He turned his attention back to Ahmed. ‘How’s it going?’ he asked.
‘Well, I got the Polish Police web address from Wikipedia…’
As Ahmed spoke, John suddenly found himself blinking rapidly as if he’d just caught a fly in his eye. From nowhere, a pair of jet-black horns were starting to shoot out the sides of Ahmed’s head.
John diverted his stare. ‘Yeah?’ he replied. When he looked back again, they were fully-grown. Full-on horns. John stared at them in fascination. What the hell are those things?
What happened to me when that putana knocked me out?
‘And unfortunately, my Polish is a bit rusty,’ Ahmed continued, ‘so I have no idea what the hell any of this writing means, and there’s no English version available. But don’t worry…’ he said, lifting a finger in the air like he was some kind of mad scientist. ‘I’ll get an online translator up in no time.’
John nodded, even though he was nonplussed. As far as he was concerned, all this was ‘nerdy freak’ skata. Besides, he was too busy staring at the horns on Ahmed’s bonce to even know what he was on about. Was he a Satano? A demon? Some kind of monster, gamota? He looked around him at all the different people in the hall, playing snooker, drinking beer, watching the footy, all with either haloes or horns superimposed on their heads. Is that what all this is…? Am I seeing real angels and demons all around me? Why? Is that what angels and demons are? People?
One thing’s for sure, something happened while I was in that coma, something I can’t get my head around. Maybe—
‘Okay, John,’ Ahmed then said, knocking John off of his train of thought. ‘I might have something here, mate.’ Ahmed spun the computer round to the side so that John could see it. But, instead of looking at the laptop screen, John just stared wide-eyed at Ahmed like he was some kind of ghost.
‘Are you okay, John?’ Ahmed asked.
John just carried on staring at him for a few seconds. ‘Would you say you’re a good man, Ahmed?’ he then asked.
Ahmed’s face scrunched up. ‘What? Where the hell did that come from?’
John shook his head and laughed. ‘Nothing. I’m… still fucked up from being knocked out last night. Must be the shit still in my system. What have you found?’
Ahmed gave him an unsure look before pointing to the laptop screen. ‘This—translates as ‘It has not found prison escapee. Urged people to come forward if information has.’ It’s dated around ten days back…’
John’s eyes rolled down from Ahmed’s horns to the screen. He found himself staring at a mugshot. Weird writing surrounded the mugshot that to him was nothing but gobbledegook. He focussed in on the photo instead. It showed a bloke with a shaved head, dark rings for eyes. A big, fat head, and stocky shoulders that kind of merged, eliminating the need for a neck. John looked into his eyes and when he did, he was transported back to the night before and to the exact moment Prince Charles took his mask off. He could now see that same mug in his mind’s eye. Big, fat head, dark eyes. The Michelin Man.
His jaw dropped. ‘It’s him!’ he said without breathing. ‘It’s him, Ahmed!’
‘Are you sure?’
John began nodding his head vehemently. ‘Yeah, it’s him. Definitely. It’s him, man! I’ll remember that fat head forever, I swear to God…’ John rubbed his eyes, and steadied himself before he looked again, not wanting his successful ID to be down to those fucking hallucinations making him think it was Prince Charles when it wasn’t. He wanted to be a hundred percent positive and not just looking for hope. He took in a deep breath, cleared his mind and looked again. But no, it wasn’t a hallucination. There was no doubt about it, the mugshot he was staring at was the malaka who hit him with a cricket bat and nicked the delivery. It was definitely him. No doubt. He glanced under the photo to read the name—Marek Kolovski.
Marek Kolovski. Now the face had a name. Now he was getting to know his enemy…
‘And there’s another one too,’ Ahmed said before spinning the laptop back his way and scrolling down the page. He spun it back and John’s eyes widened. He was now staring at a woman. Her jet-black hair was cut short and spiky. She had a skinny, bony face, and a nose ring. Her eyes brimmed with a clear and lucid intelligence. Beneath the photo was another name—Valeria Kolovski.
‘And that’s the bitch who shot me!’ John exclaimed. ‘With the tranquilliser dart!’
