He took off his shades, and then turned his attention back to Moleface. ‘You remember me?’ he asked him. ‘Huh?’
Moleface stared at him with surprised eyes. ‘Yes,’ he replied, just as he rolled his eyes towards the carpet.
The old man then gasped loudly, making John snap his head round to face him. His wide eyes were fixed firmly on the gun in his hand. ‘Pistolet!’ he said sharply. ‘Dlaczego?’
‘Tell him to shut up and everything will be all right,’ John ordered Moleface.
Moleface just gave John a blank stare.
‘Go on!’ John urged.
Moleface turned to face the old man and tried his best to calm him down. The old man began waving his arms around like an angry octopus. It meant that Moleface had to work harder to get him to stop. After a few seconds of arm waving, the old man flopped back in his chair, exhausted.
Moleface turned his attention back to John. ‘He is sick,’ he informed him.
‘Yeah, I know,’ John replied. ‘And I’m not gonna hurt him. I just wanna know where Marek is. Does he live here?’
Moleface looked at the carpet again, and shook his head.
‘But, you do,’ John guessed.
Moleface nodded.
‘Where’s Marek then?’
Moleface hesitated, his eyes rolling around in their sockets like ball bearings.
‘Don’t fuck with me!’ John snapped. ‘What is he, your brother?’
Moleface looked up at John and his eyes were now crystal clear blue. They starkly contrasted the black horns that sat on his head. ‘My cousin.’
‘Your cousin. So, he’s your uncle,’ John asked, cocking his gun towards the old man.
Moleface nodded.
‘A tight family, eh?’ John said, his voice laced with contempt. ‘You all look after each other, take each other to hospital, help each other mug innocent people…’
Something on the sideboard then caught his attention and he went over to it. It was a framed photo of a younger Valeria. Her graduation picture. She was all gowned up. A pair of horns and goatee had been scribbled on her head and face with black felt tip pen. Sitting on the sideboard next to it was a photo of an even younger Marek. He was dressed in a muddy football kit, proudly holding aloft a trophy. The smile on his mug was wider than the Thames.
‘He plays football, eh?’ John asked.
‘Used to,’ replied Moleface. ‘He hurt his knee. Cannot play now.’
‘So he went into the mugging game instead did he?’ John asked Moleface sardonically. He looked from Moleface to the photo again. ‘Which knee did he hurt?’
‘His right,’ Moleface replied in an increasingly agitated tone.
John turned his mouth downwards and nodded his head. Popped his right knee. Killed his career. Classic tale of a bright young thing never fulfilling his potential. Skata.
He picked up the photo and held it up in the air in front of the old man. ‘Your son?’ he asked.
The old man just stared at him with a blank expression on his face.
‘He doesn’t understand you,’ Moleface told him. ‘He speaks no English.’
John rolled his eyes. ‘Good man, your son,’ he said, nodding his head, his voice loaded with irony.
The old man gave him a fake smile and began nodding his head too, most probably not knowing what the hell this bloke with the gun was saying to him, but just agreeing to keep him sweet.
John put the photo back in its place. ‘Right. This is what we’re gonna do,’ he then said, getting down to business. ‘The old man’s coming with me in my car. You’re gonna follow us in your car. When we get to where we’re going, you’re gonna give Marek a call and tell him to come and meet us. He hands over what he stole from me, I hand over his dad. Simple. If you try anything on the way like driving off or if I think you’re trying anything, or about to try anything, I’ll drive down a dark secluded road and put a bullet into your uncle’s head. You got it?’
Moleface’s chest tightened. John could see the pain written all over his mug, knowing exactly what he was going through ’cos for once it was someone else who’d just been given the impossible choice.
Moleface finally nodded, an extremely fed up look now plastered on his mug.
‘Trust me, mate, I didn’t want any of this,’ John told him. ‘I just want my shit back. You got a problem with that, you have it out with your cousin.’ He turned back to the window and checked the streets. The pavement was clear. ‘Okay. Let’s go. Help your uncle.’
Moleface reluctantly stood and held his hand out to the old man, who stared back at him with pained eyes. ‘Chodź, Wujka. My musimy zostawiać teraz,’ Moleface told him.
