The CD in the stereo ended and the room went silent, bar the bubbling of bongs and the click of bullets clipped into magazines. John scanned the room for Dread I. But he’d disappeared. He’d been doing that all night. Coming and going. Disappearing and reappearing. Sometimes on his phone, sometimes not.
What was the malaka doing? John really wanted to know. There were a lot of questions about Dread I he wanted answering. A lot of mysteries he wanted solving. A kid, no more than sixteen, was sitting next to him on the sofa. He’d rocked in about twenty minutes beforehand to get his tools and orders. Another young soldier. By then, John had finished five of his eight beers and they’d loosened his tongue. Now that Dread I was gone, he took the opportunity to find out more.
He turned to face the kid. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked him.
‘Shortbredd,’ the kid replied, his eyes staying cold, the horns on his head growing darker.
John leaned in closer to him and cocked his thumb over his shoulder. ‘What’s the score with Dread I?’ he asked. ‘What’s he all about?’
Shortbredd looked around nervously. A seemingly hard kid now anxious and edgy. John looked at him like ‘you ain’t scared are ya?’
After a second or two, he took the bait and began talking. He leaned forwards and answered in a low voice, a serious look planted on his mug. ‘You don’t fuck with Dread I, blood,’ he said.
John sighed. ‘Yeah yeah, I’ve heard all that crap. But, what’s his story? You must know something about him.’
Shortbredd licked his lips. ‘All I know is rumours, blood, ya get me?’
‘Go on…’ John urged.
Shortbredd took a quick look around to see if anyone was listening. When he was sure no one was, he spilt the beans. ‘Apparently he was a don running the garrison in Kingston,’ he began in a hushed voice. ‘Ganja, gold, guns, all that shit, ya get me? Anyway, the story goes like this—the don of a rival gang saw how fat his empire was and got jealous. He wanted a piece of that pie, innit. Dread I rejected any deals this don put to him. So, he decided to hit Dread I where it hurt.’ Shortbredd’s eyes rolled to the side, then his voice went even lower. ‘He couldn’t get to Dread I directly, yeah, but he could get to his woman and kid…’
‘Kid?’ John echoed, mildly surprised.
‘Yeah, apparently he had a small boy. Five, maybe six years old. Anyway, according to what I’ve heard, this rival don gunned ’em down. His woman. His seed.’ Shortbredd made the shape of a gun with his hand and pulsed his thumb twice. ‘Boom. Boom. Dead.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ John gasped and looked away. That malaka had a wife and kid?
‘Weren’t shit he could do, blood,’ continued Shortbredd. ‘So, Dread I gets his revenge, innit. He rounds up his boys. They go and hunt down the don and all his top boys, and hold ’em hostage. Rumour is they took ’em all down to the beach, skinned ’em alive, and then buried ’em in the sand.’
John winced. ‘Nice.’
‘I dunno if that’s true. It could be ’cos these boys don’t fuck around, trust.’
John thought about Dread I blasting his way through old man Kolovski and Moleface and he believed Shortbredd no problem. No problem at all. ‘Yeah, I believe you, man, don’t worry about that.’
‘Well, anyway,’ continued Shortbredd, ‘after that, the other gang retaliate.’
‘What did they do?’ John asked, his eyes wide, absorbed in the story.
‘They catch him in a drive by, innit,’ Shortbredd replied. ‘They put thirty-six bullets into him, blood. Thirty-six. But he didn’t die. Instead he was in a coma…’ Shortbredd had one of those sly looks round again just to make sure no one was listening, but that looked like wishful thinking seeing how there were bods everywhere. ‘Now, no one knows for sure what happened to him while he was in that coma. Some say he made a deal with God and got a second chance. Others say he sold his soul to the devil. No one knows the truth, but after a few days, he wakes up.’ Shortbredd clicked his fingers. ‘Just like that…’
John took another sip of his beer. This malaka was sounding more and more like some kind of demon. And he suddenly heard Ishmael’s voice pipe up in his head—You know they nicknamed him Satan when he was in Jamaica?
‘Jah abandon him.’