‘You sure, John?’
John growled. ‘Yes, I’m telling you, it’s them!’ He looked at the screen again. ‘They both got the same surname,’ he said to himself. ‘Married?’ he asked Ahmed.
‘According to the translation, brother and sister. Twins.’
John almost choked. ‘Twins? Well, they ain’t identical, that’s for sure. I dunno if that’s a better job for him or her!’
Ahmed chuckled.
‘What are they wanted for?’ asked John.
Ahmed spun the laptop back his way and began scrolling. ‘According to this—he was part of some gang called the Gladiators… Football hooligans. They were nicked on the way to a match…’
‘What for?’
‘For being hooligans basically… erm… other hooligan gangs saw his arrest as unlawful so they united and busted him and his crew out of the security van they were transporting them all to prison in… blah, blah, blah… They don’t know where he is, think he may have jumped the country, they don’t know where… or, he could still be in Poland… his twin sister is Valeria Kolovski… used to work for Government but defected… Get this, she’s some kind of doctor, medical doctor, some kind of genius chemist according to this… Unbelievable, a hooli and a genius as twins, couldn’t be more opposite, could they?’
John rubbed his stubbled cheeks. Hmm, interesting… But how does mugging me fit into all this?
‘Sick innit, mate? How they let geezers like that get in the country so easily,’ Ahmed commented.
‘That’s this Government for you, Ahmed. Couldn’t give a toss about our safety.’
Ahmed nodded in agreement. ‘John. Shall we tell the old man?’
John turned to face the horned bloodhound in the frilly shirt sitting at the end of the bar. He was still reading his paper. ‘No. No, don’t tell him anything, Ahmed.’ John turned back to face him, a serious look now planted on his face. ‘Leave it to me. I’ll get his shit back for him.’
‘I hope so, for your sake, mate. Remember what I told you happened to the last delivery man…’ Ahmed said, a dark, grave expression on his face.
John felt a shiver jig up his spine at the thought. ‘Yeah, I remember, Ahmed…’ he said, glancing back at the old man at the end of the bar. ‘Can you make us a copy of those mugshots?’ he then asked Ahmed, wanting to change the subject.
‘Yeah, no problem,’ Ahmed said. ‘I’ll have to use the PC upstairs. Just give us a minute…’ He walked out from behind the bar, and left the hall floor to fix the photocopies for him.
While he waited, John stared at the mugshots on the screen in front of him as if his eyes were glued to them, taking in every detail of their face. I’ll find you, Marek and Valeria, he thought to himself, nodding his head at the same time. I swear to God I’ll find you if it’s the last thing I do.
I’ll find you…
*****
Later that night, after John came back from the snooker hall, he sat pensively on the edge of his and Alisha’s bed, his head in his hands. He wanted another cigarro. Wanted to go to sleep as well, but couldn’t get a wink. He was edgy. Nervous. He kept checking the time on the digital alarm clock next to their bed. Right then it read 1:14 am. This time last night he was in some kind of drug induced deep sleep. He wondered if he’d been dreaming at all. He could vaguely remember something about cats. Black cats with piercing yellow eyes and horns on their heads. The thought made a rash of gooseflesh crawl across his bare back. He shivered.
Alisha murmured something in her sleep. He turned to face her. He watched her apprehensively as she quietened down and remained asl
eep. She’d been complaining earlier about a pain in her stomach. That was all he needed to hear, gamota. All of a sudden, Polish muggers were shoved to the back of his mind. He wanted to take her to the hospital, but pretty soon after, she said the pain was going away. He was relieved to hear that. He told her to lie down. She did, and then everything was okay again. John surmised that it was probably the stress of the past couple of days. And the future. She was scared, he could see that. She was scared for him and their child, and it was causing her extreme stress. He had to do something about it. He had to show her some lires, proper lires, very soon, just to reassure her, calm her down. The last thing he wanted was to damage his moro. He needed that money that Aziz owed him badly and some more soon after, just to reassure them all. That deposit on a new flat had been within reach but his cash flow had suddenly stopped dead.
