Yeah, my Greek kolo it was a lucky guess.
Nah, someone must’ve told ’em he was gonna be there ’cos there was no doubt that they were waiting for him. Scream was searching his car for him; their van was waiting nearby. And who else knew that John was gonna be in that alley at that time? The one and only Mr. Omar, that’s who. John was a hundred and fifty percent sure that the scumbag had a dirty hand in this. And he was gonna find out exactly what.
He chucked another cigarro out of the window, and jacked the volume up on his CD player. Hard DnB was still banging out, fuelling his anger. He was gonna go and unlock Omar’s mouth. He had the key; it was sitting in his glovebox, ready for action.
He flew through Kennington, entering the concrete jungle of south London, eager to reach Omar’s ASAP. Only when he made it to Clapham Road did he finally slow down, crawling past the Grill. He bent his head down low, trying his best to look inside past the tacky Christmas tree lights. But it was too dark to see exactly who was in there, and the rain wasn’t helping things either. He didn’t want to spend too long staring in case Omar clocked him, bricked himself and done a runner out the back or something. So he went and pulled up a little further on and killed the engine. He took a sly look around him before he opened the glovebox and grabbed his gun. He quickly stuck it in his belt while staring at his reflection in his rear view. That damn halo was still shining out from his head and he wondered for just a split second if angels carried Glocks in Heaven. He grabbed a pair of shades from the glovebox and put them on, making the halo go dark. He preferred it like that. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath to steady himself, to get himself together. When he was ready, he opened the car door and his Reeboks touched concrete. He had another of those sly looks around him before he dived into the Grill. Panpipes hit his ears, and charred meat hit his nostrils as per usual.
He surveyed the area—a couple were sitting at a table in the corner enjoying wine, horns sprouting out of both their heads.
Standing over to the side was Gertrude, who spun round to face him. The sudden look of shock that jumped onto her mug made her halo dim. ‘John!’ she gasped. ‘Are you okay?’
John met her stare. ‘Where’s Omar?’ he asked snappily.
Gertrude just stared back dumbly. ‘What’s wrong, John? What happened—’
‘Just tell me where he is!’ John barked.
Gertrude flinched backwards. ‘Uh-uh-uh…’ she stammered.
John tutted and walked past her towards the bar. Grinning Imran with horns then came out of the back door, almost walking straight into him.
His surprised eyes rolled up to see who he’d almost collided with. ‘John?’
‘Where’s Omar?’ John asked.
Imran gave him a strange look. ‘He’s in the backside…’
‘Cheers.’ John walked past him into the kitchen where Hassan was busy toiling, horns shooting out the sides of his head. John ignored him and stormed over to the back room. When he got there, he put his ear to the door. Nothing. He stood back, removed his shades, grabbed his gun, and took in a deep breath. He pulled down the handle, swung the door open, and burst into the room. Omar was sitting in front of his PC, inputting stuff from spreadsheets laid across his desk. A pair of glasses were perched on his nose and two black horns were superimposed on his bony head.
Once he clocked who’d invaded his space, he pulled off his glasses, and his brow furrowed. ‘John? Good to see—’
John kicked the door shut behind him and was all over Omar before he could finish his sentence. He stuck his gun in his face in an aggressive fashion, pulling him up to his feet with his free hand. Omar grabbed onto John’s arm and clutched it in a vice-like grip, rigid with fear.
‘Who were those people who mugged me, Omar?’ John asked in a surprisingly calm voice.
Omar’s head shook stupidly from side to side in response. ‘Wh—wh—’
John growled and pushed the barrel of his gun into Omar’s cheekbone. ‘Don’t fuck me around! You know what happened to me. You told ’em I was gonna be there, didn’t you?’
Omar began to shake his head with more vehemence. ‘No, no, John! I don’t know! We came outside and found you unconscious. I—’
John shoved him back down in his chair where he collapsed in a heap. He then placed the barrel of his gun on Omar’s knee. ‘Ever been kneecapped?’ John asked him. ‘I hear it fucking hurts. Won’t kill you, but you won’t be able to walk properly ever again. Now unless you want to spend the rest of your days on crutches, you tell me what you know. Who were they? WHO WERE THEY?’
