He slowly glanced down at the floor. Beneath his feet was a rug. A nice, big rug the coffee table was sitting on.
Or a rug. Perfect.
He got to work. He threw off his leather jacket before tipping the coffee table on its side. He pulled the rug closer to the old man’s death chair. He then went to grab the old man first by the legs, then by the arms, then the… He couldn’t do it. For some reason, he couldn’t help thinking that the second he touched his body, it would spring back to life like some kind of zombie.
Come on, re. Stop fucking around. You HAVE to do this. Have to!
He took in a deep breath to steady himself, then slowly reached for the old man’s legs with a stronger mind, forcing himself to snatch ’em up. When he finally grabbed them, they felt like two pieces of rolled pork joint. Dead and meaty. He turned his head to the side and yanked. The old man slunk down further into the chair, and John realised just how horribly heavy his body was. Like a big sack of rocks. He pulled harder. The old man’s trousers began to ride up his legs, exposing his bare skin. Now John could see his cancer. Black and veiny, running up and down his leg like cable.
At least he won’t have to worry about that any more…
John planted his feet into the ground and pulled harder as if he were engaged in a tug of war. The old man slipped off the chair and down onto the rug in a heap. John then stood upright for a breather. He went to wipe his forehead, but saw that his hands were smeared with blood. When he looked down, it had somehow got onto his tee as well. He knew he shouldn’t have worn a white one.
I look like a fucking butcher, gamota.
There was no way he could walk around outside like that. He’d be labelled a fucking serial killer and astinomia would be on his case like flies on skata. He took it off, mopping up any excess blood on his skin with it before slinging it down on the rug alongside the old man.
He dusted his hands. There was no time to dwell. He needed to get the old man wrapped up in that rug as soon as. He went back over to him, grabbed his legs again, and swung him round so that he was within the parameters of the rug. He let go of the old man’s legs and they dropped to the ground like lead. The big fat hole in his chest was leaking blood onto the rug like a burst pipe. Luckily for John, the rug was navy blue and the blood blended into it. If, on the other hand, it was beige, or magnolia, or cream…
Strawberries and cream…
From nowhere, he suddenly started thinking about the strato. This is exactly the crap he’d have found himself doing and seeing if he’d finished his training and was ever sent out to war. Dead bodies shot to pieces all around him. Limbs blown off. Casualties on his team, who’d be relying on him to get them back to base alive. And they’d trained him to deal with exactly this type of thing. Maybe it hadn’t been a waste of time after all. And maybe he’d have been a complete total wreck in this situation if he hadn’t. As it was, he was surprising himself just how much in his stride he was taking it.
Like a trained pro.
He bent down next to the old man’s body and grabbed the edge of the rug. He lifted it up and over, pushing the old man’s body away from him. At first, he wouldn’t budge, but once he got moving, he rolled smoothly round and round. John stood upright and sent him along, the rug wrapping snugly around him like the whole thing was a giant Swiss roll. He gave him a final push and the wrapped old man rolled away to the end of the rug, slowed, and then stopped dead. Job done.
He grabbed his jacket, put it on, and zipped it up over his bare chest. He could find no visible signs of blood on himself, so the only thing left was to get the body to his car before the blood started soaking through the rug. He glanced at the chair the old man had been sitting in. The huge bloodstain on the backrest was a giveaway that two people had been shot, so he flipped it over to make it look like the old man had been lifted from it after a struggle. Hopefully no one would turn it over before John made contact.
He checked outside again. The pavement was clear.
Time to go, re…
He went to pick up the old man when something started vibrating up his leg and a jingle sounded out. He stood upright in shock, and instantly reached for his pocket. It was Moleface’s phone, and it was ringing. He took it out and checked the name—Marek. His eyes widened. He thought about answering, but quickly realised that it would fuck up the plan. He needed Marek to come to the house, not to be warned away from it. He let it go to voicemail, and pocketed the phone again. His guess was that Marek was checking how daddy’s appointment went. But now that Moleface was history, he’d never know. The good thing was that the more Marek tried to get in contact without success, the more worried he’d become. Soon enough, he’d be round to check up on them both. Just like John wanted him to. But not while he was still there. He put his shades on and then jumped over to the rug. He slipped both hands underneath it before he pulled it upwards. It weighed a ton, but with all his effort, he managed to stand upright as best he could, the old man held in his arms like he was John’s bride and he was about to carry her over the threshold.