All ’cos of those fucked up Polish twins.
He watched Alisha roll away and onto her side, her back now facing him. Her halo glowed brightly around her head. John sighed. He kept thinking about what Ahmed said earlier about Valeria Kolovski, about how she was a medical scientist. Medical Scientist? Like a chemist, he said. A chemical expert? Like a drug creator? A creator of drugs? The type of drugs that knock you out, and you wake up seeing angels and demons all around you?
Maybe, or maybe—
And then suddenly a thought hit him so quickly it almost knocked him backwards, something he hadn’t even contemplated till then.
Did I die…?
Am I dead? Is that why I’m seeing angels and demons ’cos last night I… died? He grabbed his head with both hands and briskly rubbed it, that abrupt thought suddenly making it ache. He then reached for a cigarro. He stuck it in his dry, slightly trembling lips and lit it, quickly taking a long drag soon after. Well, I can taste this, so, I can’t be dead.
But, the hallucinations, re. Demons and fucking angels and rats and bloodhounds and… arrrgggghhhh!!!
He got up and went to the front door. He opened it and stood in the doorway while he finished his cigarro. Outside the air was crisp; it bit into his bare skin, making him shiver and allowing gooseflesh to crawl wherever it could.
Well, if I am dead, I can’t be in Hell ’cos it’s way too fucking cold, gamota! He smiled wryly to himself and puffed away.
But all jokes aside, re. Did you see Omar’s fucking nose back there? Yeah, it was crazy. And somehow he knew, he knew it meant he was lying. Like it was his natural instinct. He knew exactly what the things he was seeing meant. It was as if it were trying to help him, to tell him that Omar was lying, and he understood it perfectly.
What if you could use what you’re seeing to your advantage?
He blew smoke out from his lungs and looked over his shoulder. Alisha was lying in their bed, dead to the world.
Why don’t you ask her if she got pregnant on purpose? See what happens…
Hmm, maybe that’s not a bad idea, then I’d know the real truth.
But did he really wanna know the truth?
Why not just let it lie, gamota. It’s in the past, nothing can be done about it now…
Maybe that was right. Why go over old ground and risk creating more tension between them? Was it worth it? Maybe it wasn’t, but it was definitely food for thought. But right then it wasn’t the most important thing in his life that was or sure. Getting that delivery back was top priority. He couldn’t afford to slack off thinking about Alisha’s lies, or non-lies, or believing that he was dead and living in some kind of purgatory limbo. If he took his eye off the ball, he could end the week back in hospital. Or worse…
The good news was that he was making progress. In one day, he’d managed to put a name to the mugs of the two main players in the gang that jumped him. On reflection, that was actually great progress. Now all he had to do was go about finding them in a sprawling metropolis like London. And he had no clue how he was even gonna begin that particular project.
You could put an ad in the Greek newspaper, re—
Greek man (well off!) seeks skinny, unattractive Polish chemical expert. Must have red spiky hair and horns (oh and nose piercing desirable!)
For fun and good times!!
He shook his head, threw his cigarro out of the door, and shut it. He’d have to do something and if it came to drastic measures, then so be it. He had to try everything within his power. Everything.
He went back and laid down next to his pregnant angel, closed his eyes and tried his best to get skinny Polish girls with red spiky hair and horns out of his mind.
At least until morning.
CHAPTER SIX
John trudged out of Dalston International Supermarket, shaking his head in disappointment. It must have been the tenth Polish shop he’d visited that morning, waving mugshots of the Kolovski twins around. Every time he asked a worker/owner if they knew who they were, he received a cold, blank look, and a shake of the head. Apparently, none of ’em had a clue who they were apart from Gertrude, who recognised Marek Kolovski straight away, gamota. He quickly arrived at the conclusion that even if they did know who they were, they weren’t about to grass on ’em, either through fear or through some type of Polish unity.