‘Gdzie?’ the old man asked, glancing from Moleface to John.
‘We go to car. We drive away,’ John informed him, miming someone operating a steering wheel as he spoke. ‘Up!’
Moleface reached down and grabbed his uncle by the arm, hastily helping him to his feet. The old man moaned loudly as he struggled to get up. Once he made it, Moleface put his arm around him and once again, they became Siamese.
John moved up behind them, and poked his gun into Moleface’s back. ‘Give me your phone,’ he ordered, and held out his free hand. He didn’t want Moleface making any calls from his car. Moleface reached into the pocket of his jeans, pulled out his mobile, and handed it to John.
John pocketed it. ‘I’ll give you it back when we get to where we’re going so you can phone Marek.’ He put his shades on, and nudged Moleface with his gun in the small of his back. ‘Let’s go.’
Moleface/old man Kolovski headed for the front door. John was pleasantly surprised just how smoothly he was handling the situation. Cool as a fucking cucumber, gamota. Even though he had no intention of hurting the old man, he was a hundred and ten percent sure there was no way Marek would risk his father’s life for the delivery. And at this rate, he reckoned he could have it back in Aziz’s lap within the hour.
If Marek hasn’t moved it on himself already, re… He quickly told himself not to think like that. He hadn’t moved it on. Nah, he had a funny feeling that Marek wasn’t looking to make a profit. There was some other reason; he just couldn’t quite work out… Maybe something to do with the old man? Who knew…?
They got to the front door and Moleface stopped to open it. He pulled the handle down, and swung the door wide open for them both. They began shuffling outside. John ducked his head down and followed up behind, his gun wedged firmly into the small of Moleface’s back. The sound of the droning traffic was now very loud, but something abruptly broke it like a scratched record. Loud aggressive Ragga filled the air like tribal war drums. Tyres screeched on tarmac. A car door slammed shut soon after. John heard all these sounds, but they only registered somewhere at the back of his mind.
The next thing he heard however, was clear as crystal. It was a gruff voice. ‘Get back inside!’
John’s head flinched upwards. He frowned. Who said that? He peeked over Moleface’s shoulder. When he clocked the twin barrels of the shotgun pointing straight at the three of them, his eyes almost popped right out of his skull. He flicked his head upwards to get a look at who was holding it, and when he did, he instantly removed his shades just to make sure he was really seeing what he thought he was seeing.
Standing in front of them was a brick outhouse, wearing a camouflage coloured tee and khaki combat pants. Dog tags dangled round his neck like he’d just stepped out of ’Nam. Big, thick dreadlocks sprouted out of his head and hung around his shoulders like jungle vine. Horns—loads and loads of ’em that made the evil doc’s horns back at North Mid look like mere thorns on a rose bush—covered his head like a viral infection. But when John stared at the eyes embedded in this bloke’s deeply scarred face, his balls curled right up into his body like hazelnuts, ’cos they were the cold grey eyes of a dead fish. Lifeless and gleamless, the greyish/brown skin beneath ’em puffy and saggy as if they’d never seen a night’s sleep.
John tried t
o blink it all off, but the whole intimidating image was still there for him to see afterwards—some kind of monster/zombie Yardie, and he looked proper pissed, gamota.
‘I said get back in ya fockin’ yard!’ The Yardie said with more aggression, and raised the shotgun more threateningly.
Moleface spun his head round to face John, and gave him a look that said ‘what shall I do?’
John stayed put behind the Siamese uncle and nephew, and poked his gun out the side of them so that the Yardie could see it, even though it was no match for the mighty tool he was already threatening them with. ‘Get the fuck out of here!’ he snapped with fake gusto. ‘Go on. Do one. This has got nothing to do with you. This is between me and them.’
‘Who the rass you be?’ the Yardie shouted over the combined shoulder of Moleface/old man, trying to get a look at who it was hiding behind them. ‘What click you roll with?’
‘What?’ John replied, confused. ‘I don’t roll with any click, for fuck’s sake.’ This was getting out of hand. If someone saw them like this… ‘Look. I came here to do a kidnapping and you’re fucking it up for me!’