John’s head snapped round to where the sudden voice had emanated.
Sagat was now staring at him with his surviving eye, bullets and gun parts lying on the floorspace between his spread legs. ‘Jah leave his woman and kid to die in cold blood, mon. It twist him up. He tell Jah plain and simple he nah wanna repent for his sin and enter his kingdom. All he want is compensation for the pain he suffer. He want retribution. Then, he wake up.’
‘And why did he do that?’ John asked.
Sagat smiled thinly at him, a wicked gleam in his surviving eye. ‘Better to reign inna Babylon, than serve inna Zion.’
‘And he feels like can’t die,’ Shortbredd added, making John turn back to face him. There was a sincere, wide-eyed look on his face. ‘He should be dead, but he’s not. He fears nothing and no man, blood, believe…’
John nodded his head. That seemed to be the case all right, and that was exactly why he wanted him onside. ’Cos he was fearless, didn’t give a fuck, and ’cos he wanted to take down Marek.
‘And that’s why I’d sooner be on his side than against him, ya get me?’ Shortbredd added. ‘The money, the women, the respect that being part of his crew brings is sick, man. Sick. We got nothing. They want us to have nothing. Dread I gives us it, gives us self-respect. Power.’
‘Dread I a bad man,’ Sagat then said, making John face him once more. ‘He represent the yoot that have nuthin’, bredrin. He save ’em from downpression. He free dem mind, seen? The system reject the yoot, Dread I act like dem father, ya unnerstand? He do the job the system supposed to… All he want in return is his piece. This his town now. He want it back.’
John took another swig of what was now warm beer. From what he’d managed to work out while hanging around this lot, Dread I had turned London into a war zone and created his own army squadron out of oppressed young blacks. Crack was the fuel; money, cred, and power the prize. And then something else suddenly hit him. His moro was gonna be half black. He didn’t want malakes like these getting hold of him/her and sticking ideas of gangs, guns, and drugs in his/her head, signing up for an army that promised everything but delivered fuck all.
He had to make sure to just use these pricks, then dump ’em when it was time. Keep this bunch well away from his moro.
He polished off his latest can of beer just as Shortbredd began fidgeting on the sofa. When John looked up, he realised why. Dread I was standing just inside the doorway. He hadn’t even noticed him. His snake dreads were dancing and wiggling around his horned head, and his lifeless eyes stared down at them both. A shiver crawled up John’s spine. Around his people, Dread I had an aura, a power about him that they either fed off, or feared. Shortbredd—the malaka—clearly feared it.
Dread I cocked his head to the side. Then in the next instant, he whipped out a machete the size of his forearm, jumped over, and stuck it at the side of Shortbredd’s neck. John froze. He watched Shortbredd’s cheeks start trembling with terror like he’d just been strapped into the electric chair.
‘Ya tongue wag like a puppy tail. Maybe mi should cut it out,’ Dread I said to Shortbredd in an aggressive fashion, his face screwed up into a snarl.
Everyone stopped and turned their heads.
Shortbredd’s eyes were bulging; he was bricking it proper.
‘Easy now, bredrin,’ Sagat said in a calm voice. ‘The yoot, he nah mean no harm.’
‘Why he talk a mi woman and mi son then, bredda,’ Dread I shouted over his shoulder, his dead eyes not leaving Shortbredd. ‘If he mean no ’arm?’
‘He nah do it again. Trust,’ Sagat said, attempting to calm him.
A contemptuous smile spread across Dread I’s face. ‘Yeah? Well if he does mi gonna bleed him out like Halal m
eat. Ya unnerstand?’ he asked Shortbredd.
Shortbredd began nodding his head vehemently. ‘Y-y-yeah, boss,’ he stammered. ‘Seen.’
John could see the fear bubbling in his eyes; it even managed to transmit itself into him. He didn’t dare say a word, nor move a muscle. Dread I was definitely one malaka you didn’t want to get on the wrong side of. He actually felt sorry for Shortbredd, the little prick. Rather be on his side, eh?
Dread I then finally pulled his machete away, making Shortbredd collapse into the sofa in relief.
