The Survival Game

by Stavro Yianni

  John nodded his head in understanding. If he didn’t know, he didn’t know.

  ‘Maybe you could go to Polish embassy,’ the man told him.

  John smiled wryly. Yeah, those malakes have got no idea where to find ’em either… ‘Okay, mate. I’ll try that.’

  The man shrugged in return. John looked around. He’d been staring at cans of beer all day in various off licences and mini-markets, and was now nearly at the end of the journey for the day. The thought of going around a different route of London grilling Polish people made his head hurt. The deal of six cans of this Lech skata for a fiver was suddenly looking very tempting.

  ‘Give us six cans of that then,’ he said, pointing to the neatly stacked pile of beers to his left. The man smiled and grabbed a blue plastic bag. John placed a fiver on the counter and went over to the fridge. He wanted ’em cold and crisp, not warm and fuzzy. He opened up the door and took out a chilled four-pack. Alisha wouldn’t be happy to see him all beered up, but right then he didn’t give a rat’s kolo. He just wanted to relax, if that was at all possible. And if she didn’t like it, well, tough skata, baby… He chuckled lightly to himself as he reached for the other two cans.

  As he did, something from the corner of his eye caught his attention, stopping his chuckling stone dead. His head snapped round of its own accord. He was now staring out of the window and at the road outside. A line of traffic had stopped at the lights now that they were red. Jammed in the traffic was a van. A white van with a logo and writing painted on its side. John tired to read what it said but the words were dancing and rearranging as if he’d suddenly developed dyslexia. He squinted his eyes and tried his best to make them out—M-E-D… Slowly but surely the letters slotted back into place like a jigsaw. ‘M-E-D-I-C-A-L C-O-U-R-I-E-R S-E-R-V-I-C-E-S.’

  He closed his eyes; his mind began working behind them. Where have I seen that before, gamota? He opened up his eyes and flicked them towards the painted logo. It was… a snake? Yeah, a snake wrapped around a dagger. Weird. But what was even weirder was the sudden outbreak of déjà vu staring at that logo was triggering off, making him feel somewhat dazed and lightheaded. His mind then went hazy like he’d just had a massive hit from the world’s skunkiest bong, and he was suddenly transported back to a couple of nights before when he was lying on the ground, shot up with tranquilliser, the world a spinning kaleidoscope. He vividly recalled getting a good look at the van they all jumped out the back of. It too had a logo and some words—Medics something…

  Yeah, and the logo was… he began nodding his head positively—a snake wrapped around a dagger.

  SNAP!

  His eyes widened.

  It’s them. It’s them, gamota!

  He didn’t waste a second. He dived for the front door.

  ‘Hey—’ the shopkeeper shouted after him.

  But John was already outside. He stood on the pavement, staring open-mouthed at the van like someone stranded in the Sahara for a week spotting a mirage of an oasis. But it was definitely there; this was no mirage or hallucination.

  It’s there in front of me. Right there, gamota…

  From his angle, he couldn’t see the driver, so couldn’t tell for sure if it really was the muggers or not.

  The traffic lights then turned green and the line of traffic began to move along. Including the van.

  Shit, don’t let it get away, re!

  He tore himself out of his trance, bounced on his heels, and then went for his car. He quickly got in, throwing the beers in his hand down onto the passenger seat and fumbling for his keys.

  Come on! Come on!

  He took in a deep breath and then carefully stuck the key in the ignition. He got her started up, and then cut into the traffic, making a car horn go off. He raised his palm in apology and sped away. By then, the van was a way up, but was so big, there was no chance he could lose it. He put his foot down to try and cut the distance, excitement suddenly rising inside him. He’d been hitting brick walls all day, and now out of the blue, this could well be something. Something real. He prayed that it was and not just a false dawn. The van carried on along the Seven Sisters through Finsbury Park and into Tottenham. John kept on its tail, making sure he didn’t get trapped behind any red lights, checking his rear view every few seconds as he weaved in and out of traffic. He could virtually see the rush he was feeling both in his own eyes and in the way that light swathed around his head glowed as if electrified. He’d been on the verge of giving up hope. Luckily, he hadn’t.

