Bad II the Bone

by Anton Marks

  DJ Justine’s silky voice reminded her captive audience how good these classics make you feel. Bungling you up in a time pod and transporting you to your childhood or just cloaking you in the warm embrace of ageless reggae music. But what came next had no warmth to it at all. No quaint memories of the good old days.

  DJ Justine screamed on air.

  Justine just couldn’t contain her?

  She screamed again and it was a parody joy, a song of panic from primal depths where darkness and terror were real and it echoed out of the speakers. A silence that was more tangible and cold than an arctic gust followed. Everything in the car seemed to have stopped, frozen in place only the panic in the studio broke the spell. Spokes shot up in his seat as if the temperature had risen sharply under his ass, forgetting where he was, a surge of nervous energy galvanizing him. He sprung towards the dashboard his flight impeded by the sturdy headrest in the front seat. Patra and Y just stared at the Blaupunkt in-car system with mouths open. The screams shrank to the background and there was this uproarious laughter, guttural, obscene and outrageous, rising to a crescendo as if it had been recorded in the depth of a dank pit. The voice - deep, booming and unintelligible at first like the words were being spoken backwards and slowed up at the same time, began making sense to their ears. The world around them wasn’t following suit. Spokes peered outside, his eyes wide. No traffic, no pedestrians and an almost cold, cloying silence that had substance enough to envelope them. Spokes reached for the door handle then hesitated, his fingers fluttering at the prospect of escape but the Bentley had other plans and engaged its central locking. The promoter decided against even touching the polished walnut veneer or the silver coated door release. He just let his panic rise like bile in his stomach looking for release.

  Patra was almost stooped on the driver’s seat, staring intensely at the digital player trying to be as far from it as was possible. Y had wedged her back into a juncture between the seat and door her eyes still wide with disbelief, a heart beat away from panic. Spokes reaction was far less subtle and his usual cool demeanor had given way to ill fated attempts at smashing his way out of the car.

  “Mas Spokes?”

  The voice was so alien, so otherworldly sounding you got the impression it was an unfamiliar way of communicating for this ting but still its bass range was that of the vocal chords of a tyrannosaurus, carrying with it rumbling power, an unearthly chill and an auditory psychic rankness that smeared your mind and made you shiver uncontrollably. Everyone in the car reeled back from the mental halitosis as it stank up your thoughts.

  “My sponsor wants to send yuh a little message, partner.” The God awful voice taunted.

  Y shrank further into her seat shaking her head to clear it of the corrupted static making the crown of her head hurt.

  “DJ Justine is yuh favourite, dat right?” The hell thing asked.

  “Tasty bitch I must agree. What do you want me to send you?

  Her head or her guts? Maybe send her to you as kibbles. Niiiicccceee and sweet she is! You choose Mas Spokes one or deh other.”

  “Goddamn yuh rass to hell. Leave her alone,” Spokes spat.

  “Hell is my home partner. Chose one or the other.” It demanded.

  “Why don’t yuh come for me, instead?” The promoter beat his chest. “Yuh tink yuh bad. Come test me face to face.”

  The words dripped from the Blaupunkt speakers like raw sewage.

  “Take the snake head ring off, cancel the hex around your car and separate yourself from the three protectors an’ we can arrange feh dat. But as yuh are charmed amongst the charmed and as old time people seh, if yuh can’t ketch Kwaku, ketch him shirt. The good will have to suffer for deh bad.”

  Spokes was shouting at the top of his voice. Droplets of saliva vacated his mouth with white deposits gathering at the corners of his mouth.

  “Send deh rassclaat bwoy Darkman come then. Mek him deal with me, man to man. No demons, no coolie duppy, no Obeah just me an him.”

  “But that is why my sponsor sent for me. You are protected from him but my kind is not so easily dissuaded. And which one of us could turn down the opportunity to acquire a tasty hu-Man soul.”

  “Justine is an innocent.”

  “Isn’t that the sweetest kind?”

  “Yuh a guh suffer feh dis, God know.”

  “Him,” the hell thing kissed it teeth, like it was sucking the innards of a poor living thing guts, bone and all. “His hands are tied, pardy. A little something them call free will.”