He steadied himself. Those weight-training sessions in philaki weren’t for nothing after all, re…
He puffed his cheeks continuously as he headed for the front door. Once there, he managed to pull the handle down with the tips of his fingers to get it open. He swung it away with his foot and checked outside. The traffic droned by, but suddenly he felt like a million pairs of eyes were on him like back in the alleyway behind Omar’s restaurant the other night. But this time instead of a travel bag stuffed with cash, he had a navy blue rug stuffed with a dead body, and another in the house behind him. Christ, he’d be locked up for life if he was caught. But luckily, he’d had a proper result with the rug being there, he didn’t know what he’d have done without it.
Snug as a bug in a rug. Snug as a bug in a rug. He shivered. He took in a deep breath, and stepped outside. Abruptly, like he’d just been given an almighty kick up the kolo, he ran as fast as he could to the end of the garden, his body moving slow and jerky like he was completely blottoed. The old man bounced up and down in his arms as if he’d sprung back to life.
John finally hit pavement. He stuck his head down and made a beeline straight for his car, all the time feeling those eyes burning on him—people in their cars turning their heads to check out the dodgy looking bloke holding the dead man wrapped in a rug. The cars were now like spectators and he was the attraction at the zoo. They were all looking at him, watching what he was doing…
Fuck ’em, re! his inner core screamed. This ain’t nothing, just like when you used to walk around with two keys of hash stuffed in your pants, you used to walk right past astinomia no problem. Just treat it the same as that. They don’t know shit and they won’t find out shit either.
Just get to the fucking car, and keep your fucking head down!
Good advice. So, he did just that. He steamed past Moleface’s Volvo and over to his car, not caring if anyone was watching. It was make or break right then. Make or break.
He dashed around to the boot and placed the rug carefully on the ground next to it. He opened up the boot, reached in and lowered the back seats to create enough space to for the old man. Adrenaline was flying recklessly around his body, making his hands shake. He wasn’t enjoying the feeling one iota. It was acidic. Raw. Nasty.
He jumped back, and straight away got the rug up again. With a loud grunt, he slung it unceremoniously into the boot. It landed inside with a dull thud, making the rear bumper grind. The end of the rug was sticking out the back, and he had to lean his body into it as he forced it inside. It slid along smoothly until it hit the front seats and stopped dead. But by then, it was fully inside. John quickly got the boot closed up.
An uncontrollable sigh of relief burst from his chest. At the same time, he had to put his hands on his knees to let out a long, tired breath. He was proper knackered, feeling physically sick.
I gotta stop smoking, gamota.
Get out of this skata
first, re, then think about crap like that…
It was true. Once he got his breath back, he darted round to the driver’s side of the car and got in. He slammed the door shut, and went to put the key in the ignition when a thought slapped him hard in the face.
The front door, re. You left it open!
He hit the steering wheel in frustration. This was torture beyond torture, gamota! He got back out the car and looked around again, feeling proper sus. Cars just continued to drone by, but regardless, it still felt like they were watching his every move. He ran to the front door, his Reeboks bouncing off the pavement. By then, he was more than sure someone must have seen this strange episode, and had begun asking questions. Neighbourhood Watch and all that skata. There was no way he wanted to hang around any longer to find out, so he slammed the front door shut, raced back to his car, and got in.
Finally, he was all set. Everything was cool. He quickly stuck a cigarro in between his lips and sparked it up, relief suddenly washing over him like cool crystal water. When the coast was clear, he jumped into the traffic and drove away. Well away from the North Circ, the old man with him in the back.
Snug as a bug in a rug.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Radek Maza pulled up behind Adrian Kolovski’s car and killed the Techno hammering out of the stereo. ‘They must be in the house,’ he said to Marek Kolovski, who was in the passenger seat next to him, staring anxiously from the car to the house.