The Yardie stepped back, and pointed his shotgun at the dead centre of them all. ‘Look like you da one who be kidnap, bredda,’ he replied. ‘Now, get ya rass back inside, or mi gonna make a big fockin’ hole through all three a ya!’
Moleface turned his head to the side. ‘I think we should do as he says,’ he suggested.
John tutted. ‘I think you should shut the fuck up and leave the thinking to me, all right?’ But the malaka was right. This Yardie didn’t look the type to fuck around. And John’s gun was a peashooter compared to his, gamota. He sighed and took another look through Moleface/old man at the Yardie to try and get a new feel for him, see if he really was loco. When he did, one of the Yardie’s dreads suddenly came alive. It sprang up, hissed, and snapped its mouth on the air like a snake. John flinched back, not wanting go near it.
‘Ya got three second before mi start shooting, bredda,’ the Yardie then warned. ‘One!’
John huffed. ‘For fuck’s sake! Okay! Okay!’ he shouted, frustrated and angry. ‘Come on then. Let’s go.’ He began dragging Moleface/old man backwards. The old man groaned out loud. His day was going from bad to worse, the poor old sod.
Once they were back in, the Yardie followed them inside. ‘That’s right. In dere,’ he said, indicating the front room.
John backed up into the front room, making sure he stayed behind uncle and nephew, not wanting the Yardie to get a clear shot at him, just in case… Once inside, Moleface helped his uncle back down into his chair. He flopped back with a tortured groan. Moleface took his seat on the sofa again. John backed up and took the seat by the window, and they were now back where they were two minutes beforehand. The Yardie stepped in the room after them and John could now see just how big the malaka was. His snake dreads were now dancing round his horned head like he was Medusa. But, unlike her eyes that turned people to stone, his eyes were stone dead. Dead fish eyes.
John leant forwards and carefully placed his gun on the coffee table to show he meant no harm. He then crossed his arms over his chest and huffed.
‘Where Marek?’ the Yardie then asked, looking round them one by one with his dead eyes. Silence answered him. He pumped his gun, making the old man flinch. He bent down and put his face right in the old man’s. His snake dreads looked to John like they were biting the old man all over his head and face, but he didn’t even notice.
‘Mi looking for Marek,’ the Yardie told him. ‘Where he at? Upstair? You his pops? Tell I where he is.’
The old man just stared at him with frantic eyes and shrugged his shoulders.
‘He doesn’t understand you,’ John said in an exasperated voice. This malaka was wasting valuable time and he was getting more and more agitated. ‘He doesn’t speak English.’
The Yardie stared at the old man with contempt. ‘Rhaatid!’ he said to the air ahead of him.
‘You may as well speak to the fucking walls, bruv!’ John told him.
The Yardie turned to face him. ‘That so, bredda?’
John gave him a sarcastic smile and nodded. ‘Yeah. We were just about to—’
He was cut off mid sentence as the Yardie, suddenly and without warning, stuck the business end of his shotgun into the old man’s chest and ruthlessly pulled the trigger. The gun exploded. The old man’s body slammed back into his chair before it collapsed completely.
John slapped his hands on the sides of his head, his jaw dropping like an anchor. What the fuck?
Moleface jumped up like a jack in the box, his eyes fixed firmly on his uncle’s corpse. It took a second or two for what happened to settle in, but when it did, he swiftly turned his attention to the Yardie and went for him with his claws bared like a wild, vicious cat. The Yardie didn’t flinch. Instead, he just coldly pointed his gun in Moleface’s direction and pulled the trigger again. There was another loud report, and Moleface was thrown back onto the sofa. John became still, staring trance-like at the wall behind the sofa; it was sprayed red like someone had thrown a pot of paint at it. He’d almost jumped out of his seat without realising, his fists clutching the armrests for dear life, his knuckles turning white.
Jesus Christ what’s going on here? What the fuck just happened, gamota?
‘What did you do that for!’ he exclaimed, turning his attention to the Yardie.
The Yardie stared at him with those dead eyes, the smoking barrel of his shotgun resting idly on his shoulder. ‘A message, bredda. A message for Marek to get outa town. Dis ’ere my town. Not his!’
