Right then, he was alone with the guilt and no maskers were at hand, even Papa Phillipo wasn’t around to help soothe his pain.
It IS all your fault, the guilt demon abruptly asserted in a deep, croaky voice. Yousif, Yiayia, Alisha, it’s all your fault, because of you, you piece of shit!
‘I may be a piece of shit, but I didn’t mean to harm anyone. No one,’ he muttered to himself before letting out a heavy sigh. ‘This skata was put on me, I didn’t ask for it.’ He glanced up at the painted picture of the Panayia and her eyes burnt into him. ‘Se para kalo,’ he said, pleading, ‘help me. For once. Please. Please. Please…’
His mobile phone then started ringing, shattering the sanctified silence of the church, echoing over and over like he was in a deep underground cave. The sound made him flinch and he sat up, going for his jacket pocket as if a ticking bomb had been placed there. He pulled his phone out and checked the number on the screen. It was an unknown caller. A twinge of excitement shot through him. Please. Please. Please.
He pushed the call button. ‘Hello?’ he answered, anxious.
‘It’s me,’ Ishmael said to him. RnB was playing in the background.
John’s eyes widened and his breathing stopped. ‘Yeah?’ he replied in an eager voice.
‘I got that thing you wanted.’
John’s heart skipped a beat and leapt up into his throat. He could taste it. It was like a doughy ball of softened lead. ‘The bloke you’re looking for is a Yardie don. He’s notorious, basically runs the crack trade in London. His name’s Dread I.’
John’s mind raced back to that moment when he shot the old man. Dread I. His name’s Dread I.
‘Listen,’ Ishmael continued. ‘I’ve heard some messed up stories about this guy. You wanna steer clear if you know what’s best for you. I’m not telling you this ’cos I care about you, in fact I couldn’t give a damn about you… but I’m telling you this for Alisha, ’cos she’ll be hurt if anything happens to you and I don’t wanna see that.’
John tried to swallow, but his mouth was too dry. ‘Your concern is touching, Ishmael, it really is. But if it’s okay with you, I’ll take my chances. Know where I can find him?’
‘Well, I passed on your message and apparently he’s pretty keen on meeting you. He’s put the word out on the street that he’s looking for you.’
Meet me? John could taste his heart in his mouth again. Hot doughy lead. ‘Yeah, I know something that I think he’s pretty desperate to know too.’
‘Well, I hope you got life insurance ’cos if you don’t give him what he wants…’
‘What do you mean?’
There was a pause. Then: ‘Dark shit,’ Ishmael said without any hint of emotion. ‘I dunno what this bloke’s into, but it must be some proper voodoo type stuff. You know they nicknamed him Satan when he was in Jamaica?’
John laughed. ‘You don’t believe all that shit, do you?’
‘I don’t know. But, what I’ve heard… I don’t mess with the unknown, John…’
John looked up to see the Panayia’s halo glow brighter than before. It shone and spun round like a Catherine Wheel. Shone and spun.
‘Trust me, you don’t want to get involved,’ Ishmael continued. ‘You might never get out of it and I don’t want Alisha involved.’
John tutted. ‘She won’t be, Ishmael. I’m not that much of a bastard for fuck’s sake, I wouldn’t get her involved with someone like that!’
‘The very fact that you’re down with this guy worries the shit out of me when it comes to her.’
John sighed. ‘I’m glad you’re looking out for my wife, Ishmael. I’ll sleep better at night knowing that. Now I’d probably get my appetite back as well if you just tell me where to find him.’
‘YOU don’t find him. HE finds you. He’s arranged everything. He wants to meet you in Stoke Newington. Tonight.’
Another twinge of excitement jolted John. But it was mixed with confusion. ‘Tonight?’
‘Yeah. There’s an underground car park next to the Tesco’s on the High Street. He wants to meet you in there on the lowest level. 10 o’clock.’
