‘Aziz?’ The shopkeeper thought about it for a second. ‘Aziz? No. No, Aziz.’
Alisha began nodding her head in total understanding. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Sorry to trouble you.’
‘No problem,’ the shopkeeper said before taking a seat on his stool again.
‘Come on, Ish. Let’s go.’ Alisha turned and left the shop.
Ishmael followed.
When they were outside, she turned to face him. ‘Well that wasn’t very surprising was it?’ she said in a dry tone.
‘How many lies is this guy gonna try and feed you?’
‘How many am I gonna swallow before I catch on?’
‘Where do you think he is?’
‘He could be anywhere, Ish. Doing anything.’ She shook her head and placed a hand on her forehead. A headache was developing. What shall I do? she asked herself. Wait at the caravan for him to come back? She wanted to have it out with him NOW. She couldn’t sit there twiddling her thumbs till he decided to return. And what if he came back out of his head like last time? She wanted to confront him now that Ishmael was with her just in case he got all aggressive again. She had to tell him how she felt today.
Her mobile phone was hanging on a cord around her neck. She grabbed it and dialled his number.
Voicemail.
She growled.
‘No luck?’ Ishmael asked.
‘No.’
‘What are we gonna do?’
Alisha shook her head and stared at the shop sign. Hornsey Food & Wine, what a fucking joke! ‘I’m leaving him, Ish,’ she replied in a firm voice. ‘My mind’s made up now. One hundred percent.’
Ishmael tapped the roof of his car with his open palm. ‘Good! Get in the car and we’ll go get your stuff. You can stay at mine.’
Alisha chuckled dryly. ‘You’ll get to see the mansion I’m living in…’ she stated, her voiced brimming with irony.
‘That bad is it?’ Ishmael asked.
‘Just wait till you see it…’
‘Okay,’ Ishmael said in a slightly unsure voice. ‘But, I don’t think I wanna…’ He got in the car and Alisha just stared at the shop, shaking her head. Inside she was fuming, livid. It was all lies, lies, lies, all bullshit, and she just didn’t want it in her life any more. This lie was one too many, and the behaviour earlier and the drugs, the final straw. It was over, and in her heart, she knew it. And that was final.
She glanced down at her hand. At her wedding ring. She hadn’t taken it off since she first put it on during their wedding ceremony. Not even once.
But now she pulled it off and held it between her thumb and index finger. She lifted it up to the sky. The diamond glittered beautifully against the grey cloudy atmosphere.
She sighed. ‘And that’s final,’ she said to it. She placed it in her pocket and then got into Ishmael’s car, slamming the door shut behind her.
‘All ready?’ Ishmael asked.
‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘Thanks, Ish.’
‘It’s the least I can do, Leesha.’ He smiled warmly at her, and she smiled in return, even though inside, she felt as low as she’d ever felt in her life.
Ishmael started up his car and joined the traffic. Alisha stared blankly out of the window, stroking her belly and wondering what shitty things her now ex-husband was getting up to right then.
*****
Ten of ’em squeezed into the back of the M.C.S van, five lined up against each side. John sat at the head of his line, his gun jammed into the back of the kidnapped driver’s head. He let him know in no uncertain terms that if he tried anything, he’d be pulling the trigger. The driver complied, scared shitless. They headed for Neocrema, Sagat’s unit close behind.
John looked his men over one by one. They were all excited, eager, armed to the teeth, their faces masked in bandanas, shades, and baseball caps. They looked like twenty-first century highwaymen. Dick muthafucking Turpin ghetto style. And they were his men, his regiment and suddenly he was back in the strato, and he’d just been appointed to sergeant. And as they moved along Tottenham High Road, John realised that this is exactly what it would’ve been like rolling into battle. As he looked over his men he knew not everyone was gonna make it out alive, but that was what war was all about. Casualties, loss of life. It was the whole fucking point.
His eyes fell upon some silver cases on the van floor, the kind of thing crazy doctors in Sci-Fi films carried their plutonium in. Shortbredd opened one up, pulled out what was inside and stared at it. In his hand was a small glass vial containing a yellowish liquid.
