The Survival Game

by Stavro Yianni

  Above the noise, John could virtually hear Moleface’s voice ringing round and round his head—He hurt his knee; his right. Cannot play now, he’d said back at the old man’s house. Yeah, Marek’s right knee, his Achilles’ heel. And right then, he was grabbing what was left of it, his mug now flushed of all its colour, his body juddering in shock like he’d just stuck his fingers into the nearest plug socket.

  John took a step back and grabbed his chest in the area Marek shot him.

  That skata hurt, gamota…

  Yeah, it hurt like a bitch, but he was still alive ’cos he’d legislated for it. He unzipped his leather jacket and revealed his extra life in this crazy game. He rapped his knuckles on the bulletproof vest strapped to his torso. A dull, clunky sound rang out. He thanked his lucky stars someone draped it over that mannequin back at the cache ’cos without it, he’d be brown bread right about then. He stared at the mashed up bullets wedged in the heart area and smiled wryly. The strato had taught him well.

  He sucked in a deep, shuddering breath. So, it hadn’t been a waste of time after all…

  He let out an uncontrollable chortle. No, it hadn’t, and right about then, he felt like he was back in the thick of it—all around him there were groans of injured soldiers; blood all over the ground. When he surveyed the scene, he saw that Dread I was sprawled on the floor to his left; he was still breathing, his pupils zoning in and out. The malaka had reportedly survived a thirty-six bullet drive by, so John reckoned a couple more probably wouldn’t do any long-term damage. The bloke was made of fucking iron.

  Marek was lying on the floor to John’s right. He’d cooled somewhat, and was now staring at John with glazed eyes, sweat plastered all over his now blue tinted mug. He was holding his mashed knee for dear life, blood leaking out between his fingers and staining the beige carpet. John gave him daggers for a few seconds, injecting pure anger into his stare. He raised his gun and aimed it at Marek’s chest, roles now reversed. Marek just stared back, the resigned look planted on his mug telling John he knew he was royally fucked. John took in a deep breath and tightened his grip on the handle of his gun, gearing himself up for his next move. Marek had brought all this skata on himself and now the final curtain was about to fall. This malaka had declared war and John had given it to him head on. The battle had been hard and long. And right now it was finally over, and it was checkmate.

  Checkmate.

  The final bullet had to be fired.

  ‘K-k-kill him, b-b-bredda,’ Dread I stammered through his haze of pain, each syllable forced out rather than spoken. He was holding his chest where Marek had pumped two bullets into him. He was staring at John with glazed but eager eyes. ‘Kill him!’ he repeated.

  John kept his gun aimed at Marek and closed his eyes, Dread I’s words echoing round and round his mind.

  Kill him, kill him, bredda. Kill him and we’ll tek it all back, we’ll tek it aaaallllllll. You ’n I. Everyting, bredda. Everyting. So, kill him. Killhimkillhimkillhimbreddakillhim—

  John opened his eyes again. Yeah, someone’s going down all right, re Dread I, he thought to himself. But right about now, it ain’t Marek…

  John instantly swung his gun arm over to his left. He closed his eye and aimed at the spot just below the snakes waving around wildly on Dread I’s horned head.

  John watched Dread I’s eyes narrow in confusion, and for the first time since they met, he saw a glimpse of life in them. They were full of fear (or was it…excitement?).

  ‘N-n-n—’ Dread I stammered.

  John pulled the trigger, cutting him off. Dread I’s head slammed back into the carpet under the force of bullets.

  But John didn’t stop there, instead he kept his finger pulsed on the trigger, letting the bullets rain all over him. Dread I’s head and body juddered under the pressure of the hail of slugs pummelling him. John saw him bleed back at Neocrema, but both that prick Ishmael’s words and Shortbredd’s words were suddenly ringing in his mind—They used to call him Satan, he can’t die, proper voodoo type stuff…so he wasn’t gonna take any chances. He virtually unloaded his clip on Dread I before he even contemplated that he’d done enough. If all that didn’t kill the malaka, then he truly was a demon…

  John finally stopped shooting, stood back, and eagerly watched on, a part of him convinced the malaka was gonna jump up any second now and switch on him. But he remained still, the only thing moving were his weaving snake dreads. They writhed around in agony, biting the air in desperation. Then suddenly, they turned on each other, going for one another. One dropped and became still once it had been bitten to death. Then another. Then another. Soon, there were just two remaining. They fought and grappled before one throttled the life out of the other one. The final survivor began biting the air like crazy as if gasping for air. After a few seconds, it tensed violently like a taught piece of string, before flailing down, and becoming still.