John smiled to himself. This was going even better than he expected. He was just beginning to think he wouldn’t even manage to track down Dread I, never mind get a meeting with him. But to do both so quickly… He suddenly wished that Ishmael was right next to him so he could give him a big fat kiss. Then he quickly got his shit together once he realised just how much of a stupid thought that was; they hated each other’s guts, gamota. But the truth was, Ishmael had done him a massive favour and without him even realising, could’ve saved both John’s nuts and who knows what else…
‘I appreciate this,’ John said to the telephone in a flat tone. He wanted to thank him, but didn’t want to be licking his kolo at the same time, gamota.
‘Yeah, well, I’m doing it for my cousin, not for you.’
Suddenly, any good feelings towards Ishmael crashed and burned like a failed rocket launch and he hated the malaka again. Hated him proper. ‘I’ll see you on the other side then, Ishmael. Don’t be late.’
‘It’ll be a dark day when I see you again. Thanks for all the shit you’ve brought my family.’
John tutted. ‘I make your cousin happy ’cos I love her.’
‘Pfft. After all the shit you’ve done to her? If that’s your interpretation of love, I’d never wanna see your vision of hate.’
John let out an angry huff. ‘I’d love to continue this with you, Ishmael, but I’m in a church right now.’
‘Hmm. Repenting your sins?’
‘Something like that. And I don’t think raised voices on mobile phones are welcome here, you get me?’
‘I respect the sanctity of a church, John. I respect all faiths. So, I’ll end this call now—’
‘Good. Bye then.’ John clicked ‘end call’ before Ishmael had a chance to respond. He then angrily stuffed the phone back in his pocket.
Malaka.
Always trying to wind him up, put him down…
He looked around him, agitated, then up at the Panayia. He flinched back. Her eyes had changed. They were no longer sorrowful painted eyes, but had transformed into the soulless eyes of a long dead fish, devoid of any signs of life. Her halo had vanished and had been replaced with black writhing snakes, twisting and turning. John found himself staring at them with a feeling inside him that at first he couldn’t identify (dark shit, proper voodoo type stuff, used to call him Satan back in Jamaica), but when it sunk in fully and began to make his hands and feet tremble, he knew exactly what it was.
It was fear.
Cold, unadulterated fear.
*****
He made it to Stoke Newington a few minutes before ten, not running into much traffic on the way. He phoned Alisha a little while after his phone conversation with Ishmael to tell her the bloke who does the night shift at Aziz’s shop was having domestic problems, so he’d have to cover for him all night, and that he’d see her in the morning. He told her the good thing was it would mean overtime money and another step closer to a new home. The second he ended the call, guilt prangs set in and his conscience began to work him over. The fat demon toad that resided in there let him know that he was a nothing more than a malaka of the highest order. A prick. A no good scumbag for lying to her again. John told it to fuck off and die, but it had no intention of doing that. Instead, it rode shotgun with him as he crawled through the streets of Stoke Newington.
He soaked in his surroundings—old, run down at the best of times; a traditional part of London made of the same bricks it was built with. But at night, the low life filtered out of the bricks and worked the streets, crossing over into Hackney and Dalston to make moves, conjure cold hard cash out of thin air. The perfect place to meet a bloke like Dread I, who’d no doubt blend in effortlessly, meaning no one would bother them in their negotiations. John made sure to pack his gun. He didn’t fancy having to use it, but after what Ishmael said about Dread I and more to
the point, what he’d seen of him with his own eyes, it wouldn’t come as a surprise if the headcase either had something nasty planned for him for whatever reason he fancied, or he just plain switched on him for the fuck of it and decided to give him a blast of his shotgun.
Remember that, gamota?
Yeah, he could see it in his mind’s eye, clear as day. The shotgun exploding and old man Kolovski’s chest caving in. He shivered. Yeah, he’d have to watch his step all right, keep his eyes wide open and not say anything to upset anyone. ’Cos even though John was alone, he was sure as hell Dread I wouldn’t be.
He rolled past a few kids in hoodies bunched around a park bench, doing what kids do these days (which was basically nothing much), keeping his eyes peeled for the underground car park. He spotted it up ahead. A butterfly flittered through his stomach as he turned into it. Once inside, he killed his headlights and slowed to a crawl. He looked around. Even though there a few lowlights remained on, the place was dark and empty, bar the odd solitary car sitting there in the gloom like ditched lovers. He followed the painted arrows on the tarmac that led down to the lower level. He rolled around the U bend, moving downwards with the sloping road.