He then turned to John. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘We gotta talk.’ He then headed for the door.
About fucking time, gamota. There was a plan to hatch, a strategy to plot, and there wasn’t time to waste. Operation: Neocrema Takedown. And it was time. John stood up and followed him out to the corridor, taking his beer and cigarra with him, leaving Shortbredd behind to stew in his shit-filled pants.
Dread I disappeared behind a bedroom door; John headed for it. On his way, he walked by a dirty mirror hanging on the wall and glanced at his reflection. The second he did, his eyes almost popped out of his skull, his jaw dropping like an anchor.
His halo had disappeared completely, and now sitting neatly on his head were two jet-black horns.
*****
John followed Dread I into a small box room, a low, depressing feeling overwhelming him as if he’d just had his veins filled with lead. He knew what the horns meant. They meant he was now a bad ’un. A demon. A kakos. Just like the rest of ’em. He’d committed too many armaties in the last few days, gone too far, stepped over the line. He knew it in his heart.
But what other choice did I have? God gave me no other choice, it wasn’t my fault…
He looked around him in disappointment, his eyes locking onto a bleached skull hanging on the wall; it appeared to have been some kind of dog when it was with the living. There was a neat bullet hole in its temple, telling him the story of its demise, whatever the skata thing used to be when alive. A pair of bony, ivory coloured horns were protruding out the sides of it; John couldn’t tell if they were real or hallucinations.
A plastic Venetian blind covered the only window, blocking out dawn, making the room gloomy. In the middle of the room was a small glass table. On top of it were some freshly cut lines of coke, a tooter, a wad of fifty pound notes, and an Uzi, maybe the same one Green T used to kill his sister the previous night. John looked at it in disgust; it brought back bad memories from Golden Massage.
Dread I went over and sat on the old futon lying next to the table and alongside the far wall. As the room was so small, he looked huge, like he’d just scoffed a fat slice of ‘eat me’ cake.
He looked up at John and ran his hand over the lines of coke on the table like the dealer at a Roulette Wheel, asking him to take a spin. ‘Ya wanna lick, bredda?’ he asked.
John shook his head without hesitation. He took a swig of his beer to take his eyes off the cocaine, knowing all too well that staring at cut lines was like staring at a chocolate fountain, or a fat juicy steak, or banoffee pie. Something in the mind clicked, the mouth began salivating, and the cravings were set off. Before you knew it, you were lapping it up like a dog. And if you had a history, it was even worse. Near the end of his Charlie Chan days, the place was awash with coke like it was raining out the fucking smoke machines. It was the main driver in killing his pill trade. He got sucked into it for a while, so was well versed. The buzz, the moreishness. He tried his best to not even look at those lines.
‘I’m all right with this,’ he said, indicating the beer in his hand.
Dread I shrugged. ‘Tek a seat,’ he then said.
There were no seats, so John squatted on the floor on the other side of the table, opposite Dread I.
‘Ya done well last night, bredda,’ Dread I said, nodding his head at the same time.
‘Thanks,’ John replied, unsure if he wanted praise for taking someone’s life. He looked away, his eyes locking onto the skull on the wall. What the hell was that thing when it was alive, gamota? A fucking mountain dog or something?
‘You know… the gun Green T had was jammed, or the safety catch was left on or something?’ John informed Dread I, still staring at the skull. He then turned his head back to face Dread I, wanting to see his reaction.
Dread I stared back at him with an expression on his mug that made him look both interested and surprised at the same time. But deep down, John could tell it was put on.
‘Really?’ Dread I asked. ‘Dere’s a ting, bredda. Mi didn’t know that…’
John shrugged. He didn’t wanna accuse Dread I of stitching him up ’cos he might switch, then that would trigger off a race to the death for the Uzi on the table. ‘I had to step in,’ John informed him. ‘Take control.’
‘Yeah, mi heard that, bredda. Ya done well. Some a da yoot dem need a more experienced hand to guide ’em. That’s why I aksed you to go widdim.’