  John closed his eyes, breathed a long sigh of relief, and crossed himself.

  He’d made his choice—he didn’t want to take up Dread I’s offer, didn’t want to go back to his old ways, didn’t want to lose his family, didn’t want to help resurrect Dread I’s empire, didn’t want any more teenage gangbangers stalking the streets of London. He just wanted to put an end to all that skata. Nip it in the bud. So he played his hand.

  And now that Dread I was out of the formula, he turned his attention back to Marek, who was just staring up at him with shocked, bemused eyes. He’d no doubt been expecting a bullet in the head, the final nail in his coffin. But instead, the enemy were turning on each other. John could read the confusion in his eyes. Could read what was going on in the malaka’s head. He was nonplussed. Wondering what the fuck was going on.

  ‘I used him to get to you,’ John told him straight. ‘To my delivery. So, where is it, Marek? Where’s my stuff?’

  Silence answered him, blotted only by a distant police siren wailing somewhere outside, making his skin crawl.

  ‘Where’s the delivery, Marek?’ John asked him again in an even, calm tone.

  Marek just stared and blinked while holding his knee. He still didn’t wanna give it up, even at this late point in the game, the malaka still wanted to hang onto it. John admired that. He finally knew for sure that this man would die for his family, and John respected that. But there was no time for arse licking, he needed to get the delivery back to Aziz ASAP.

  ‘Look,’ John said in a firmer voice. ‘I’ve got your sister…’

  Marek’s eyes widened a fraction.

  ‘Locked up out there somewhere,’ John continued. ‘Now, if you don’t hand the stuff over to me in the next ten seconds, I’m walking out of here, and she’ll eventually starve to death ’cos you won’t know where the fuck she is.’

  ‘You lie,’ Marek replied, suddenly stirred into speaking. ‘You did same trick with my father…’

  John nodded. ‘Okay, back then I was lying. But, I ain’t now. And you really ain’t in any position to be second-guessing me, Marek, know what I mean? If I walk out of here, you won’t see Valeria again, believe me…’ John stared at Marek as sincerely as he could. He needed Marek to believe him, needed him to believe Valeria’s life was in danger. ‘Now, we’ll do a swap. You give me delivery; I give you Valeria. Okay?’

  Marek took in a long slow, juddering breath.

  John could see an exasperated look now plastered all over him; it told him that the penny was finally dropping. Marek had badly fucked up messing with him in that alley. He thought it would be easy, but it hadn’t turned out like that. No, no, no, it hadn’t turned out that way at all, re boy. Marek would now have to glue together every small piece of the vase he’d managed to smash the second he mugged John that night. He was pinned down on the canvas and John was just about ready to get the three count.

  Marek looked to the ceiling as if he were staring at the Heavens for strength. He then closed his eyes and let out a heavy sigh. ‘My bedroom,’ he finally said.

  ‘Where? W
hich one?’ John asked.

  Marek stared back at him. ‘Door on left,’ he said. ‘Under mattress.’

  ‘Good.’ John kept his gun trained on Marek’s head said as he moved towards the bedroom, making sure to avoid Dread I’s body on the way, not wanting to go near it, just in case it came back to life….He bent down and picked up Marek’s gun, which had landed nearby, satisfied that Marek was in no condition to do a runner, but could’ve still reached for it once John’s back was turned.