Omar threw his hands up in defence. ‘I said I don’t know!’ he wailed loudly like a big blubbing baby. And just as he did, his hooter inexplicably began to grow and droop downwards, longer and longer like it was melting off his face. John stood back and watched on in confusion as Omar’s teeth abruptly jutted out from underneath his top lip like tombstones. Antennae-like whiskers sprouted out from his cheeks, and John could now see him for what he was—he was Pinocchio Rat. Lying, low down, dirty…
Rob his own yiayia of a fiver. Malaka.
John growled and stepped forwards. ‘You know how I know you’re lying, Omar?’ he asked him. ‘Cos every time you say you don’t know your nose grows longer and longer. Now either you start telling me the truth or I start hurting you bad.’ He pulled back the barrel of his gun and then placed it on Omar’s knee once more.
When he did, Omar finally caved. ‘Okay! Okay! Leave me! Leave me alone,’ he pleaded in a squealy rat-like voice.
‘Tell me what I wanna know!’ John demanded.
Omar took in a deep breath, and when he did, his nose twitched. ‘They came in here a few days ago,’ he began, ‘looking for merchandise. Wanted it badly. Wanted high quality. So they came to me, threatening me. But I didn’t have any stock. They wouldn’t believe me and said they were going to burn my restaurant down if I didn’t give them what they wanted…’
‘Who were they?’
‘I don’t know.’
John growled.
‘I don’t know, John!’ Omar said in a snivelling voice. ‘Eastern European. New here. They wanted merchandise urgently, I don’t know why. They came to me because everyone in town knows I’m the best, that’s why I have it written on the front of the shop—Omar: Best!’
There was a proud look now on Omar’s deformed mug that grated with John. So he threatened him further with his gun, wiping that expression clean away in an instant. ‘And what did you tell ’em?’ he asked with more force. ‘About me?’
Omar swallowed, making his Adam’s apple bob up and down his throat. He looked away and his nose suddenly grew longer, telling John he was holding back the truth.
‘What did you tell ’em, Omar?’ John swiftly repeated.
‘I told them…’ Omar stopped and sighed in frustration. ‘I told them that a shipment was arriving the next day and that someone was coming to collect. They wanted me to sell to them and not you, but I said that was out of the question because I already promised them to someone else. The last thing I need is a crazy man like Aziz on my back…’
‘And…?’
Omar sighed again. ‘So, I told them if they left me alone, and I let them know when you were coming, they could have half the cash you were going to pay me on the condition they take the delivery from you and not me.’
John’s face screwed up in anger. ‘You piece of shit!’ he shouted. ‘You know what they done to me? Huh? What if they killed me?’
Omar looked away. ‘I told them not to hurt you…’
That almost made John laugh, but as he was in no laughing mood, what came out was a loud snort. ‘You know, I should just fucking kneecap you anyway! Just for the fuck of it. What happened to loyalty, Omar?’
‘What could I do, John? They were going to wreck my business! How could I let that happen?’
‘And now Aziz is on my back, threatening to castrate me unless I get his shit back for him. And I’ve grown quite attached to my balls, so you be
tter tell me everything you know about who they are.’
Omar huffed. ‘I told you, I don’t know anything about them. They came in and went out again. I never saw them before.’
‘That’s one wrong answer too many, Omar,’ John said before sticking his gun against Omar’s temple. He wanted to hurt him. Wanted to fuck him up so badly for putting him in this situation. At least scar him, just to reassure himself that Pinocchio Rat wasn’t gonna get away with any of this.
Just then, the door swung open.
‘Leave him alone, John!’ a voice shouted.
John’s head spun round and he was faced by Gertrude, her halo glowing brilliantly like the sun. The pure white uniform she was wearing suddenly looked like an angel’s gown. There was a serious, concerned look on her face. ‘He’s telling you the truth,’ she said. ‘Just leave him.’
John looked from her to Omar, who was cowering like the scared rat he was, his long nose twitching. ‘And how do you know that?’ John asked her.
‘I know who you are talking about. I saw them when they came here. I have never seen them before. But they spoke to me in Polish. They wanted to speak to the boss. When they were gone, I asked Omar who they were and he said he didn’t know. I believed him. And I still do.’