Marek shook his head. ‘No, something’s wrong,’ he replied. ‘Adrian usually phones after Papa’s appointments. Every time. Now he’s not answering his phone…’
Radek shrugged. ‘Maybe he has it on silent.’
Marek gave him a confused stare. ‘Why would he?’ he responded. He looked around him, nervous, edgy. He didn’t like being out, exposed on the streets. He sighed. ‘We better go and check…’
Radek got out of the Land Rover, Marek following cautiously, keeping his head down. He didn’t want any gliniarze spotting him, asking him questions. He tried to see inside the house through the front windows, but couldn’t see anything beyond the net curtain. He followed Radek to the house, taking a look into Adrian’s car as he walked past it. There was nothing suspicious about it. Everything was normal.
Radek’s correct, they must be inside, he thought to himself reassuringly. But maybe they have bad news…a more cynical voice countered.
He took out his keys—one of which was to Papa’s house—opened up the front door, and they both stepped inside. ‘Papa? Adrian?’ Marek shouted.
No one answered. Where are they? Did they go somewhere? But why’s Adrian’s car outside? He didn’t like it. It was too unusual.
‘Come on,’ he said to Radek as he went straight into the front room to see exactly what was going on here. The instant he stepped inside, he was stopped dead in his tracks like he’d walked head on into a strong blizzard. He stared in confusion at the furniture thrown around the room. Then at the bloodstains. Then at his cousin’s dead eyes staring at him from the sofa.
Suddenly, he came back to life. ‘Adrian?’ he shouted before he jumped towards the sofa. He dropped to his knees and reached down for his cousin. He put his arms carefully around his shoulders and tried to lift him. But it was a lot more difficult than it should have been. His body was dead and heavy. Dead lead. He shook his head in disbelief, unable to absorb what he was seeing. He looked back at Radek, who was standing in the doorway, stunned, his jaw slack. Marek bit into his fist hard, just as a sudden wave of rage exploded from his chest outwards. The inner dragon bolted from its cave and breathed that eternal fire into him, staining the world around him red. Blood red.
‘Who did this!’ he began shouting at his cousin’s face, grabbing hold of his bloodstained shirt. ‘Who fucking did this to you? Tell me! Tell me! Who did this!’ He shook Adrian’s body violently as he spoke, making his head flop back and forth like he was a rag doll; it smacked softly against the sofa. Adrian’s glazed eyes just stared coldly back at him, not giving him an answer at all.
‘Tell Me!’ Marek shouted one last time before Radek stepped in and pulled him away, forcing Marek to drop his cousin’s body back down on the sofa. He shook Radek off and raised his arms to the ceiling. He let out an almighty roar, his body boiling hot, his mind overwhelmed by rage. The dragon whirled and clawed away inside him, exploding fire out of every limb. He’d never felt as angry as he did at that moment, so full of rage, so overcome by it, so consumed.
In the next instant, everything went black. He grabbed the coffee table and slung it at the bloodstained wall. There was a loud crack as it split in two under the impact. He raced over to the TV and sent a boot into it as hard as he could, obliterating the screen. He stepped back, grabbed a nearby lamp, and began smashing it into the floor, grunting loudly every time he pummelled it into the carpet. It disintegrated under the pressure. By the time there was nothing left but a small piece of plastic in his hand, he was completely out of breath, and as a result, the dragon was finally forced to retire back to its cave.
Now that Marek was seemingly calmer, Radek stepped towards him. Marek’s stomach then rumbled and he doubled over. He threw up uncontrollably all over the carpet, making Radek step back again. Marek dropped to his knees. He threw up again, and again, dry retching once his stomach was empty.
Radek finally stepped towards him again. ‘Are you okay?’ he asked, rubbing him on the back.
Marek remained where he was—on the carpet on all fours, trying his best to catch his breath—while he stared at Adrian lying on the sofa. It was all too much, too quickly. Too much. He focussed on deep breathing to try and control himself, and it began to help him. After a few moments, something resembling calm took over.
‘Are you okay?’ Radek repeated as he helped him to his feet.
