The Survival Game

by Stavro Yianni

  He closed his eyes and sighed. It was true. It was all his doing. And he’d reap what he’d sowed.

  He stepped over to their bed—just as his legs virtually buckled beneath him—and he collapsed onto it. Tiredness and drug burnout were taking their toll on him. This just made it worse. He wanted to sleep, to shut down. Forget the past week, the past month, year, ten years, lifetime, and just fall into a deep sleep. A nice, peaceful, deep sleep.

  ‘It’s all my fucking fault,’ he said to the empty caravan. ‘All my fault I’ve lost everything…’

  He was just about to go catatonic when he remembered he had an almost full bottle of Jim Beam stashed under the sink for the times when Alisha went to sleep early. And right then, it was calling. He immediately went and retrieved it. He unscrewed the cap and took a long deep swig from it. He winced as it burnt its way down his throat. He knew it wasn’t doing him any good, but the guilt, the regret were just too much and needed to be blotted out. Needed blotting right now.

  He stared out of the window at the grey world outside. A woman with a halo wrapped around her head was walking by with a haloed child at her side. They reminded him of Alisha—mother and child. Sorrow dropped into his stomach like lead, so he took another swig of whisky to join it. He then went and sat at the table. His wilted tulip stared back at him, sad and pathetic. He went to touch it and it fell apart in his hand.

  He gave it a rueful smile and shook his head. ‘Everything I fucking touch falls apart,’ he said to the empty caravan just as a tear slipped out of his eye.

  He took another long swig of whisky, and then picked up Alisha’s wedding ring. He turned it over and over in his hand, wondering where in his life it all went wrong. At what point did he fuck it all up? Where was the exact moment?

  By the time the Jim Beam went to work and knocked him spark out, he was still unable to find the answer.

  EPILOGUE—CONFESSING

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  John woke up slumped over the caravan table; hung-over, and thirsty as hell. The second his eyes flicked open, he had one of those brief moments of clarity where he believed the past week had been nothing but a bad dream; that it hadn’t really happened at all. But once he glanced over at their bed to see it was empty, then clocked Alisha’s wedding ring on the table in front of him, he knew with a deeply upsetting lucidity that it had been all very real, and unfortunately for him, every bit of it happened exactly as he remembered. A sinking feeling overcame him and he groaned like a tortured dog. He wished it had been a fucking dream.

  The dreams he did have during his drunken coma were a lot different to the events of the past week. He remembered having two distinct visions—Dread I burning in the flames of Hell, thrashing around in agony, his face covered in blood, his eyes brimful of hate. It was where that malaka deserved to be and where he undoubtedly ended up. John had no doubts he’d find his calling there. No worries.

  Once he’d seen enough, his subconscious floated from that scene to another depicting Marek in a hat and sunglasses—like some kind of bad undercover agent—standing at Heathrow, waiting anxiously for his family to enter the arrivals lounge. Valeria was alongside him, bruised and battered, but not dead. He could vividly recall watching Marek jump for joy like a World Cup winner once he saw his wife and son come off the plane and step into his grateful arms. Omar’s passports had got them over, got them to safety. The look on Marek’s mug had been priceless. John could swear he saw the malaka cry.

  All’s well that fucking end’s well, eh, re? he thought to himself and smiled ruefully.

  Yeah, that’s that lot sorted all right, but what about me…?

  He checked the time; it was still morning. He sighed as he got up from the table and went to the fridge for a bottle of nice cold mineral water. He felt like skata. Felt like that not only ’cos of the booze, but ’cos he’d finally driven his wife and moro away. The armaties he’d committed over the past week also weighed on his mind. Too many to fucking count. All for a few quid and some fucking passports.

  And for the survival of your balls too, re, don’t forget about that…

  Yeah, on that particular score it had to be done. And what’s done is done…

  He unscrewed the cap of the mineral water and guzzled it the way he had guzzled Jim Beam the night before. He flicked the radio on at the same time, wanting to hear something other than silence. He managed to catch a news report halfway through.

  ‘… What police have described as a massacre at a derelict ice cream factory in North London yesterday morning. The factory itself was being used to produce a new designer drug known as ‘amber.’

  John stopped drinking and his eyes widened. They were talking about Neocrema.