John flopped back down into his chair. He grabbed the sides of his head and growled in frustration. ‘Grrr, I was about to use the old man as bait to bring him out of wherever he’s hiding!’ he declared through gritted teeth. ‘If you’d have let me fucking finish, I would’ve told you that and we both could’ve got what we wanted. Now that’s all gone fucking tits up!’ John was getting angrier and didn’t give a fuck if the Yardie even turned the gun on him now.
But he didn’t. Instead, he chuckled like it was all a big joke. ‘Well, he’s all yours now, bredda,’ he said, and smiled. He then raised his hand, and waggled his fingers ‘goodbye’ at John before laughing out loud, making his snake dreads move wildly around his head like they were dancing. The sound of his laugh in John’s ears was like rusty blades sharpened on a grinding machine. It made the skin on the back of his neck crawl.
When he finally stopped laughing, John gave him daggers. The prick thought it was funny, but inside, John was screaming. ‘Thanks a lot, re malaka,’ he said, not giving rat’s kolo if he offended the Yardie.
The Yardie ignored him and just darted out of the room, taking his snake dreads and dead eyes with him. John heard the front door slam shut soon after. He immediately jumped up and went to the window. He watched the Yardie race over to an army jeep with tinted windows that was parked up on the pavement. Beyond it, the traffic raced past as per usual. Some loud aggressive Ragga then began blasting out of the jeep before it wheel spun away into the traffic. In no time, the music faded and the jeep and the Yardie were a distant memory.
John put his hand up to his forehead, just as a migraine was forming.
What the fuck just happened, gamota? Who the hell was that?
He looked behind him to be met by two dead bodies and bucket loads of blood.
He shook his head. Jesus Christ, what am I gonna do now?
His chest was heaving. He rubbed his head with both hands, his mind in a haze like he was back on drugs ’cos all he could see wherever he looked or whenever he blinked were two eyes.
Dead fish eyes.
*****
He got his shit together ASAP. That Yardie’s gunshots were loud, and although most people would probably put ’em down to an exploding exhaust on a clapped-out Skoda, it was a safe bet that at least one nosy parker would think otherwise. Also, if one of the twins just happened to pop by to see how daddy’s le
g was doing today, he’d be caught red handed. So he blanked those dead fish eyes out of his mind straight away and began assessing the situation like the head fireman at the scene of an inferno. Even though his bargaining chip was now brown bread, it didn’t necessarily mean he was useless. For starters, Marek didn’t know he was dead. Therefore, John could call his bluff. As long as Marek thought his old man’s life was in danger, the plan could still go ahead. Take the body away from the scene and who could say for sure apart from John and the Yardie that the old man was as dead as a dodo? And actually, the Yardie may have inadvertently done him a little favour here—he could leave Moleface exactly where he was; his dead body would trick Marek into believing that John was nothing less than a stone cold killer, a ruthless criminal, a man not to be fucked with, and that he was being serious once he threatened to harm his old man unless he got the delivery back. Hopefully, Marek would shit bricks, think twice about the man he’d mugged, and cave in to John’s demands. It could turn out to be the perfect leverage in the deal.
He smiled to himself. Cheers, re Yardie…
And just as he thought about the Yardie again, a shiver jigged its way up his spine. How cold was he, gamota? Just pulling the trigger like that. Blam! Blam! And two lives are gone. No wonder he had all those horns on his head…
And snakes too, re. Don’t forget the fucking snakes. How could he forget those? And what was the malaka on about, ‘this is my town, not his?’
Looks like Marek’s got an uncanny habit of pissing people off, re...And the wrong people at that.
He shook these thoughts away, realising he had to get moving. He looked around him. The plan was set. All he had to do was get the old man’s body to his car. He turned and looked out of the window. The traffic hummed by.
How the fuck am I gonna get him to my car without anyone seeing, gamota? It was true. The North Circ was chock-a-block. Someone would see him for sure. How could he blag carrying a dead body in his hands, gamota? His mind worked. Then it hit him like a fully charged stun gun. He’d have to cover him with something. A bag, or a…
The Survival Game Page 11