  It chortled grossly like it was having trouble adapting to human speech.

  “Time up pardy.” It announced. “Me and Justine will just have to surprise you.”

  The gales of laughter began and the screams continued with it. A throaty gurgle, a wet tearing sound, more uncontrollable screaming, splashes of life giving blood maybe and the thump of a body falling to the floor, pieces at a time.

  The screaming stopped and so did the Flex 91.1 FM horror show.

  When Deacon summoned you from his ivory tower, you immediately began to retrace your actions in your head and what you could have done inadvertently or blatantly wrong. If you had the slightest doubt, change your identity and leave the British Isles. Chile was good this time of year. If on the other hand you were confident your actions were honorable then don’t just finish what you were doing and leisurely make your way to the meeting place with a savoir fare attitude. No, that wasn’t the type of man that he was even for a bonafide operator like Chips.

  Deacon demanded strict attention to his demands if you were under his protection or in business with him. He had a fearsome reputation amongst his peers and a more than healthy respect from his enemies. But from his snitches you were next to nothing, a cockroach at the bottom of his special edition Nikes, a necessary inconvenience that could be replaced by a throng of other unnecessary inconveniences at a snap of his fingers. Being one step up on the evolutionary ladder did not make Chips any more secure in Deacon’s presence and for a grown ass man that was very disconcerting.

  Why make life even more difficult for himself? When he got the call on a Friday evening - one of the busiest times at the Spot - he had to leave Tricky to look after Sandra and keep things level while he made his way to Green Park. Traffic had been a bitch coming into central London but as he pulled into the private parking bay underneath the illustrious Imperial Fitness Centre it was not a good idea to carry his seething annoyance in with him. Instead he checked his ego in the parking bay. He wouldn’t want Deacon to think his bad mood was directed at him. That would not be a good idea, and although Chips was two rungs up from the bottom of the food chain as classified by Deacon - street zoologist, he had moments. They were infrequent flashes of inspiration that catapulted him into heady realms of Boss but they did not last long enough for him to get comfortable or get noticed. He had to keep his aspirations for power close to his chest - for now anyway.

  Chips slammed the door of his Range Rover, taking a cursory look around his well lit surroundings. The smell of motor oil permeated the air with the smell of new metal and freshly vulcanized rubber. Admiring some of the tasty motors, he saw a cadre of Deacon’s soldiers hanging around the entrance to the elevator in the distance. He made his way over to them. As soon as he cleared the obstruction of the massive concrete support pillars that spread across the floor plan, they spotted his approach. The shottas didn’t show their weapons but Chips knew they were strapped and from the fluttering fingers like western gunslingers they were ready to use them at a moment’s notice.

  “Deacon sent feh mi,” Chips made sure his hands were high when he approached them.

  “What’s your name then?” one of the men asked.

  “Dem call mi Chips. He‘s expecting me.”

  The man nodded as if to say I’ve heard it all before and motioned to another man.

  “Call up for authority then frisk him.”

  After a rough assault and personal probe that they deemed to be a b
ody search he was directed to the interior of a stationary lift already filled with three large men for padding, he presumed. One operated the door - using his manicured but thick finger to press for the fifth floor - while the other two took turns in scrutinizing him inch by uncomfortable inch.

  An unexpected march of gooseflesh trotted up Chips’ spine alerting him to the excessive nature of all this and perceiving the possible reasons why. When they arrived on the fifth floor and the door opened a clearer understanding of what was going on revealed itself to him.

  The atmosphere was electric. The smell of frankincense, bitter wood, some exotic plant and possible animal extracts perfumed the plush area ahead of him. He stood on the threshold and took in the scene, pinned in place for a moment too long maybe, feeling the reassuring poke of a gun to his back, coaxing him forward. They had not changed the foyer much, burning incense pots scattered around the furnishings. The marble floor was covered in symbols and vévés of protection etched by charcoal or lined with cornmeal. He strode as confidently as was possible for him, his eyes on the focal point of a steam room fifty yards dead ahead, issuing steam like an old Dutch pot on a cookout.