But, someone grassed you up all those years ago, re…a bitter voice responded to his assertions. And yeah, that was true, but that was how skata his luck was. He didn’t have people who were prepared to lie for him. The Greeks would sell him out in the blink of an eye, and he knew it. Knew it all too well…
He replaced the mugshots back in the inner pocket of his leather jacket and glanced up at the dark grey sky. All he wanted was a break. Just one, gamota. No more corners, God. Just a break…He sighed and headed back to his car. On the way, he checked his watch—it was almost midday; he’d been driving across London all morning. As the mugging went down in south London, that’s where he started. He began in Camberwell and worked his way up north from there. There seemed to be a good spread of Poles across London, they weren’t confined to one area like a lot of the blacks, Asians, and Greeks (Peckham/Southall/Palmers Green). Maybe that was why no one knew who they were, the community was so dispersed ’cos they were new skool, it didn’t seem to have the same incestuous nature of other ethnic communities. The Greeks, on the other hand, were somehow or other all related either by blood or by marriage. To find someone who knew this or that person, the odds were stacked in your favour. Step into a patisserie on Green Lanes and you’ll most probably be greeted by your aunty.
But with the Poles, it seemed he was on a loser…
He puffed his cheeks in disappointment as he started up the car and pulled away. Half a day was gone already. The egg timer was running full blast, and he didn’t have a second to waste. Besides, he’d have to get back home to check on Alisha soon. He knew that he’d be spending most of the next four days out and about looking for the twins, and as a result he needed a cover story. So he fed her some bullshit about working all day, every day in a shop Aziz had recently bought. The blag went like this—the bloke usually working there had a week off sick, and John and Aziz both agreed that John could do with a few days work to help take his mind off what happened to him, keep his confidence levels high, and earn some lires at the same time to compensate for what he lost the other night. It meant he could go fishing for twins, while she thought he was shopkeeping for Aziz. The guilt of lying to her fucked him up again, but what other choice did he have, gamota? There was no way he could tell her the truth. No way. She’d go completely mental. And he couldn’t handle that right then.
He pulled onto the Seven Sisters Road, where he knew there was another Polish shop—an off licence with a big bottle of Lech beer painted on the window. If he carried on further up from that shop, he’d soon be back at the hall and near his old manor, Wood Green, signalling the end of his journey for the day. And if there was nothing to report, it would be another day wasted. But he had to keep going. Had to be vigilant.
He pulled up outside the offy—both his right hand tyres parked up
on the pavement—and got out. He threw his cigarro butt to the ground as he approached the offy, traffic buzzing along the road behind him. Once inside, he found himself surrounded by cans and bottles of beer on shelves, in fridges, on the floor by his feet. It was like a pisshead’s paradise. Standing at the counter was a light-brown haired man with a halo swathed around his head.
That means he’s a good one, re, John noted. Yeah, he’s good. En Kalos, that’s what they say about someone who’s a good ’un. En kalos. And if he’s no good, if he’s bad, then it’s en kakos.
Kakos.
John went straight up to him. ‘You’re Polish right?’ John asked him.
The man’s face remained exactly as it was. ‘Yes…’ he replied.
‘I need your help,’ John told him as he put his hand inside his jacket and retrieved the mugshots. He opened them up and placed them on the counter. ‘I’m looking for these two. They’re Polish. Need to speak to ’em. Any idea where I can find ’em?’
The man placed a hand under his chin and stared at the mugshots. He appeared to be genuinely thinking hard about it. John waited with baited breath, hoping that something in his mind would click, if anyone was gonna give him the truth this could very well be the one.
Then to his disappointment, the man’s mouth turned downwards and he shook his head. ‘No. I’m sorry.’
John sighed. ‘Any idea who they are? Who might know ’em?’
The man with the halo shrugged. ‘I have no idea,’ he said and chuckled. ‘I have never seen them. Are you sure they are Polish?’
John shut his eyes and nodded. ‘I’m sure. I’ve been to every Polish shop from south London to here and not one person knows ’em…’
‘Look, I have been in England for five years now, and have never seen them. Maybe they are new here…’
John reflected. Yeah, they were new. And if this bloke’s been here for five years, he’s most probably out of touch with events in Poland. Christ, maybe he wants to be out of touch with things in Poland, who knew?
The Survival Game Page 8