Remember re, keep your eyes open, he kept telling himself. He had no idea what was waiting for him once he rounded the corner. It could be anything. Anything. He kept his eyes peeled as he finally entered the underground level of the car park. It was even gloomier down here and completely deserted. Like a ghost town.
Except for the army jeep sitting there in the far corner like an alligator loitering in a swamp, awaiting prey.
A whole swarm of butterflies suddenly flew freely around his stomach.
The jeep was parked facing the wall, and as all the windows including the rear were blacked out, he couldn’t see who was inside. He pulled the handbrake up and took a few seconds to gather himself. There was no one else around, which suddenly became unnerving. He was all alone with that fucking army jeep, which somehow had an aura of dread about it. And now he could hear the faint rumblings of basslines emanating from inside it, making it tremble under the stress.
His attention turned to the glovebox. He opened it. His Glock sat there like a panther watching its prey in the undergrowth. He quickly reached in, took it out and stuffed it in his belt. Suddenly, he felt a whole lot better about things. He released the handbrake, got moving again and parked up in the opposite corner of the car park from where the jeep sat. He killed the engine and now the basslines from the jeep became louder. He closed his eyes and took in a deep breath to steady himself. He didn’t wanna fuck this up, didn’t wanna miss this opportunity. It was his last chance, his final throw of the dice. He stared at his reflection in the rear view. His eyes were bloodshot and his eyelids were ringed black. Stress and a lack of sleep were taking their toll. His halo had also dimmed. In fact it was nothing more than a shadow painted over his head, crackling with black static.
‘Get this malaka on side and let him do all the dirty work for you,’ he told the horror mask that was staring back at him in the rear view. And that was the plan. Nothing more, nothing less. He clenched his fist and smacked it into his open palm, geeing himself up. He sparked up a cigarro and took a long drag. Now, he felt much better. Stronger. Finally, he opened the door and stepped out of the car. He pulled the hood on his hoodie over his head and stuffed his hands in the pockets. He kept his stare aimed at the ground as he marched up to the jeep with a purposeful stride, while taking intermittent puffs on his cigarro. He could feel eyes burning on him from behind the tinted windows, but was unable to see them. When he was a few feet away from the jeep, the rumbling basslines inside died down and the passenger window suddenly slid downwards, stopping him dead in his tracks. A harsh light shone out from beyond the window into his eyes, causing him to squint badly. He turned his head to the side.
‘Who go dere?’ A voice said from behind the intense beam.
John suddenly felt as if he had just been pulled by astinomia and they were shining their torches into his eyes to temporarily blind him. An Old Bill trick that they were very fond of. Malakes.
‘I’m looking for Dread I,’ John shouted to the air next to him.
The light then flicked off, dumping the area into obscurity again, and John could now comfortably face the jeep once more. The interior light came on and he could now make out someone sitting there in the passenger seat. When he managed to blink away the purple and green splotches the torchlight had imprinted on his vision, a face was revealed. Suddenly, he found himself staring at those eyes again. Those dead, lifeless eyes. Dead fish eyes. They hung in their sockets like old sagging titties. He wanted to look away, to not have to see those things. But he didn’t want to look like a pussy either. Couldn’t afford to, not with this bloke. He forced himself to stare, to withstand the pressure of wanting to look away.
‘Dey all look for Dread I, bredda. Dey all wanna piece a Dread I. But, dey only find him if he be looking for dem first.’ A big grin then spread across Dread I’s mug, and his snake dreads began to dance wildly as if excited by John’s presence. But even though he was smiling, Dread I’s eyes still sagged and remained gleamless. ‘Come ’ere.’
John moved closer to the jeep, not wanting to get too close, but just close enough. He knew he reached that point when he got a massive whiff of burning skunk, which stirred up memories of his drug days. He stopped dead and waited, not letting his stare leave Dread I.
Dread I then looked him up and down, sizing him up. ‘Ya wanna roll with us, bredda?’ he asked once he finished and locked eyes with John again.