  When the van reached the end of Seven Sisters, it turned left onto Tottenham High Road. John copied, wondering all the time where the malaka was going. Up ahead were Bruce Grove and Tottenham Hale, which were full of factories and warehouses. John knew that ’cos his Uncle Chris and Aunty Anna used to own a clothes factory there called Top End Clothes. But back in the early 90s the clothing trade took a slide as designer gear became more affordable and so Uncle Chris had to sell up. An ice cream manufacturer called Neocrema had it off him, Uncle Chris making a tidy sum…

  John kept on the van’s tail as it rolled through the industrial streets of Tottenham Hale, which was all brickwork and corrugated iron. The industrialised surroundings created a dead atmosphere, not a soul around ’cos all the commotion was going on inside the factories and warehouses like they were beehives. He rolled past yet another warehouse as they turned off onto a side street. John tried to keep his distance, just in case the driver clocked him in his rear view or wing mirror, recognised him, and sped away. He wanted to know exactly where this prick was going.

  And then he found out.

  The van reached the end of the street, turned right, and disappeared. John crawled to the end of the road, and then looked around. He was at the head of on an open road, black pockmarked warehouses and factories lining it. John watched on as the van pulled into the front courtyard of a factory before stopping next to three other identical vans, all with the same snake wrapped around a dagger logo and the letters M.C.S printed across their back doors.

  He stared at the building and took in a deep breath to control the déjà vu that was hitting him hard like a bucket of ice water. He knew the building he was now staring at, knew it all too well. And he couldn’t believe that that van had just pulled up outside it. It was his Uncle Chris’s and Aunty Anna’s clothes factory Top End Clothes. But now, a dirty, broken sign across it read Neocrema.

  He pulled out onto the street and drove halfway down before turning back on himself. He then pulled up on the pavement, just far away enough so that he could see what was happening without them able to get a good look at him. He opened the glovebox and took out his shades. He put them on and watched on in bewilderment. He hadn’t been down that way for donkeys, and memories from his childhood were hitting him like radioactive zaps from a laser gun. He could see himself in the back of Uncle Chris’s car with his cousins Maria and Andro, Aunty Anna sitting in the passenger seat. It was summer holidays and Chris and Anna would take John off of Yiayia’s hands for the day on an outing to their factory. That way they could keep an eye on them all while they worked. Uncle Chris would drive along these very streets and they’d all go into the factory and have ice cream from the freezer in the kitchen. John liked those ones with the hundreds and thousands on them, Fabs, they were called. Andro would bring his Action Men and Maria her Barbie dolls. They’d run up and down the factory floor annoying the tubby Greek women sitting at the rows and rows of sewing machines as they stitched together skirts and trousers.

  And now the factory was being used for something else. What exactly, he had no idea.

  He noted the two blokes standing idly by the entrance. Stocky; short, thinning hair (horns); bomber jackets. They looked like old skool skinheads from the seventies. All they were missing were the tight, stonewashed jeans and steel toecaps. John knew immediately what they were—bodyguards. Keeping watch over whatever was going on inside. Keeping people out…Wouldn’t surprise him if they were both tooled up either.<
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  One of ’em waved at the van that John had just followed before speaking into a walkie-talkie. A few seconds later and the huge garage door at the front of the factory opened up. John tried to get a look in there, but his angle was too acute. He could see another van inside, but nothing else. The van he’d followed pulled into the factory. Once it was inside, the garage door slid back down and closed shut. The two bouncers went back to watching the street.

  John began summarising—he had a medical courier service; delivery vans lined up; bodyguards??

  He couldn’t associate the last thing with the rest. Why would a legit medical courier service need bodyguards?

  Then the image of Valeria Kolovski popped into his mind. Red spiky hair, nose ring. Medical Scientist. A Doctor. A chemist. Medical Scientist → Medical Courier Service. He then formulated the equation in his mind.

  The putana is making medicines, and these malakes are delivering them.

  But bodyguards…???

  Well, what kind of medicines was she making?

  Painkillers? Vitamins? Crack, gamota?

