The Survival Game (11 page)

The good news was that he was making progress. In one day, he’d managed to put a name to the mugs of the two main players in the gang that jumped him. On reflection, that was actually great progress. Now all he had to do was go about finding them in a sprawling metropolis like London. And he had no clue how he was even gonna begin that particular project.

You could put an ad in the Greek newspaper,
re—

Greek man (well off!) seeks skinny, unattractive Polish chemical expert. Must have red spiky hair and horns (oh and nose piercing desirable!)

For fun and good times!!

He shook his head, threw his
cigarro
out of the door, and shut it. He’d
have
to do something and if it came to drastic measures, then so be it. He had to try everything within his power. Everything.

He went back and laid down next to his pregnant angel, closed his eyes and tried his best to get skinny Polish girls with red spiky hair and horns out of his mind.

At least until morning.

John trudged out of
Dalston International Supermarket
, shaking his head in disappointment. It must have been the tenth Polish shop he’d visited that morning, waving mugshots of the Kolovski twins around. Every time he asked a worker/owner if they knew who they were, he received a cold, blank look, and a shake of the head. Apparently, none of ’em had a clue who they were apart from Gertrude, who recognised Marek Kolovski straight away,
gamota
. He quickly arrived at the conclusion that even if they did know who they were, they weren’t about to grass on ’em, either through fear or through some type of Polish unity.

But, someone grassed you up all those years ago,
re
…
a bitter voice responded to his assertions. And yeah, that was true, but that was how
skata
his luck was.
He
didn’t have people who were prepared to lie for him. The Greeks would sell him out in the blink of an eye, and he knew it. Knew it all too well…

He replaced the mugshots back in the inner pocket of his leather jacket and glanced up at the dark grey sky. All he wanted was a break. Just one,
gamota
.
No more corners, God. Just a break…
He sighed and headed back to his car. On the way, he checked his watch—it was almost midday; he’d been driving across London all morning. As the mugging went down in south London, that’s where he started. He began in Camberwell and worked his way up north from there. There seemed to be a good spread of Poles across London, they weren’t confined to one area like a lot of the blacks, Asians, and Greeks (Peckham/Southall/Palmers Green). Maybe that was why no one knew who they were, the community was so dispersed ’cos they were new skool, it didn’t seem to have the same incestuous nature of other ethnic communities. The Greeks, on the other hand, were somehow or other all related either by blood or by marriage. To find someone who knew this or that person, the odds were stacked in your favour. Step into a patisserie on Green Lanes and you’ll most probably be greeted by your aunty.

But with the Poles, it seemed he was on a loser…

He puffed his cheeks in disappointment as he started up the car and pulled away. Half a day was gone already. The egg timer was running full blast, and he didn’t have a second to waste. Besides, he’d have to get back home to check on Alisha soon. He knew that he’d be spending most of the next four days out and about looking for the twins, and as a result he needed a cover story. So he fed her some bullshit about working all day, every day in a shop Aziz had recently bought. The blag went like this—the bloke usually working there had a week off sick, and John and Aziz both agreed that John could do with a few days work to help take his mind off what happened to him, keep his confidence levels high, and earn some
lires
at the same time to compensate for what he lost the other night. It meant he could go fishing for twins, while she thought he was shopkeeping for Aziz. The guilt of lying to her fucked him up again,
but what other choice did he have,
gamota
?
There was no way he could tell her the truth. No way. She’d go completely mental. And he couldn’t handle that right then.

He pulled onto the Seven Sisters Road, where he knew there was another Polish shop—an off licence with a big bottle of Lech beer painted on the window. If he carried on further up from that shop, he’d soon be back at the hall and near his old manor, Wood Green, signalling the end of his journey for the day. And if there was nothing to report, it would be another day wasted. But he had to keep going. Had to be vigilant.

He pulled up outside the offy—both his right hand tyres parked up on the pavement—and got out. He threw his
cigarro
butt to the ground as he approached the offy, traffic buzzing along the road behind him. Once inside, he found himself surrounded by cans and bottles of beer on shelves, in fridges, on the floor by his feet. It was like a pisshead’s paradise. Standing at the counter was a light-brown haired man with a halo swathed around his head.