John made that snorting noise again. ‘Yeah, ’cos Omar is really believable, ain’t he? Look at the size of his fucking nose. Prick came into this world lying, for Christ’s sake.’ He faced Omar again. ‘Didn’t ya?’
Omar flinched back.
‘You can threaten him all you like, John,’ Gertrude said. ‘But he doesn’t know, so cannot answer you.’
John threw Omar back down in the chair and turned to face Gertrude. ‘Did you say they spoke in Polish to you?’
‘Yes.’
John now stepped towards her. ‘What did they say? Who are they?’
Gertrude shook her head. ‘I don’t know.’
John snatched her arm, gripping it tightly; she yelped in pain. ‘Who are they?’ John asked in an aggressive manner, shaking her at the same time. ‘Tell me!’
‘I said I don’t know!’
Anger suddenly engulfed him like an inferno taking out a straw house, and he stuck his gun in her face now. Her eyes instantly bulged out of her head and flushed with terror.
‘Don’t fuck me around,’ John said sternly. ‘You must’ve heard something or seen something.’
Gertrude’s chest tightened in fear. ‘I-I-I think, I-I-I recognise one of them…’
John shook her again. ‘Which one? Which one?’
‘The leader—the leader,’ Gertrude stammered, tears streaming from her eyes.
John then thought back to the night before and what he remembered of it. The leader? Prince Charles? ‘The skinhead? Big?’ he asked.
Gertrude closed her eyes and nodded her head.
‘Who is he?’ John asked.
‘I think I know his face from Polish newspaper,’ she answered calmly. ‘He’s escaped criminal. From prison. I think…’
John shook her again. ‘You think? You think? What do you know?’
She closed her eyes and shook her head in response. John responded to that by raising the gun in the air above her head and giving her a hard look that said ‘this is coming down on your cute little nose unless you tell me.’
Gertrude half closed her eyes and glared at him with disgust. ‘You will hit defenceless woman? Go ahead. But you can hit me all you like, it won’t make difference. I’ve told you all I know.’ She kept her defiant gaze on him and her halo began to glow even brighter, making John squint like thin rays of sunlight shining in Dracula’s eyes. He diverted his stare, and as he did, his anger began to subside as if it had been turned off like a tap. As if her halo had burnt him out. He let her go, pushing her away from him like she was a dirty animal. He took a look back at Omar who’d slunk back down into his chair in terror, his rat eyes big and scared.
John looked from him to Gertrude, who now had a look of disappointment stamped on her tear stained face. ‘And I thought you were good guy, John…’ she said to him.
John huffed. ‘I am a good guy,’ he replied. ‘It’s this fucking world I live in that ain’t!’ He let out a loud sigh, turned away from them, and lifted his face towards the ceiling, his eyes closed. I am a fucking good guy, he thought defiantly, his chest heaving.
He put his shades back on, and left the room, not looking back.
In the kitchen, horned Hassan was still standing over hot coals, cooking meat. The deaf malaka didn’t even hear the commotion. John marched past him and straight back outside to his car. When he got inside, he stared at his reflection in his rear view to see that his halo had slightly dimmed.
Fucking haloes and horns and rat people, what are these fucking hallucinations, man? What are they? Why won’t they stop?
He sparked up a cigarro. Then he started the car, put DnB on full blast, and headed back across the river.
*****
John pulled into the alleyway behind Aziz’s snooker hall and parked up. Ahmed’s Beemer was just ahead, which was good as John wanted his help. All the way back from Omar’s, he thought non-stop about that malaka with the Prince Charles mask on. ‘The leader’ Gertrude called him. The big prick with the fat, shaved head. Yeah, John could vividly picture him; he could see him in his mind’s eye clear as day. Big, bald and puffy like the fucking Michelin Man, gamota. He was the one who mugged him off, he was the one who arranged it all, who threatened Omar to get what he wanted, he was sure of it. Yeah, he was the leader all right, and John intended to find out exactly who he was. But to do that he needed Ahmed’s help.