John nodded his head and smiled ruefully. Yeah, like I thought…
Dread I then began cackling, and his dread snakes began dancing to some riddim only they could hear. As he did, he began scratching his chest just above his belly as if something was troubling him; he started wincing. Even after he stopped cackling, he kept on scratching, harder like it was really bothering him. In the end, he lifted up his camouflage vest to get to the thing that was making him itch so badly. John stared at his exposed body open-mouthed. His skin was a sickly browny/grey colour; a thin layer of fat covered thick-set muscles; healed bullet holes riddled his chest and stomach making his body look like a complex constellation. Thirty-six times, blood, he heard Shortbredd say. Thirty-six.
It IS true, gamota…
Dread I began scratching at one of the bullet holes and John could see blood oozing out of it. When he looked closer, he could see the same thing happening on a couple more of the wounds.
He’s bleeding… He’s dying…John found himself staring at Dread I’s body with a bizarre fascination, not knowing exactly what he was seeing. He then shut his eyes tight and rubbed them. When he opened them again, Dread I was sat how he was before, his vest pulled back down.
Did I just see that? Or was it another fucking hallucination?
A lack of sleep was taking its toll. If he wasn’t careful, he might soon not know the difference between dreams and reality at all.
‘We talk business now, bredda,’ Dread I then said. ‘Where the factory and how we gonna kill off Marek’s crew?’
John gulped the last of his warm beer, crushed the can, and put it down on the floor next to him. ‘It’s in Tottenham,’ he replied, getting back with it. ‘An old clothes factory, converted into an ice cream factory, now Marek’s using it as an amber factory. They’re fronting as some kind of medical courier service. I suppose Old Bill won’t bother ’em much if they think they’re delivering vital medicines to sick people. I’m guessing they deliver the amber in the back of those vans in bulk to the dealers, people like Dobra, who then distribute it at street level. It’s a pretty slick operation.’
Dread I stared at John with his grey, dead fish eyes, but taking in everything he was hearing. ‘Ya done ya homework,’ he said, nodding his head in appreciation.
‘You gotta,’ John replied.
‘So, about this factory…’
‘You got a pen?’ John asked.
Dread I looked around him before getting to his feet and rummaging through a cabinet drawer in the corner of the room. With Dread I’s back turned to him, John—against his better judgement—took the opportunity to glance down at those white lines again. The booze was already working his brain and now those white lines were going through his mind. Calling him in like a chocolate river. Dive in and taste us, they said to him.
Tek a lick…
He snapped back into life once Dread I stuck a biro in his face. John took it and looked around for something to write on. There was nothing at hand, so he took a fifty pound note from the fat wad on the table and laid i
t out flat.
From memory, he began drawing a map of the factory over the Queen’s mug. ‘The front entrance is a big, wide garage door that leads into the parking bay where the delivery vans are kept,’ he said pointing to the diagram he’d just sketched. ‘Next to the garage door is a normal door that leads to a foyer and offices beyond that. That’s boarded up at the moment so is out of use. Round the back is a fire exit—’
‘Good,’ Dread I interjected. ‘We break it down.’
John shook his head. ‘It’s solid steel and shut tight. There’s no way you’re gonna break it down. We have to get in from the front, but there’s no way we can break the front garage door down either. Besides, there’s at least two bodyguards on the front door at any time, plus probably more inside. A lot more.’
‘How many?’
‘Anything up to fifty I reckon. So, what we need to do is get both doors open. Then we can get our numbers inside and attack ’em from the front and the back. They won’t expect an ambush like that. The back door fire exit we can open once we’re inside, and the front garage door is operated by a switch just inside the factory floor. We can open both no problem once we’re inside, but—’
‘How we gonna get inside?’
‘Exactly.’ John chewed the end of the biro while he contemplated. Then he realised what they had to do and it became so obvious, he couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of it before.
He began nodding his head. ‘We need one of those vans. One of those M.C.S vans they use to deliver the amber. If we can get one of those, we’re in.’
Dread I turned his mouth downwards and began nodding his head in appreciation of what he just heard. ‘Seen. I’ll get mi men onto it…’
The Survival Game Page 21