  Well, whatever she was cooking up, it was something they didn’t want outsiders to know about that was for sure. He so badly wanted to go into that factory and find out exactly what was going on, hopefully finding the Kolovski twins in there as well. But, he didn’t fancy his chances against those two bods. Even though he was packing too, he was pretty sure they’d be tooled up as well. And he had no idea what else was inside. There could be more of ’em. But, he so badly wanted to get in. Get in and—

  Just then, the garage door opened again and out stepped someone new. John felt his eyes widen behind his shades. He was now staring at a bloke he recognised—tall (taller than the bods), skinny, short spiked blonde hair, two jet-black horns on top of his head. But it was the mole on his cheek, the one that was so big John could see it from where he was, that got his memory banks working. Yeah, he recognised that prick all right. He was the clown. The driver of that van the other night. And as he saw him sharing a joke with the two bods on the door, he could match his face perfectly with the one staring down at him the other night while he was losing consciousness. Suddenly, he was getting excited again. He leaned forwards in his seat. If this malaka was here, then the twins couldn’t be too far away either. And to think he started his hunt in south London, when all along, they were in his fucking manor!

  He shook his head, a rueful smile emerging on his face. Typical…

  Moleface then walked away from the bods, waving them ‘goodbye’ as he left. He was now headed in John’s direction, forcing John to duck down beneath his steering wheel. Moleface would recognise him for sure, and after spending so long today getting on their trail, he didn’t want to fuck it up now. He peeked over the steering wheel to see Moleface head over to a Volvo parked up a little way down from the factory. On reaching it, he got in the driver’s seat. This was good. John couldn’t get past the two bods, but he could easily handle this skinny wretch on his own. And who knew, he might have some juicy info on the twins for him. He waited for Moleface to start up the car and pull away before he did the same, rolling inconspicuously along the road after him. He went past Neocrema, his sights set firmly on the Volvo up ahead. He was more than intrigued to see where exactly this malaka was going. He could luck out even more; Moleface might even lead him straight to the twins! But what he definitely couldn’t afford was Moleface getting even a sniff he was being followed. So John stayed well back, hoping soon he’d get off the backstreets and out onto a busy road so he could mingle with other cars. And that’s what Moleface finally did, turning out onto the High Road. John relaxed a little, now speeding up to make sure Moleface didn’t get away. He too turned onto the High Road, which was buzzing with traffic, plenty of cars for him to hide behind. He made sure there were at least two in front of him to offer subterfuge, but no more than that.

  Soon, Moleface turned off the High Road onto Bruce Grove, and headed up towards the Great Cambridge Roundabout. John kept on his tail, wondering where he could be going. Why was he in his own car now and not in one of those MCS vans? What was his game, gamota? John sped past a dawdling Fiat, just as Moleface began to go pull away, suddenly looking like he was in a bit of a hurry. When he reached the roundabout, he turned left out onto the North Circular Road, heading towards Palmers Green. John kept on him. Moleface then went along the North Circ for about a minute before he indicated left. He pulled up onto the pavement, outside a row of houses. John wasn’t expecting that. He thought Moleface was intending to head all the way through the North Circ, not for him to suddenly stop on the road outside boarded up houses. So he carried on a bit further, before he too indicated and pulled up. He was now ahead of Moleface, and could no longer see what he was up to. He popped the bonnet and got out. Traffic buzzed through the dual carriageway like flies as he went to the front of his car. He lifted up the bonnet and held it there. He shifted to the side, taking a sly look past it. He could now see Moleface; he’d just got out of his car and was heading towards one of the houses. John looked around. The house in front of him was boarded up and derelict. A poster with the words ‘NO MOTORWAY HERE!’ printed on it in bold black letters was stuck on the bricked up space where the front window used to be. A lot of the houses on the North Circ were similar, but some still had regular occupants. Moleface headed towards one of the latter. Soon, he disappeared inside.

  John lowered the bonnet for a second and stared at the house Moleface just entered, assuming it was where he lived. If it was, he now had him cornered.