He threw another cigarro butt on the ground as he stepped towards the hall. The rain had by then died down to a fine drizzle. He wiped the sheen off his forehead as he entered the hall, the sound of snooker balls smacking dumbly together echoing all around him like a disjointed choir. He stopped and looked around—a bunch of kids in the corner wearing caps (some with horns sticking out the top, some with haloes) and tracky bottoms were huddled around the touch screen game machine. A fat fucker with a halo on his head was delicately pulling his beer belly up and placing it on a snooker table so he could take his shot unimpeded. Ahmed was behind the bar, idly cleaning empty glasses while watching the football on the TV mounted on the wall ahead of him. At the head of the bar, as usual, sat Aziz in a neat black shirt tapered with frills (something only he could pull off without hassle), a half done bottle of Metaxa in front of him. A fat smouldering cigar sat in an ashtray on the bar, the smoke swirling off it obscuring the sign on the wall next to him that read—NO SMOKING! IT’S THE F**KING LAW! He was reading the Haringey Independent, which meant he had his reading glasses on. To John, he looked like an owl when he wore those; a wise old owl sitting in the tree hooting to the moon. The bloodhound was gone, for now.
John made a beeline straight for the bar.
‘Ahmed, I need your help,’ he said before he even got there.
Ahmed diverted his gaze from the TV to John, a puzzled look emerging on his face. ‘Yeah, what’s up, John?’
‘Get your laptop out. I wanna search the Net for something.’
Ahmed smiled wryly. ‘I thought you hated all that ‘nerdy freak Interweb’ shite, John?’
John scratched his head and smiled ruefully. ‘Yeah, I normally do, but desperate times and all that…’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Just help us out, will ya?’ John said, getting agitated.
Ahmed nodded. He placed the glass he was drying down, and ushered John over to the side of the bar where his laptop was waiting. ‘Step into my office,’ he said.
John followed him to the laptop.
Ahmed flicked it on. ‘What are you looking for?’ he asked as he began logging onto the web.
John rested his hands on the bar and hunched his shoulders. ‘It’s a long shot, and I’ve been let down by those before, but…’ He craned his neck forwards and lowered his voice. ‘The geezers who t
ook the delivery the other night were Polish. Don’t tell Aziz but…’ He leaned in closer. ‘That prick Omar set ’em onto me, told ’em where I was gonna be, so they could mug me.’
Ahmed’s eyes widened as if he’d just heard a juicy bit of gossip about a neighbour from the cashier at Tesco’s. ‘Noo…’ he remarked.
John nodded and raised his eyebrows. ‘Oh yes. And the girl who works there just happens to be Polish. She said she recognised one of ’em. Said he’s an escaped con. She recognised his face from a Polish newspaper or something…’
‘Yeah?’
John stared incredulously at him. ‘Yeah. So, check it out.’
‘Check what out?’
‘The fucking Internet.’
‘What for, John?’
‘Are you messing me around or what? I want you to look for Polish escaped cons.’
Ahmed laughed. ‘Oh yeah, I’ll just Google that, shall I?’
‘Whatever you gotta do, man…’
‘John. It ain’t as simple as that—’
‘Look! An escaped con is big news in any country whether it’s Eng-land, Po-land or fucking Lap-land. This fucker’s made the news somewhere, she told me that much. Now, all I want is for you to dig out that news for me. Isn’t that what the Internet’s for?’
Ahmed shrugged and sighed. ‘All right, John. I’ll try, but I’m not promising I’ll find anything…’
‘Well, it’s worth a go, Ahmed. Like I said, it’s a long shot…’
Ahmed then went to work clicking keys on his laptop. John looked around him while he waited.
Aziz had now removed his glasses and was staring at him through a haze of cigar smoke. The bloodhound was suddenly back, and it detected the sweet smell of claret. ‘Any word on my goods, John?’ he asked loudly, not caring who heard him.
John tapped his fingers on the bar, anxious. He raised his eyebrows in Ahmed’s direction. ‘I’m working on it, Aziz,’ he replied.
‘Well work faster,’ Aziz retorted. ‘We don’t have time to play around on computers.’ He then placed his glasses back on and picked up the paper, having said his piece.
John sighed. God, how much did he want that particular monkey off his back, gamota?
The Survival Game Page 7