  When he made it to Marek’s room, he finally lowered his gun and dashed inside. He scanned the place over, his breath hot with apprehension. Sitting next to the wardrobe was a weights bench, a bar loaded with what looked like a tonne’s worth of plates on its rack. John ignored it and went straight for the double bed in the corner of the room. He bent down and hastily stuck his hand under the mattress. He felt around, frantic, his heart beating against his chest. When his hand brushed by something stashed there, he was hit with a jolt of excitement like he’d just touched an electric fence. He instantly grabbed whatever it was and pulled it out, his breath baited.

  To his absolute glee, the jiffy bag he picked up from Omar’s what seemed like a century ago was clutched in his hands. He swiftly opened it like an eager kid unwrapping a Christmas present and checked its contents.

  He nodded his head. Yeah, it was the delivery in full. Untouched. Pristine. Mia hara. He closed his eyes for a second and breathed a big sigh of relief. For a while there, he thought he was never gonna get it back, never gonna see it again, and that Aziz was gonna make mincemeat out of him.

  God, it feels good to see these things, gamota…

  And it did. It felt sooo fucking good. He started grinning like a Cheshire cat—not a black one though… He opened his eyes again, a small laugh escaping him. But the first thing he locked eyes onto cut that laugh short and made his grin vanish faster than a hunk of meat dropped in a den of piranha fish.

  It was a photo on the small cabinet next to Marek’s bed. Of a woman and a small boy. The woman was pointing at the camera; the boy was following her finger with his eyes, a big innocent smile lighting up his face. Haloes were swathed around their heads like golden auras.

  John let out a regretful sigh.

  It was Marek’s wife and moro, no doubt about it. The reason why he was doing all this skata in the first place. What he was fighting for. Without what was in the jiffy bag, they were fucked. That’s why he was prepared to kill for them. Prepared to lose his own life, risk his old man’s. Looking at that photo, John couldn’t help but think of Alisha, and suddenly the guilt bombarded his mind to replace the relief. The guilt demon would never allow him relief. Never.

  He sealed up the jiffy bag and got to his feet. There was no time for guilt and all the other skata ’cos he didn’t want to leave Marek alone for too long in case he tried anything. He grabbed the mobile phone he spotted on the floor to his right, and went back out to the corridor. Marek was lying flat on his back, staring at the ceiling, his whole body trembling. The poor bastard was in proper pain. He was going nowhere fast.

  ‘Hey, Marek! Marek!’ John said, clicking his fingers. ‘Wake up!’

  Marek’s head snapped up.

  John removed the keys to the cache from his pocket and dangled them on the air. ‘Listen to me—your sister is locked in a garage in Stoke Newington. It’s in an alleyway behind Lo’s Laundrette.’ He briefly looked down at the floor, a feeling of shame enveloping him. ‘She’s in a bad way, so you better get to her quickly, she needs a doctor.’

  Marek’s teeth clenched and he stared at John with angry eyes, his head starting to darken. John felt that look. It was a look of hate for violating his sister. It was a feeling John would never know. In a bizarre way, he admired Marek for feeling like that ’cos it was the complete opposite of what that piece of shit Green T felt about his sister. But that look was also allowing the guilt to rise again. Combined, John and Dread I had done some bad things over the last few days, committed many armaties, but while it was Dread I who did most of the proper dark stuff, John had just stood by and watched it all happen.

  ‘If it’s any consolation,’ John began. ‘She didn’t sell you out. This piece of shit tortured her to get this address. She put up a brave fight, but he got the better of her in the end. And for the record, I didn’t kill your dad and cousin. He did.’ John looked down at Dread I as he spoke. ‘I don’t know if you believe me or not, but either way, I reckon you shooting me a few minutes ago evens the lies I fed you about your dad when I knew he was dead all along.’

  John threw the key at Marek. He went to catch it, but his reactions were too slow. Instead, it landed square on his chest and stayed there. He stared at it with bleary eyes like it was some kind of insect that had just crawled onto his body. John turned away and as he did, the image of the photo in Marek’s room popped up in his mind. He saw the little boy smiling, then thought of him hiding from the Polish authorities, locked away in a cupboard while their hideout was raided. The guilt demon breathed some juice into him; he just couldn’t live with it any more. He had to do something.

  He turned back to face Marek.