  An arm sheathed in white, obviously part of a white shirt, came out from behind a massive Jabba pot that housed a huge coniferous plant and stopped him dead in his tracks. Chips looked down at the gnarly fingers and the dark skin with venom but controlled his ire commendably. The owner of the arm came out from behind the large vessel, like his movements were buoyed up by his disrespect for gravity. Bare footed, dark skinned and scrawny he was all in white, Panama hat, shirt, trousers with a pendant swung around his neck strung with unknown vegetation and desiccated animal parts. The witchdoctor blew a stream of liquid in the opposite direction to Chips, his five finger tips still on Chips’ chest keeping him in position and making sure the chicken foot he had in his right hand was doused in the liquid.

  Chips fidgeted nervously.

  “Stand still,” the man commanded in his Caribbean twanged, French accented English. Slowly he traced the chicken foot around Chips’ body, every meridian he stopped at he murmured a mantra or chant. When he was done he called out to another contingent of men.

  “He is real and free from any dark charms.” He said to them.

  The men parted, leaving his path free from obstruction, not directing him but assuming he knew where he was going. The door to the steam room was slightly ajar and plumes of steam were escaping into the foyer. Chips pulled it open and walked into the tiled room and there was Deacon lounging on one of the steps alone, his area made more comfortable by scented pillows stuffed around him. He had his eyes closed and was naked accept for a large beach towel that covered his mid section.

  Chips started sweating immediately, a combination of heat and nerves.

  “Suh you made it?” Deacon opened his eyes and swung his legs down to a sitting position.

  “I reach as quickly as the traffic would allow mi to.” Chips answered.

  “Mi feel yuh, it’s a Friday night and deh roads can be fuckery at this time.”

  Chips nodded and wiped sweat from his forehead.

  “You’re looking good Chips. Gambling treating you well it looks like.”

  “Times tough but yuh know the hustle have to continue. We all need to eat food, don‘t it?”

  “Can’t fault a man feh dat but you seem to be as successful as me in surviving the tough times while others aren’t as skilled at the games as we are. I wonder why?”

  Chips didn’t know what to say in response to that he was not sure where this was going.

  “In the space of two weeks I’ve lost eight good men.” Deacon paused. “Well okay five good men, the others were expendable but yuh get mi drift. Twister, Cockal and Spider were virtually eaten alive. And Minty…” His voice trailed off absently. Then he was back.

  “Forensic reports tell mi dat Spliff Tail and Morgan died of massive pulmonary distress. You know what dat mean?”

  “Heart attack,” Chips said emotionlessly.

  “Suh yuh were paying attention in class, good. Yes my yout, they were frightened to death and here you are, fit and well without a care in the world, unaffected as deh rassclaat world goes to hell in a hand basket.”

  “You don’t think I…? Listen I don’t flex dem way deh, star.”

  “I know yuh not capable. But I did have my doubts because after all you were the one who suggested the job on Enoch and even come up wid the plan feh rip him off. You even helped me to frame him when deh plans went south. But Enoch is locked away in prison and all the players involved in the original game are dead except me and you. I know why I’m still breathing but you had me concerned for awhile, den it clicked.”

  Chips felt rivulets of sweat trickling down his back and into the crack of his ass. His dreadlocks were itching and his scalp tingling. But as uncomfortable as that was, it would not look good if he started scratching his back and head nervously. Of course, that was what Deacon wanted. The only reason behind meeting in a Mickey Mouse location such as this was humiliation and dominance. His vest was soaked and it was just a matter of time before his shirt then his jacket was saturated too. Salty perspiration stung his eyes and he wiped them with the sleeve of his jacket. This was turning out to be an exercise in endurance that was proving stressful.

  “My theory is Enoch knows yuh a fuck him woman and doesn’t want the yout to get harmed if him retaliate.”

  “Yuh talking like you think Enoch is walking street?” Chips asked.

  “What do you bomboclaat tink? Duh you think what you passed outside, to get through to me was for deh drama, rude bwoy. If it’s not Enoch it’s someone him send. And whoever him send has been instructed to seek revenge on the men that put him away.”