So, John thought. That’s amber. He held out his free hand and Shortbredd handed it to him. He inspected it with a keen eye. He’d seen so many different types of drug—plant, powder, pill, tab, liquid, but never one kept in a vial like that. What were you supposed to do with it? Shoot it, drink it, burn it? Who fucking knew and who cared, gamota? By the end of the day, there would be no more amber, he promised Marek. He tore off the foil cap, tipped it up, and allowed the contents to spill all over the van floor.
Easy come, easy go.
He dropped the empty vial and stared out of the windscreen with eagerness. They were now in Tottenham Hale—Neocrema territory.
John told the driver what to do. ‘Approach Neocrema slowly, naturally, just like normal,’ he said in a cool, professional tone. ‘Do anything out of the ordinary, and I shoot. Get it?’
‘Yes,’ the driver replied without any hint of emotion in his voice. He slowed right down to around 10 mph.
John turned briefly to his men. ‘Get ready for action you lot, ’cos if something goes wrong, we’ll have to fight our way in.’
They turned onto the road where Neocrema was. John ducked down out of sight, his gun still lodged firmly into the back of the driver’s head. A second later and the driver choked the gearstick. He was obviously scared. Nervous. If he got caught with a van full of the enemy, they’d probably kill him first.
‘Careful!’ John said sharp and stern in his ear.
The driver readjusted himself in his seat and took in a deep breath. He got going again, crawling up to Neocrema like a slug on a hot day. John took a quick peek up and out of the windscreen; he could now see the same two bods from a few days before standing by the entrance of Neocrema. They were laughing and joking together. The driver pulled up next to them and they vanished from John’s view. The driver then robotically held up his right palm, greeting them. John waited, anxiety gnawing away at his nerve endings.
And suddenly something crazy started buzzing frantically in his mind. Was that the usual signal he gave? What if they had some kind of code where the palm signal meant danger, then what?
Didn’t think of that did you? That they’d have a code for SOS!
He tightened his grip on his gun, and held his breath, his eyes darting left and right. He could feel globules of sweat forming on his forehead, a deep, twisted apprehension having taken control. Things could be about to switch any second now if his paranoia was proven correct and the driver had just stitched ’em up. He should’ve told him not to move his hands, not to do a fucking thing except drive.
But, what if him NOT showing them his palm would mean he was acting abnormally? Catch twenty-fucking-two.
John growled under his breath.
The driver put the van into gear and John’s heart froze. In the next second, they were moving again. John peeked over the seat to see the garage door start swinging open.
They were heading inside Neocrema…
His chest released and he puffed his cheeks. He wiped his grimy forehead just as a sudden rush of excitement shot through him. The plan was going as planned, and he loves it when a plan comes together!
Don’t get too excited yet, re…
It was true. The operation wasn’t even halfway carried out yet, gamota, still plenty of time for things to go tits up.
The van finally pulled into the sanctuary of the parking bay, leaving the two bods on the front door behind. John looked over his shoulder and out of the r
ear window to see the road outside disappearing as the garage door closed slowly behind them. Once it shut fully, they were dumped in gloom, nicely hidden. The driver pulled up next to the other M.C.S vans already parked inside. He killed the engine.
Part A of the operation was complete, now onto part B.
John pointed at one of his boys.
‘You stay here with the driver,’ he ordered. ‘Make sure he doesn’t try anything. If he does, kill him.’
The driver slumped down over his steering wheel, mumbling something in Polish, no doubt proper pissed at how his morning had turned out.
John ignored the poor bastard and instead turned to the rest of his unit. ‘Okay. We go in blazing. Someone will have to cover me till I get that front garage door open again. Your main job is to try and push ’em back to the other side of the factory as best you can. And remember—if Marek or Valeria are in there, DO NOT KILL THEM.’
They all nodded their heads in understanding and tooled up.
‘Okay. Let’s go.’