  ‘Police believe the killings were a result of an ongoing war between the producers of amber and established crack cocaine dealers after the body of the man known as the Daddy of the Crack Trade was found nearby with fourteen gunshot wounds to the head and body.

  In other news—’

  John flicked the radio off and looked around him in a daze.

  They were talking about Dread I. Marek must have dumped his body near Neocrema as evidence…

  They didn’t mention me, so Marek must be keeping his side of the bargain…

  Don’t count your chickens yet, re, a counter voice argued. Marek will still be pissed at you and so will Dread I’s crew if they find out you’re still alive…

  It was true. Nothing was certain. His safety wasn’t assured. He’d have to lay low. And keep his head. But the early signs coming from the radio looked good…

  He polished off his water as he went and opened the caravan door. He was unsurprisingly greeted by a thick, grey sky. He sparked up a cigarro. It tasted like skata. In fact, it almost made him retch. But he persisted with it, such was the curse of the afflicted addicted.

  He smiled to himself. Yeah, the afflicted addicted, the people God forgot.

  He breathed out smoke into the chilly morning air and thought about his cousin Phillipo. What he’d said to him a few days before—We all sin. All men sin. It’s the way God has made us. We are not perfect. Sinning is not the issue with God. It’s whether you regret the sin, whether you seek forgiveness for your sins. Whether you learn the difference between right and wrong.

  John nodded his head. He’s a wise old fart, my cousin…

  John had learnt his imperfections the hard way. He understood the impossible choices God gave unto man no problem, what with the uncountable times he’d been posed with the impossible choice himself. But he just could never understand why God put his creation in these dilemmas. Now, remembering his cousin’s words, he had an idea. It was to separate the good from the bad. The angels from the demons. The horns and the haloes. The kakos from the kalos. Yes, a man had to fish—God made that very clear—but a bad soul will do it without guilt, without remorse. Dread I will kill without emotion, without a single iota of compassion. All for personal gain at the expense of others. Marek, on the other hand, for all his faults, was out fishing for his family. For the ones he loved. He committed armaties, but only because he had no other choice. But, did he regret those armaties once he’d committed them? John would never know, but liked to think he did.

  He supposed that was why he let him live.

  On the other hand, did Dread I regret his armaties? Like fuck he did. In fact, he probably enjoyed doing ’em.

  And as he now thought about himself and whether or not he regretted his sins, he knew immediately that he did. He didn’t want to hurt anyone, that’s why he jumped ship from the strato all those years ago. He didn’t mean to hurt anyone. It was a combination of the hand he’d been dealt and the fact that he kept on fucking up, time after time, unable to learn from mistakes and grow. Yiayia, Yousif, Alisha…

  And as this train of thought now entered the station, he realised what he had to do. He had to atone. Had to ask for forgiveness for his armaties. Only then could he step out of the sea of skata once and for all and come o
ut clean the other side.

  He knew what he had to do and where he had to go.

  He threw his half-finished cigarro out into the cold and got himself ready.

  *****

  John crossed himself as he entered St Barnabas.

  After lighting a candle for Mum and Yiayia, he made his way to the front of the church. As he walked, he could feel all those eyes on him again. Judging him. Scrutinising him from their higher places. He could sense it. Could feel it like a giant spotlight trained exclusively on him. That sensation made the hairs on the back of his neck spring to attention. He felt small; unworthy. And maybe he was.

  He’d called Phillipo beforehand and asked him to meet him in church. He wanted Holy Communion. Wanted to close the circle of the last week, to cleanse his soul and ask for forgiveness. To show that he really meant it. So the sight of his cousin seated on a bench at the front of the church came as a welcome relief. His back was facing John, his halo shining around his head, but not as brightly as before. In fact, John noticed on his way down to the church that all the haloes and horns weren’t appearing as vividly as they were the previous day or two. Maybe the truth drugs Valeria spiked him with were finally wearing off. He hoped so.

  He approached the front bench, stopped next to where Phillipo was seated, and looked up at the Panayia. Her halo still glowed effervescent, and her sorrowful eyes still stared down eternally at him.

  He sighed. ‘Thanks for coming down, Phillipo,’ he said, still staring at the painted Panayia.

  Phillipo’s eyes flicked open and he glanced up, startled out of his prayer. He crossed himself and then adjusted in his seat. ‘I told you before, Yiannaki. I’m here every day.’ He moved up to create space for John to sit. ‘Have a seat.’