That means he’s a good one,
re
,
John noted. Yeah, he’s good.
En Kalos,
that’s what they say about someone who’s a good ’un.
En kalos.
And if he’s no good, if he’s bad, then it’s
en kakos.

Kakos.

John went straight up to him. ‘You’re Polish right?’ John asked him.

The man’s face remained exactly as it was. ‘Yes…’ he replied.

‘I need your help,’ John told him as he put his hand inside his jacket and retrieved the mugshots. He opened them up and placed them on the counter. ‘I’m looking for these two. They’re Polish. Need to speak to ’em. Any idea where I can find ’em?’

The man placed a hand under his chin and stared at the mugshots. He appeared to be genuinely thinking hard about it. John waited with baited breath, hoping that something in his mind would click, if anyone was gonna give him the truth this could very well be the one.

Then to his disappointment, the man’s mouth turned downwards and he shook his head. ‘No. I’m sorry.’

John sighed. ‘Any idea who they are? Who might know ’em?’

The man with the halo shrugged. ‘I have no idea,’ he said and chuckled. ‘I have never seen them. Are you sure they are Polish?’

John shut his eyes and nodded. ‘I’m sure. I’ve been to every Polish shop from south London to here and not one person knows ’em…’

‘Look, I have been in England for five years now, and have never seen them. Maybe they are new here…’

John reflected. Yeah, they
were
new.
And if this bloke’s been here for five years, he’s most probably out of touch with events in Poland
. Christ, maybe he
wants
to be out of touch with things in Poland,
who knew?

John nodded his head in understanding. If he didn’t know, he didn’t know.

‘Maybe you could go to Polish embassy,’ the man told him.

John smiled wryly.
Yeah, those
malakes
have got no idea where to find ’em either…
‘Okay, mate. I’ll try that.’

The man shrugged in return. John looked around. He’d been staring at cans of beer all day in various off licences and mini-markets, and was now nearly at the end of the journey for the day. The thought of going around a different route of London grilling Polish people made his head hurt. The deal of six cans of this Lech
skata
for a fiver was suddenly looking very tempting.

‘Give us six cans of that then,’ he said, pointing to the neatly stacked pile of beers to his left. The man smiled and grabbed a blue plastic bag. John placed a fiver on the counter and went over to the fridge. He wanted ’em cold and crisp, not warm and fuzzy. He opened up the door and took out a chilled four-pack. Alisha wouldn’t be happy to see him all beered up, but right then he didn’t give a rat’s
kolo
. He just wanted to relax, if that was at all possible. And if she didn’t like it, well,
tough
skata
, baby
… He chuckled lightly to himself as he reached for the other two cans.

As he did, something from the corner of his eye caught his attention, stopping his chuckling stone dead. His head snapped round of its own accord. He was now staring out of the window and at the road outside. A line of traffic had stopped at the lights now that they were red. Jammed in the traffic was a van. A white van with a logo and writing painted on its side. John tired to read what it said but the words were dancing and rearranging as if he’d suddenly developed dyslexia. He squinted his eyes and tried his best to make them out—M-E-D… Slowly but surely the letters slotted back into place like a jigsaw. ‘M-E-D-I-C-A-L C-O-U-R-I-E-R S-E-R-V-I-C-E-S.’

He closed his eyes; his mind began working behind them.
Where have I seen that before,
gamota
?
He opened up his eyes and flicked them towards the painted logo. It was…
a snake
? Yeah, a snake wrapped around a dagger. Weird. But what was even weirder was the sudden outbreak of déjà vu staring at that logo was triggering off, making him feel somewhat dazed and lightheaded. His mind then went hazy like he’d just had a massive hit from the world’s skunkiest bong, and he was suddenly transported back to a couple of nights before when he was lying on the ground, shot up with tranquilliser, the world a spinning kaleidoscope. He vividly recalled getting a good look at the van they all jumped out the back of. It too had a logo and some words—Medics
something…

Yeah, and the logo was… he began nodding his head positively—
a snake wrapped around a dagger.

SNAP!

His eyes widened.

It’s them. It’s them,
gamota
!

He didn’t waste a second. He dived for the front door.