‘I think we can help each other,’ John replied in a confident tone, taking a puff on his cigarro.
‘That so?’ Dread I retorted, nodding his head.
‘Yeah. The Kolovski twins. You want ’em. I want ’em too.’
‘Ya know where dey are?’
‘Better than that. I know where their factory is.’
Dread I’s mouth turned downwards. ‘That right, bredda?’
John nodded his head with assurance. ‘That’s right,’ he said.
Dread I laughed out loud to himself, and John was once again listening to that rusty blade laugh, the one that made the skin on the back of his neck crawl. When Dread I stopped laughing, his grin disappeared like aircraft in the Bermuda Triangle.
He stared sternly at John with his scarred, chiselled face. ‘Why you wanna bring ’em down?’ he asked.
John took a final drag on his cigarro and threw the butt to the side. ‘Marek nicked something from me,’ he informed Dread I. ‘I want it back. But he’s got a crew. A big crew.’
Dread I’s mouth turned downwards again. ‘A big crew huh? Bigger than mine, bredda? Mi got hundreds a soldiers lining the streets ready fi war, seen?’
John remained poker faced. ‘Like I said—we can help each other.’
Dread I just nodded his head and stared.
‘So, what’s your beef with them?’ John then asked, not sure if he should be asking, but wanting to know exactly where they both stood.
‘Business, bredda. Business. Dem kill off mi trade. Mi want it back! Nothing gonna take away mi empire, YA UNNERSTAND!’ Dread I was rapidly getting more and more tetchy, leaning further out of the window, and John got ready to reach for his gun if he had to. He could feel his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down his throat, his body anticipating something was about to go down. After a second, Dread I seemed to calm down and he fell back in his seat.
He stared ahead, out of the windscreen for a small while. ‘Ya wanna roll with us, bredda,’ he then said to his windscreen in a calmer voice. ‘Ya haffa tek a test. Pass initiation into mi crew.’ He turned to face John. ‘Get inna da back.’
The rear door of the jeep then swung open, releasing a hot gush of skunk and some aggressive Ragga playing on low. John peeked inside to see two horned blokes in the back, one with braided hair, the other clean-shaven. Baldy was toking on a fat spliff while Braids had what looked like a submachin
e gun sitting on his lap. But that wasn’t the crazy thing about him. The crazy thing was that he appeared to be no more than ten years old. They both stared at John with tough inner city scowls, and even though they were blatantly young, their eyes held precisely zero percent fear.
John cautiously approached the car. He had his tool, but this lot were packing proper hardware. His pistol was no match for a submachine gun, gamota. The seat next to Braids was beckoning and he went towards it, not wanting to, but knowing he had to. He reluctantly entered the jeep, taking the seat next to the Braids. John looked into his youthful eyes, sensing the hatred burning inside them. It was like looking at twin volcanoes, hot and merciless. They were a complete contrast to his boss’s dead eyes. These burned with life, just the dark, hateful side of it.
The driver then turned his head and faced John, sizing him up. His head was covered in small dreads that sprouted spider-plant-like from his scalp. Two horns neatly poked out from somewhere inside them. A deep scar ran from his forehead down his cheek, the sight of it broken by the shades we wore to presumably cover a damaged eye.
If they were in the Wild West and not North London, this lot would be sleazy looking Mexicans in sombreros, sporting handlebar moustaches, rotten teeth and thick stubble, who spat thick brown phlegm on the ground and who walked around lawlessly from bar to whorehouse with bullet belts strapped across each shoulder like they were a fashion accessory. John didn’t feel any kind of comfort being amongst them at all, but this wasn’t about making friends, this was serious business. This was about getting to Marek so he could carry on catching fish for his wife and moro to eat.
He made sure to leave the door open just in case he suddenly had to do a runner, nor did he sit back and get comfy, instead sitting on the edge of his seat so he could make a sharp exit if he had to. Baldy offered him a puff on his spliff and he declined. He wanted a clear head right then, didn’t want anything to slow him down. After all, that could be their plan, slow him down, so he’d be easier to take care of.
And why exactly would they do that, re? Get a grip…
The Survival Game Page 18