Marek nodded and wiped his mouth. When he was steady, he looked around him, and began thinking hard. Who would do this? Who could do this? Who was his enemy? Then another thought hit him. One that should have hit him a long time before that moment.
He stared hotly at Radek. ‘Papa!’ He immediately marched back out to the corridor and went to the stairs. He put a hand on the banister and looked upwards. ‘Papa?’ he shouted. There was no answer. He didn’t hesitate any longer and went up to look for himself, Radek following. A morbid part of his mind suddenly believed he’d find Papa in bed, strangled to death, his dead eyes staring up at him just like Adrian’s. He prayed to God that was what he would not find. Anything but that. Please anything but that…
Once upstairs, he pointed to the bathroom as he headed for Adrian’s room.
Radek went. ‘Empty,’ he said over his shoulder, poking his head into the bathroom.
Marek scanned Adrian’s room. Empty.
They glanced at each other before slowly approaching Papa’s room together.
Marek took a long, deep breath. ‘Papa?’ he asked, knocking on the door before pushing it open. He put his head inside and stared eagerly, his eyes hot and wide-awake. The first thing he saw was an empty bed. A strange kind of relief washed over him. One where the worst possibility wasn’t a reality, but an equally bad one still existed. If Papa wasn’t here, then where was he? Where was he?
He looked back at Radek and shook his head.
‘Where is he?’ Radek asked.
Marek stared down at the floor and tried to think. ‘Who could have done this?’ he asked himself out loud.
‘Bartosz?’ Radek suggested.
The name made Marek’s head flinch upwards and he met Radek’s concerned stare. ‘I should call Valeria to make sure she’s okay,’ he said.
He pulled his phone from his pocket and went to make the call. But just as he did, it began ringing in his hand. He checked the caller. The screen read Adrian. Reading that name caused another wave of rage to wash over him. His cousin was dead downstairs, so whoever this was using his phone had to be the kurva who killed him.
He pressed the ‘call’ button. ‘Who is this?’
he answered angrily, his eyes bulging.
‘The man who’s got your dad,’ came the reply as cold as ice.
Marek didn’t recognise the voice, but placed the accent as English.
‘I take it you’ve seen your cousin,’ the voice continued. ‘Now, if you don’t want the same thing to happen to your dad, you do as I say. Okay?’
‘Who are you? Why you doing this?’
‘Because I don’t like cricket, Marek. You never gave me a chance to answer…’
An image immediately jumped into Marek’s mind like a bad dream. One that he could see very clearly. The Arab kurva. The one they robbed in the alleyway. ‘You?’ Marek blurted in confusion. ‘It can’t be…’ he said, shaking his head in disbelief.
‘Believe it, Marek. It’s me. So you better listen and understand something—that shit you took from me is mine, not yours. Now, we’ve both got something the other wants. So, the deal is self-explanatory. You bring me what you stole; I give you your father back. Simple.’
Marek stared at Papa’s empty bed while he contemplated what he just heard. He badly needed what he stole from the Arab. And there was no time to get more. Not enough time.
But, Papa…
‘My father is sick…’ Marek then said without even realising he was speaking.
‘I know. And he’ll be back at home today. You know what to do to make that happen… Listen to me. There’s an abandoned warehouse in north London where we’re gonna meet for the exchange. Keep your phone on ’cos I’m gonna direct you. Now, these are the rules—One. You come alone. Two. You bring what you stole. Three. You hand my stuff over first, and then I hand over your dad. Understand?’
Marek stared coldly at Papa’s empty bed. ‘Yes. I understand.’
‘Good. Go and get the stuff. I’ll call you back in half an hour.’
The line then went dead.
Marek clicked ‘end call,’ and calmly replaced the phone in his pocket. He glanced at Radek, who shrugged in return, before he headed back downstairs in a daze, like he was hypnotised. The conversation he just had stunned him. Someone was controlling him, telling him what to do, and he wasn’t used to it. He stepped into the front room. Adrian was still there. Dead. Marek rubbed his forehead. The rage began building inside him again, the dragon stirring.
The Survival Game Page 12