  ‘I know why you stole these from me,’ John informed him. ‘You need to get your family past the Polish authorities and over here safely. You don’t fancy having ’em smuggled over in the back of a cargo ship like you probably had to. Right?’

  Marek’s hot eyes mellowed and he began blinking for what seemed like the first time in ages.

  John nodded his head in understanding. He huffed. ‘For fuck’s sake, man, I wish you’d just bought some for yourself and not nicked ’em off me. So many lives could have been saved…’

  Marek took in a deep breath. ‘They say… Omar is best,’ he uttered.

  ‘Oh yes, he is the best,’ John replied, nodding his head knowingly. ‘You can’t go wrong with his shit. It’ll get you into Fort fucking Knox…’ He held the jiffy bag up to his face and stared at it, contemplating. He then stared at Marek. He looked so pathetic and helpless, lying there in agony with his mashed up knee. He was completely lost; a broken man. John felt a strong urge to do something. He had to. Had to at least redeem a small piece of his tainted soul.

  He sighed as he reached into the jiffy bag. He pulled out a couple of passports, glanced at them briefly, and then threw them in Marek’s direction. Marek watched them fly through the air with wide eyes. They bounced off his chest and landed on the carpet. He instantly looked from them to John, an expression of surprise etched into his mug.

  ‘Get ’em out of trouble,’ John ordered.

  Marek’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘But you and the rest of your boys are gonna have to make other arrangements…’ John added in a neutral tone.

  Marek just stared dumbly. It was almost as if he didn’t believe what he was seeing or hearing. And yeah, John agreed it was fucking strange behaviour all right, but he understood this malaka’s pain, understood how losing the only things you loved would kill you. If the last few days had taught him anything it was that you had to stay loyal to them, fight for them, and when carrots were dangled in front of your nose, no matter how much they glittered gold, you had to resist and turn ’em down. For them. All for them. And not helping Marek out right then would just make the guilt demon even stronger, give it more fire to breathe into him. He knew down the road he’d have to pay the price with Aziz, and with a clear head, he might’ve thought differently. But Marek got lucky ’cos right about then, John’s head was completely fucked up.

  ‘But you gotta do something for me now, Marek,’ John then said, a grave expression on his face. ‘You gotta tell your sister to get the police off my case. I got a family too, and like you I can’t afford to back to prison. I think we both know how important that is… Get ’em off my back and I won’t say a word about you being here to anyone. Deal?’

  Marek took in a long juddering breath, which lasted a few painful seconds. When he finished, he began nodding his head.

 
; ‘Good,’ John said and stared at his Reeboks. ‘Not such a bad guy after all, am I?’ he asked with an air of irony to his voice, a rueful smile on his face at the same time.

  Marek closed his eyes and looked away, his lips pursing bitterly.

  John nodded to himself. Yeah, we’re all scum. All of us…

  ‘Don’t forget your sister. Lo’s Laundrette, Stoke Newington. I hope she’s all right…’

  Marek’s eyes opened. He gave John a brief nod before closing them again.

  John decided it was time to part ways before more of Marek’s boys came or worse, astinomia. He held Marek’s mobile phone up in the air, and whistled. Marek’s eyes flicked open. John waved the phone from side-to-side for him to see, before placing it down on the carpet by the stairs. By the time Marek reached it to call for help, John would be long gone. He turned and darted down the stairs, leaving Marek behind. He replaced his gun in his belt, zipped up his jacket, and jumped out of the front door.

  He looked around. The coast was clear, hopefully no one heard anything, ’cos if astinomia were on the way and they found Marek all messed up and Dread I’s dead body…

  Well, that’s his fucking problem, not yours, re, you gotta watch out for ’em yourself.

  It was true. The fire at Neocrema would have ’em out crawling all over north London. He realised he better make an escape sharpish.

  He hit the pavement, a sudden good feeling coursing through his veins, all stemming from the jiffy bag in his grip. A feeling of excitement and relief. Like backing a long shot and winning a ton of money. Not that he was too acquainted with that particular circumstance ’cos usually he backed it and lost…