that couldn’t be helped.

  Y spun on the balls of her feet, a grimace pulling her lips tight. She lowered her centre of gravity, and whipping the sword with her as she moved as a blur every kata followed precisely and some were even created on the spur of the moment but all merging into a lethal ballet fuelled by her anger. The imaginary Tyrone did not stand a chance as she severed his arm and watched him fall to his knees screaming, arterial blood misting her with its warmth and then detaching his head with one upward stroke and as the body tumbled forward with her back to him she thrust the Katana under her arm and into his thorax, twisting the sword for maximum internal damage.

  The imaginary bubble popped.

  She held the position and felt a wave of satisfaction and disgust at the same time. Tyrone was scum and he had done what he had done, for reasons best known to him and Y had to live with it. But she did not have to be bitter. The virus of self doubt and hate that he had left behind like landmines set into the dirt of her subconscious need not be acted on.

  After all she was the master of her state of mind. And Y just could not allow Tyrone to dictate her emotions in his absence. In that moment she let the thought of him dissolve away.

  Finally all that was left was the sensation of the katana in her hand, a inhaling of breath in her nostrils, its whistling through her throat and the rise of her ribs and stomach. The turbulence inside subsided and nothing else mattered but her breathing and a feeling of calm.

  But for how long?

  Y’s Bedroom

  20.31

  “Are you just going to lie there staring at the ceiling or are you going to get mad, swear, trash the place or something?”

  Y asked Suzy the question, the sigh in her voice showing how much of a relief it was that these twenty four hours were drawing to an end. She was already numb from the day’s events but was not surprised to hear that Suzy had been suspended from work pending an investigation into charges of grievous bodily harm from her earlier altercation.

  Then like a bad omen, Patra was bailed for serious traffic offences. Only after Y’s lengthy conversation with her arresting officers and the charmed brilliance of her mom’s solicitor that she was released on her own recognizance pending a day at the courts.

  If Y didn’t know better she would have thought someone somewhere was out to get them.

  Suzy Wong remained silent and instead shuffled her petite but tightly toned body over the king sized bed to allow her sister some space to snuggle up beside her. She adjusted the Kiss my Ass PJ’S around her waist, her top, short below the waist, showed her muscled midriff and jade piercing through her belly button. A multicolored and detailed dragon twisted around her left arm from shoulder to its magnificent head snapping at her wrists, successfully concealing burn marks.

  The crew had turned up at Y’s place with overnight bags and a sense of leaving their troubles outside the door. And that’s why it seemed so alien for Y not to be relaxed in the one place she called home amongst the few people she truly called family.

  Damn she should have known better.

  “I should be the one feeling like you, don’t you think?” Y’s voice sounded hollow to her as Suzy said nothing. “After all he took our savings from my account. I let him in and lowered my guard, loved the son-of-a-bitch, lived with him, was getting serious with him and that’s what we got.”

  Y sat on the edge of the bed, her XXL 49er’s linebacker top down to her thighs and her long dark legs crossed in front of her, looking absently through her bedroom door to the small landing beyond, her mind a swirl of hurt and anger. Detaching her focus, she reached over without looking back to the bottle of Asti that had sat in a bucket of ice for the last forty-five minutes on her small side table.

  “You guys did tell me, hinted as friends would and I just didn’t listen. Patra hated him, Suzy you were more diplomatic but I could see in your eyes you wanted to smack him around a bit but instead of finding out why I tried to make excuses.”

  Suzy, suddenly animated, gracefully rose from her prone position like a cat, gently grasping Y’s hand and taking the bottle from her. Deftly Suzy undid the wire restraint and popped the cork. Three glasses were filled and allowed to settle before handing Y a glass. After a few moments her brown eyes lit up, her expression resolute.


  “Patra weh yuh deh gal?” Suzy shouted out.

  “Chill bitch, I’m here.”

  Cleopatra came around the corner in all her naked glory, the towel on her shoulder, her muscular body mainly dry with patches of sheen on her legs and shoulders.

  Anyone would look at the statuesque figure, flawless skin - notwithstanding some bruising from her kickboxing classes, and proportions that needed no modifications from the brush of an Old Master and an aura that smoldered with the intensity for life even when others around her thought she was nuff. From the aggressive sway of her hips when she walked, as if life was a catwalk and she was its model, to her honesty, was vintage Patra. She was the most real person they knew.

  “For you,” Suzy said offering her a glass.

  “What are we toasting?” Patra asked. “I thought we just got our asses robbed.”

  “A new beginning,” Suzy replied. “One we’re forced feh accept whether we want to or not.” The statement was free from malice or accusation as was Suzy’s way.

  Everyone raised their glasses.

  “New beginnings!” They chorused.

  Y hesitated to take a sip having difficulty accepting Suzy’s optimistic view on what could only be considered a disaster in anyone’s eyes.

  She brought the glass to her lips, a dark anger seething below the level of awareness and one that desperately required an outlet to be vented. Y wanted anger to be expressed not reasoned, something to justify what she had allowed to happen. A strong black woman who had given her heart and trust without the required cynicism a woman was trained to exhibit. That was a philosophy she never personally ascribed to but her openness hadn’t just affected her but her family too.