  Chips listened and Sandra’s episode re-enacted in his mind’s eye - her collapse, the ace of spades playing card left beside her - but from how this conversation was heading, that memory would stay solidly in his mind. Deacon was getting paranoid and grasping at straws for answers. Chips couldn’t help him with facts, just rumors.

  “Nothing has come on mi radar ‘bout Enoch being released from prison. Him would be spotted by someone and dat nuh come to my attention.”

  “Would you tell mi if it did?” Deacon asked.

  “Of course...” Chips said.

  “Like rass you would. Yuh an me know deh value of deh

  Darkman’s treasure. Wid me out deh way, what would stop you from gaining what we both have been looking for. But I run dis shit for a reason. And becah me is like a junkyard dawg with a bone, I don‘t give in at the first sign of trouble. My dominoes are turned down, I’ve played my hand and you have just passed.”

  “Believe me Deacon, if I knew anything you would be the first to know. I‘ve gone through every inch of that flat, there is nuthin in deh that would point to the treasures whereabouts.”

  Deacon sniggered and continued as if Chips hadn’t spoken.

  “But if for whatever reason my plan fails, now that I know the Darkman does care for something other than himself, Enoch’s girl and deh pickney will be used as bargaining chips in this drama. Whether he is on street himself or him a work him Obeah from prison, he will know mi nah play, when I start murdering dem rass, one by one.”

  Chips was kneading his hands in front of him obliviously and Deacon read his discomfort immediately. He tightened the vice with pleasure.

  “Dat won’t be necessary boss, a man like Enoch cares feh nothing but his family. A move like that will just make him even more out of control.”

  “Is that real talk or are you just bloodclaat begging for the life of Enoch’s woman and pickney?”

  “I don’t care what happen to dem.” He snapped. “They are tools but I don’t think fucking with his family is a good idea.”

  “Well den, we a guh test that theory. And we will see if you come out of this as smoothly as yuh have so far.”

  Chips grinned nervously looking down at himself dripping wet and his clothe
s elongated and baggy from being water saturated. Suddenly his actions against Sandra, the intimidation, the insults and the sporadic beatings came to the forefront of his mind with such force he felt faint. Before he didn’t care but now the prospect of inflaming the wrath of the Darkman did not sit well with him. And whether he believed he was roaming the streets or still locked up in jail, a malevolent wraith doing his bidding, some part of his consciousness had switched on to the belief that it was all possible. A neural pathway had been laid and as time passed it would be reinforced completely evaporating any doubt he had that Darkman was alive and well in London city.

  13.

  Hyde Park

  Thursday, July 20th

  11.40am

  A sunny day never failed to make Y introspective.

  Throw in a shady tree, the smell of green grass, a bit of privacy with a few home comforts and she could idle the day away easily.

  And she was tempted to but she was still on the clock as it were and this moment of tranquility was just a brief respite from bodyguard duties. She had deposited Spokes at the only place he trusted to get his hair cut – Lenny’s Hair Emporium in Notting Hill - while she took some much needed ‘me’ time.

  Y sighed.

  Look at this place, straight out of someone’s fairy tale but so few realised it was a buffer helping to protect you from the realities of the other side.

  She shivered.

  The girls had discovered the gardens by accident and because it was a stone’s throw away from the Underground they had decided it would be an ideal meeting point while in London.

  Y had got here early for the express reason of some quality thinking time before Patra arrived. And she could do that without worry. There were no playgrounds built here and it was far enough from the traffic to make you think you were isolated. No animals were allowed in its confines so no worries of treading in unexpected mounds of dog shit. Whoever created these grounds definitely had solitude and beauty in mind. The grass was like the green velveteen, uniform in height with not a blade out of place, as if barber Carlene was vexed with doing human hair and decided to take her trusty shears to the turf instead. A wrought iron fountain with some mythical seafaring beast spewing massive jets of water to the sky was set dead centre while interconnecting walkways criss-crossed the area like a spider’s web. Then set in concentric circles like the patterns of ripples in a pool were the startling colors of planted flowers. Y found herself admiring the ground-man’s skill.