They jumped out of the back of the van like the A-Team, gearing themselves up for action. John took in his surroundings. The parking bay was a dusty whitewashed box. Another garage door ahead of them was equipped with an automated lifting mechanism, triggered by a sensor once it detected someone approaching it. Beyond it was the factory floor. And that’s where they were heading next.
They got into an orderly line, all nine of them standing side-by-side. Young Guns, ready for action. Ready for war. John stared at the door ahead and steadied himself, getting in the zone. Just get to the switch, re. Leave the rest to the boys…
He puffed his cheeks, held up three fingers, and then counted them down. Three, two, one—
The door to the factory floor clicked loudly, making John freeze. It then started opening. Someone was coming out from inside, which had triggered the sensor to flip the door up. John was rooted. He watched on with bug eyes. He wasn’t expecting this. He had to improvise.
Shall I stick or twist? If they attacked, the surprise element would be lost, but if they waited, they could find themselves quickly under attack themselves. Even in the fucking casino, the choice wasn’t as tough as this. Stick or twist, re? Stick or twist?
Shortbredd stepped forwards, forcing John to react. He slung his hands out to the sides to tell them all to chill. Stick. The decision was to stick, gamota! The garage door finally lifted all the way upwards and from beyond it stepped a horned man in a bomber jacket. He was carrying silver amber cases in each hand, a big smile planted on his mug like he’d just heard the joke of the week. But once he glanced up to see John and his boys standing there in a line like the Wild Bunch—tooled up and masked up—that smile quickly disappeared and was replaced by a scared shitless face as if he’d just seen his own yiayia’s ghost.
But he didn’t freeze. Instead, his head snapped round to the side, and he began shouting out loud to his boys inside.
Not good.
John reacted. He stepped purposefully towards him and swung his fist round. He caught the bomber jacket bod a good ’un on the side of the head, sending him reeling, shutting his mouth right up in an instant. The bod grunted and dropped the cases to the floor. Two of John’s boys quickly ran over and began pummelling him into the ground before he could get up and start shouting again. But it was too little, too late ’cos he’d alerted the other bods inside. The garage door was still open and John avidly scanned the factory floor for the enemy. The first thing he clocked was a row of haloed women, all kitted out with a mask, goggles, apron, and rubber gloves. They were each performing a specific task either collecting those little vials of amber from a machine, cleaning them up, or sending them along. They were all lined up behind a conveyor belt that ran from two huge tanks in a U shape across the factory floor and round to some more bomber jacket bods who were collecting the vials and packing ’em up into those silver cases. They obviously couldn’t hear the noise going on in the parking bay ’cos of the loud machinery, but the bomber jacket bods near the front door heard and saw everything. They were already on their way, maybe ten of ’em. The element of surprise was lost; change of plan. Now it was a straight up gunfight.
John turned to his boys. ‘Attack!’ he shouted, like he was Colonel fucking Custer.
There was an abrupt burst of gunfire, and at first John couldn’t tell whether it came from his side or theirs. He instinctively ducked, shitting a brick. He watched on as the nearest bomber jacket bod dropped to the ground. He smiled to himself, now realising the gunfire was indeed coming from his boys. That first round of gunfire managed to stop the other bods dead in their tracks, and suddenly they were reaching for their own weapons. More guns popped like firecrackers. There was a loud, guttural groan to John’s right. He spun round to see one of his boys slam back onto the concrete floor, blood streaming out of his mouth.
Man down, man down, gamota!
Shortbredd stared in anger from the dead kid on the floor to the bomber jacket bods. He instantly retaliated. He let out a roar and fired off his Uzi, spraying the whole area with bullets, forcing the bods back the way they came.
John watched ’em run in absolute delight. Well done, re Shorty…
Shortbredd had cleared the way for them to attack.
‘Get inside!’ John shouted as he raced ahead, leading his boys into the factory floor.
They backed him up, rushing the show, shooting the place up like it was the fucking Alamo. Loud screams cut through the air, obliterating the whirring of machinery. The women working the conveyor belts dived to the floor, covering their heads with their hands. The original bods had jumped backwards over the conveyor belt and were racing for cover behind the tanks, exactly as John wanted. Any bods at the rear of the factory floor—who now saw what was going down and had started covering their boys with their own gunfire—were frantically calling ’em back.