  Grab your gun, re, and go and ask him some questions…

  Yeah, that looked like the next course of action. He dropped the bonnet; it clicked shut. He got back in the car, opened the glovebox, and had a paranoid look around. Traffic droned mindlessly by, and there wasn’t a soul to be seen on the pavement, neither left nor right. Satisfied there were no prying eyes, he grabbed his gun and discreetly checked it. His plan was to go in there, threaten Moleface to tell him what he wanted to know like ‘where are those damn evil twins? Where’s my delivery?’ that kind of thing.

  He took in a deep breath while he stuffed the gun in his belt. He was all set, but the second he stepped out of the car, the front door Moleface disappeared behind a few seconds before opened up. John reacted. He dived back into his car and sat low in his seat. He waited a second or two before peeking into his rear view. He turned it to the left and right, searching for whoever it was that opened the door to show up in there. Eventually, they did. He now found himself watching Moleface walking back towards his car. But now there was someone with him. It was a man around sixty/seventy years old. Moleface had his arm around his waist, helping guide him to his Volvo. The old man didn’t look in good shape at all. In fact, he looked like he could barely walk without Moleface’s help.

  Moleface held open the passenger door and helped the old man in.

  John was nonplussed.

  His dad? Granddad? He had no idea.

  He watched Moleface get back in his car and start it up. John copied. Soon after, Moleface was back on the North Circ. John watched him drive by before he too pulled out and got back on his tail. Moleface reached the traffic lights where he doubled back onto the opposite side of the dual carriageway. John followed. Now they were heading back the way they came.

  Where is he going, gamota? And who is that with him? He kept on them, wanting answers to the numerous questions surfacing in his mind. They passed beneath the Great Cambridge Roundabout this time instead of over it, coming off the North Circ and onto a slip road, which they followed round back onto the other side of the North Circ again.

  This malaka is just going round in circles, gamota!

  A little way up and Moleface turned left into a large car park. John looked around him trying to work out where he was. Then it hit him as he too pulled into the car park. He wound down his window and took a ticket from the machine; the barrier in front of him rose automatically, allowing him access into the ho
spital car park. He waited for Moleface to park up before finding a space for himself that wasn’t too close and not too far away from him. He killed the engine and took in his surroundings. A couple of haloed nurses walked past, probably on their lunch. A horned man in a suit and tie—a briefcase by his side—strolled confidently past, taking his keys from his trouser pocket and jangling them. In the distance, a bus pulled up outside the main building with the word ‘OUTPATIENTS’ painted above the entrance. This was North Middlesex Hospital and Moleface was bringing the old man here, whoever he was, ’cos he was clearly unwell.

  John watched Moleface get out of the car and then help the old man out. He held onto his waist again as he guided him slowly towards the entrance.

  John waited for them to get there before he got out of his car and followed them inside.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  John followed them into Outpatients, passing by patients on crutches, special ambulance men helping old dears out of dial-a-rides, and drugged up cases hovering around wondering who they were and where they were supposed to be going. All around him were horns and haloes. Horns and haloes. Sick demons and angels. Just inside the entrance, some haloed old man was flogging second hand junk from a stall he’d set up in aid of the hospital—ex library children’s books; third hand video cassettes like Batman the Movie and Goodfellas; old LP records like Elvis and Gerry and the Pacemakers. John ignored it, instead turning left into the reception area. To his bemusement, he was met with what must have been a hundred horned and haloed people either sitting in chairs or just loitering around, all clutching small tickets in their hands and staring at the digital board up on the wall that read ‘139’ in big red numbers as if they were waiting for the winning lottery numbers to pop up.

  This place is a fucking zoo, gamota, he thought as he surveyed the scene. The whole area was all dirty and run down as if the taxpayer’s money hadn’t managed to filter down there yet. A horny, bald bloke then bumped into him as he made his way out, continuing with his journey without apology. John tutted in response and then began anxiously spinning his head around. For a horrible second, he thought he’d lost Moleface in the crowd. But as a doctor came through the double doors to his right, he caught a glimpse of the back of both Moleface and the old man beyond them. John got back on their trail, bumping past doctors and patients. He went through the double doors, where a sign on the wall on his left read ‘ONCOLOGY,’ an arrow beneath it pointing straight on.