  John took his seat. Now, they both stared up at the Panayia, John’s interlocked fingers resting on his lap. He twiddled his thumbs nervously. ‘Well,’ John began. ‘I sorted out my problem.’

  Phillipo nodded solemnly. ‘I’m glad to hear it.’

  ‘But, it came at a price… I’ve committed many, many armaties this past week, re…’

  Phillipo sighed. ‘Have you…?’

  ‘I don’t wanna go into details, re, but… God knows what I’ve done. But, if he’s honest, he’ll know I did those things ’cos I had to. I had no other choice. But it’s like you said before—God testing us to see if we really do regret our sins.’

  Phillipo turned to face him. ‘And do you?’

  John lowered his head. ‘Yeah,’ he replied and began nodding. ‘Yeah, I do. I mean it. And I don’t want any more, re. No more of this bad stuff. I want it to end now.’

  ‘Only you can end it,’ Phillipo told him.

  John clasped his hands together, in an almost pleading posture. ‘If I’ve been given no choice, then what? I know what is right and what is wrong, re. And I know how I feel every time I do something wrong. I feel like sh—’ He cut short, cleared his throat, and then looked tentatively up at the Panayia, doing his cross soon after. ‘It makes me feel bad. Okay? I did some terrible things, and at one point I was ready to jump straight into it and stay there ’cos that’s where I thought I belonged. Where God chose for me to be, like he didn’t care about me.’

  ‘And what made you change your mind?’ Phillipo enquired.

  ‘I realised that’s not true,’ John replied. ‘I see the truth now.’ He chuckled to himself. ‘I see the truth. My truth.’ He laughed louder, seeing Valeria in his mind’s eye, strapped into a dentist’s chair, saying those same words to him, her cold eyes glowing. Phillipo stared at him, confused, probably wondering what he found so funny.

  John shook his head and waved his hand in his direction. ‘Don’t worry about it.’ He sighed. ‘The truth is I had everything and I lost it. But I only realised I had everything when it was too late.’ He smiled wryly, then turned to face his cousin. ‘Alisha left me, re.’

  Phillipo adjusted in his seat. ‘Well, from what I’m hearing, I can’t say I’m surprised,’ he replied.

  ‘She just left a note saying she’s leaving me. And that was all. That was all I got…’ John’s shoulders slumped and a deep sadness overcame him. ‘She’s all I’ve got, re,’ he then said in a mournful voice. ‘Her and my moro. Without them, I’m nothing.’ He took in a deep breath and began nodding his head slow and solemn. ‘She finally found out what happened as well…’

  ‘What happened?’ Phillipo echoed.

  ‘Yeah. With Yousif.’

  Phillipo frowned in confusion. ‘Who’s Yousif?’

  John chuckled and looked away, biting his bottom lip. He’d never told anyone apart from Ishmael about… had never even mentioned it. Why would he start talking now? He’d kept skeletons buried deep inside him for so long and while booze, drugs, and gambling had helped him cope, giving them up only made the guilt demon stronger. Mr. Catch 22 they called that particular set of circumstances. And that malaka had John caught in his net ever since he met Alisha. No, no, no. Ever since he met Yousif. It was Yousif…

  ‘I told him!’ John suddenly blurted. He stared at his hands as he spoke as if he were talking to them and not his cousin. ‘I bloody told him, re. Smoke it, don’t shoot it. But did he listen?’ He put his hands down and looked up at Phillipo with wide eyes. ‘Did he fucking listen?’

  ‘Who, Yiannaki?’

  John huffed. ‘Yousif. Alisha’s brother. I met her through him. I met him ’cos…’ he looked away, took in a deep breath, and wiped his eyes ’cos they were suddenly wet with tears. ‘Cos he wanted some drugs. And I was a dealer. Yeah, that’s me, re, a piece of shit selling people false dreams.’

  Phillipo turned his head away and huffed.

  John rested his interlocked fingers on the bench in front of him and adjusted in his seat. ‘It was nothing major at first, just weed mainly. But when I came out of that cell, I wasn’t the same. I picked up a heroin problem. And they say prison is supposed to rehabilitate you, re. I came out worse than when I went in!’