John and his boys dived for cover in front of the nearest conveyor belt. John swiftly hit the deck, facedown in dust and dirt on the cold concrete floor. Above his head, all he could hear was a mix and blend of machines whirring, women screaming, people shouting, and the pop of guns. It was mayhem, chaos, carnage, but the important thing was that they were all inside the factory floor and had forced the bods back.
There was a brief respite in the shooting, so John took the opportunity to get to his knees and peek over the conveyor belt. His boys were bravely taking pot shots at the bods from over the conveyor belt, John getting an eerie, sick sensation that they were actually having fun, like they thought the whole thing was just a fucking Xbox game or something…
The problem now was that the bods had regrouped at the rear of the factory after the initial onslaught, and his unit were easily outnumbered two, maybe three to one. And it was showing, fast. He watched on as one of his boys caught a bullet right in the mug and was thrown backwards. Another foolishly stood to his feet and let the bullets fly, one gun in each hand, thinking he was Tony fucking Montana. The fool got picked off easily, his chest taking more bullets than John could count.
John ducked back down and shook his head, his mind working like crazy. They were outnumbered and taking casualties by the second. Even though the bods were where he wanted ’em, it wouldn’t be long before these kids were outwitted and overpowered.
He had to get the front door open and let Sagat’s unit inside. And he had to do it pronto.
He took another peek over the conveyor belt. Women were sprawled on the floor like dead fish on a trawler, either paralysed with fear or dead from crossfire. In the distance, the bods were shooting from the shadows and from behind the two massive tanks where Neocrema used to mix the ice cream and Marek now mixed the amber. Every now and then, a bod would appear, spray some bullets in their direction and then disappear. Then another. Then another. It meant to get to the switch for the front garage door, he’d be out in the open and could easily catch a stray one.
He called over Shortbredd who scurried over to his side, bent down low.
‘I’m gonna get the garage door open,’ John told him.
Shortbredd nodded his head. He knew what to do. He took in a deep breath before he jumped up and relentlessly fired off his Uzi towards the back of the factory floor, forcing the bods to stay in their shadows. The bullets pinged off the two tanks, and that intimidating sound was what made sure the bods didn’t show their mugs. As long as they could hear that, they wouldn’t be trying to fire back.
John didn’t hesitate. He jumped to his feet, bent down low, and raced over towards the left hand side of the factory floor. If his memory served him correct, the switch to the front garage door was on the wall just outside the offices, which were to his left. He only hoped they hadn’t rearranged things…
He looked up from his bent over running stance to see the boarded up windows separating the offices and the factory floor were now in the very near distance. Behind him, Shortbredd’s gun continued to rasp.
But when John went forwards a couple more steps, his worst nightmare right then became reality—the sound of Shortbredd’s gun suddenly died.
John stopped dead and spun round as stiff as a board, thinking Shortbredd had been shot. He scanned the area with bug eyes, expecting to see Shortbredd in a crumpled heap on the floor. To his relief, Shortbredd was bent back down behind the conveyor belt, trying fiendishly to shove a fresh magazine into his gun. He’d run out of ammo, and the timing couldn’t have been worse. John was stuck in no man’s land, exposed like a sitting duck.
Jesus, what am I gonna do, gamota? Stick or twist? STICK OR TWIST?
Keep going, re! his mind screamed. Just keep going!
He glanced precariously over at the tanks to see a bod stick his nose out of the shadows now that the gunfire had ceased. John instinctively raised his own gun and quickly fired it in bod’s direction before he had a chance to clock him. The sound of fresh bullets in the air made the bod jump back the way he came. John didn’t wait around. He raced over to the set of switches on the wall by the offices, which right then were like a haven, an oasis in this sea of madness, focussing in on them the way a hungry cheetah only has its eyes set on a young, tender antelope. His nicotine coated lungs screamed in agony under the pressure, but he pushed through the pain, fear and adrenaline driving him on.
The Survival Game Page 25