‘Hey—’ the shopkeeper shouted after him.

But John was already outside. He stood on the pavement, staring open-mouthed at the van like someone stranded in the Sahara for a week spotting a mirage of an oasis. But it was definitely there; this was no mirage or hallucination.

It’s there in front of me. Right there,
gamota
…

From his angle, he couldn’t see the driver, so couldn’t tell for sure if it really was the muggers or not.

The traffic lights then turned green and the line of traffic began to move along. Including the van.

Shit, don’t let it get away,
re
!

He tore himself out of his trance, bounced on his heels, and then went for his car. He quickly got in, throwing the beers in his hand down onto the passenger seat and fumbling for his keys.

Come on! Come on!

He took in a deep breath and then carefully stuck the key in the ignition. He got her started up, and then cut into the traffic, making a car horn go off. He raised his palm in apology and sped away. By then, the van was a way up, but was so big, there was no chance he could lose it. He put his foot down to try and cut the distance, excitement suddenly rising inside him. He’d been hitting brick walls all day, and now out of the blue, this could well be something. Something real. He prayed that it was and not just a false dawn. The van carried on along the Seven Sisters through Finsbury Park and into Tottenham. John kept on its tail, making sure he didn’t get trapped behind any red lights, checking his rear view every few seconds as he weaved in and out of traffic. He could virtually see the rush he was feeling both in his own eyes and in the way that light swathed around his head glowed as if electrified. He’d been on the verge of giving up hope. Luckily, he hadn’t.

When the van reached the end of Seven Sisters, it turned left onto Tottenham High Road. John copied, wondering all the time where the
malaka
was going. Up ahead were Bruce Grove and Tottenham Hale, which were full of factories and warehouses. John knew that ’cos his Uncle Chris and Aunty Anna used to own a clothes factory there called
Top End Clothes
. But back in the early 90s the clothing trade took a slide as designer gear became more affordable and so Uncle Chris had to sell up. An ice cream manufacturer called
Neocrema
had it off him, Uncle Chris making a tidy sum…

John kept on the van’s tail as it rolled through the industrial streets of Tottenham Hale, which was all brickwork and corrugated iron. The industrialised surroundings created a dead atmosphere, not a soul around ’cos all the commotion was going on inside the factories and warehouses like they were beehives. He rolled past yet another warehouse as they turned off onto a side street. John tried to keep his distance, just in case the driver clocked him in his rear view or wing mirror, recognised him, and sped away. He wanted to know exactly where this prick was going.

And then he found out.

The van reached the end of the street, turned right, and disappeared. John crawled to the end of the road, and then looked around. He was at the head of on an open road, black pockmarked warehouses and factories lining it. John watched on as the van pulled into the front courtyard of a factory before stopping next to three other identical vans, all with the same snake wrapped around a dagger logo and the letters M.C.S printed across their back doors.

He stared at the building and took in a deep breath to control the déjà vu that was hitting him hard like a bucket of ice water. He knew the building he was now staring at, knew it all too well. And he couldn’t believe that
that
van had just pulled up outside it. It was his Uncle Chris’s and Aunty Anna’s clothes factory
Top End Clothes.
But now, a dirty, broken sign across it read
Neocrema
.

He pulled out onto the street and drove halfway down before turning back on himself. He then pulled up on the pavement, just far away enough so that he could see what was happening without them able to get a good look at him. He opened the glovebox and took out his shades. He put them on and watched on in bewilderment. He hadn’t been down that way for donkeys, and memories from his childhood were hitting him like radioactive zaps from a laser gun. He could see himself in the back of Uncle Chris’s car with his cousins Maria and Andro, Aunty Anna sitting in the passenger seat. It was summer holidays and Chris and Anna would take John off of
Yiayia
’s hands for the day on an outing to their factory. That way they could keep an eye on them all while they worked. Uncle Chris would drive along these very streets and they’d all go into the factory and have ice cream from the freezer in the kitchen. John liked those ones with the hundreds and thousands on them, Fabs, they were called. Andro would bring his Action Men and Maria her Barbie dolls. They’d run up and down the factory floor annoying the tubby Greek women sitting at the rows and rows of sewing machines as they stitched together skirts and trousers.