  Phillipo began nodding. ‘Yes, I remember thinking how you’d changed for the worse. Yiayia dying didn’t help I suppose, but…’ Phillipo bit his bottom lip. ‘Why would you get involved in this kind of stuff to begin with, re? Why?’ he abruptly asked in an angry tone.

  ‘To get by,’ John told him. ‘I felt like I had no choice. Again. I couldn’t get a job and had no real family. It always found me, I never looked for it, I promise, re. The only way to get by once I was out of philaki was to sell drugs again. Pills this time. In clubs to the ravers. But I was doing it to feed my habit as well.’ He sighed heavily. A lump was developing in his throat, but he pushed on with the story regardless. ‘Anyway, at some party one night I met Yousif. He came up to me one night saying he wanted some pills. I didn’t have any left, but I did have some skag on me. My personal stuff—you know, for me. I told him he could have some of that if he was interested. He said he hadn’t done it before, but was willing to give it a go. Fucking malaka thought it would be easy. Yeah, no problem, I can cope with this shit, it’s nothing, that’s what he thought. Yeah right. Once that skata gets you, re…’

  John wiped his eyes on the back of his hand and let out a juddering sigh. ‘I told him there and then—smoke it. Don’t shoot it ’cos then it’ll kill you. It’ll fucking eat you alive.

  ‘At first he did as I said. The problem was he smoked it like it was going out of fashion. Round my place all the time looking for more. By then I’d already met Alisha through him and started to get to know her. She didn’t know it was me who gave Yousif his first hit of skag and she didn’t know I was his dealer either. He’d managed to keep it all a secret from her. And he told me to do the same. Anyway, me and Alisha started seeing each other more often. Nothing too serious at first. But it was during that time that Yousif went and done what I told him not to do. I found out he was shooting up with a bunch of other skag heads from round the way. And he started using more and more. Proper addicted, re. Me, I was still smoking my piece as usual, but it was
always something I thought I could keep under control, know what I mean? It was more of a nagging habit than a full on addiction. It’s all in the head, re, you know…?

  ‘But Yousif… he got proper into it. God knows what was going on in his head.

  ‘But getting him into it ain’t the thing that kills me, re. What kills me, what destroys me along with all the other shit, is that a few months later he comes round to my flat all fucked up. He was desperate for skag. Desperate. He looked horrible, re. Like a zombie—big bug eyes, drawn face. He was a mess, I’m telling you. By then I’d stopped dealing ’cos of Alisha, and just being with her was helping me out of my habit, you know? A real help. I’d be even more fucked up if it wasn’t for her, re…’ John smiled faintly as he spoke.

  ‘Anyway, I told Yousif that night I was out of all that, but he wouldn’t let it lie. He just wouldn’t, gamota. He was begging me to get him some. I should’ve thrown him out or beat the crap outa him or summink, but I didn’t. Instead, like a fucking malaka, I phoned round some boys I knew to get him what he wanted, so he’d shut up and leave me alone. There was a bit of a drought on at the time and I kept coming up dry, so I had to really scrape the bottom of the barrel. I ended up calling this very, very unreliable bloke. Last ditch kinda thing. All that bastard was interested in was making money, proper gangster type. Someone you just don’t mess with. He told me he could get some. So, I went and got the skata for Yousif, gave it to him, and told him he had to go home and not to bother me with this shit again.

  ‘So, he went.’

  John looked up at his cousin with wet, bleary eyes, and he now noticed how Phillipo’s own eyes were becoming teary.

  ‘And I never saw him again, re,’ John said matter of factly. ‘They found him dead in his house. The stuff I got for him was so bad, so fucking shit, the second it got in his system, it poisoned him and killed him.’ John stopped talking and stared at his hands again. They were trembling. He sniffed runny snot back up his nose and then wiped it with the back of his hand afterwards. He’d never opened up like this about Yousif ever before to anyone. But bizarrely, it felt good. Somehow it felt fucking good, as if he were Atlas and he’d just chucked the world off his shoulders into a waiting black hole. He suddenly saw himself as a kid at the funfair, throwing balls at the coconut shies. Except, they weren’t coconuts but demon heads, the word GUILT stamped on every one of their foreheads. He envisaged himself knocking ’em down one by one and loving every minute, jumping around with excitement.