The Survival Game (12 page)

And now the factory was being used for something else. What exactly, he had no idea.

He noted the two blokes standing idly by the entrance. Stocky; short, thinning hair (horns); bomber jackets. They looked like old skool skinheads from the seventies. All they were missing were the tight, stonewashed jeans and steel toecaps. John knew immediately what they were—bodyguards. Keeping watch over whatever was going on inside.
Keeping people out…
Wouldn’t surprise him if they were both tooled up either.

One of ’em waved at the van that John had just followed before speaking into a walkie-talkie. A few seconds later and the huge garage door at the front of the factory opened up. John tried to get a look in there, but his angle was too acute. He could see another van inside, but nothing else. The van he’d followed pulled into the factory. Once it was inside, the garage door slid back down and closed shut. The two bouncers went back to watching the street.

John began summarising—he had a medical courier service; delivery vans lined up;
bodyguards??

He couldn’t associate the last thing with the rest.
Why would a legit medical courier service need bodyguards?

Then the image of Valeria Kolovski popped into his mind. Red spiky hair, nose ring. Medical Scientist. A Doctor. A chemist. Medical Scientist → Medical Courier Service. He then formulated the equation in his mind.

The
putana
is making medicines, and these
malakes
are delivering them.

But bodyguards…???

Well, what kind of medicines was she making?

Painkillers? Vitamins? Crack,
gamota
?

Well, whatever she was cooking up, it was something they didn’t want outsiders to know about that was for sure. He so badly wanted to go into that factory and find out exactly what was going on, hopefully finding the Kolovski twins in there as well. But, he didn’t fancy his chances against those two bods. Even though he was packing too, he was pretty sure they’d be tooled up as well. And he had no idea what else was inside. There could be more of ’em.
But, he so badly wanted to get in. Get in and—

Just then, the garage door opened again and out stepped someone new. John felt his eyes widen behind his shades. He was now staring at a bloke he recognised—tall (taller than the bods), skinny, short spiked blonde hair, two jet-black horns on top of his head. But it was the mole on his cheek, the one that was so big John could see it from where he was, that got his memory banks working. Yeah, he recognised that prick all right. He was the clown. The driver of that van the other night. And as he saw him sharing a joke with the two bods on the door, he could match his face perfectly with the one staring down at him the other night while he was losing consciousness. Suddenly, he was getting excited again. He leaned forwards in his seat. If this
malaka
was here, then the twins couldn’t be too far away either.
And to think he started his hunt in south London, when all along, they were in his fucking manor!

He shook his head, a rueful smile emerging on his face.
Typical…

Moleface then walked away from the bods, waving them ‘goodbye’ as he left. He was now headed in John’s direction, forcing John to duck down beneath his steering wheel. Moleface
would
recognise him for sure, and after spending so long today getting on their trail, he didn’t want to fuck it up now. He peeked over the steering wheel to see Moleface head over to a Volvo parked up a little way down from the factory. On reaching it, he got in the driver’s seat. This was good. John couldn’t get past the two bods, but he could easily handle this skinny wretch on his own. And who knew, he might have some juicy info on the twins for him. He waited for Moleface to start up the car and pull away before he did the same, rolling inconspicuously along the road after him. He went past Neocrema, his sights set firmly on the Volvo up ahead. He was more than intrigued to see where exactly this
malaka
was going. He could luck out even more; Moleface might even lead him straight to the twins! But what he definitely couldn’t afford was Moleface getting even a sniff he was being followed. So John stayed well back, hoping soon he’d get off the backstreets and out onto a busy road so he could mingle with other cars. And that’s what Moleface finally did, turning out onto the High Road. John relaxed a little, now speeding up to make sure Moleface didn’t get away. He too turned onto the High Road, which was buzzing with traffic, plenty of cars for him to hide behind. He made sure there were at least two in front of him to offer subterfuge, but no more than that.

Soon, Moleface turned off the High Road onto Bruce Grove, and headed up towards the Great Cambridge Roundabout. John kept on his tail, wondering where he could be going. Why was he in his own car now and not in one of those MCS vans?
What was his game,
gamota
?
John sped past a dawdling Fiat, just as Moleface began to go pull away, suddenly looking like he was in a bit of a hurry. When he reached the roundabout, he turned left out onto the North Circular Road, heading towards Palmers Green. John kept on him. Moleface then went along the North Circ for about a minute before he indicated left. He pulled up onto the pavement, outside a row of houses. John wasn’t expecting that. He thought Moleface was intending to head all the way through the North Circ, not for him to suddenly stop on the road outside boarded up houses. So he carried on a bit further, before he too indicated and pulled up. He was now ahead of Moleface, and could no longer see what he was up to. He popped the bonnet and got out. Traffic buzzed through the dual carriageway like flies as he went to the front of his car. He lifted up the bonnet and held it there. He shifted to the side, taking a sly look past it. He could now see Moleface; he’d just got out of his car and was heading towards one of the houses. John looked around. The house in front of him was boarded up and derelict. A poster with the words ‘NO MOTORWAY HERE!’ printed on it in bold black letters was stuck on the bricked up space where the front window used to be. A lot of the houses on the North Circ were similar, but some still had regular occupants. Moleface headed towards one of the latter. Soon, he disappeared inside.

John lowered the bonnet for a second and stared at the house Moleface just entered, assuming it was where he lived. If it was, he now had him cornered.

Grab your gun,
re
, and go and ask him some questions…

Yeah, that looked like the next course of action. He dropped the bonnet; it clicked shut. He got back in the car, opened the glovebox, and had a paranoid look around. Traffic droned mindlessly by, and there wasn’t a soul to be seen on the pavement, neither left nor right. Satisfied there were no prying eyes, he grabbed his gun and discreetly checked it. His plan was to go in there, threaten Moleface to tell him what he wanted to know like ‘where are those damn evil twins? Where’s my delivery?’ that kind of thing.

He took in a deep breath while he stuffed the gun in his belt. He was all set, but the second he stepped out of the car, the front door Moleface disappeared behind a few seconds before opened up. John reacted. He dived back into his car and sat low in his seat. He waited a second or two before peeking into his rear view. He turned it to the left and right, searching for whoever it was that opened the door to show up in there. Eventually, they did. He now found himself watching Moleface walking back towards his car. But now there was someone with him. It was a man around sixty/seventy years old. Moleface had his arm around his waist, helping guide him to his Volvo. The old man didn’t look in good shape at all. In fact, he looked like he could barely walk without Moleface’s help.

Moleface held open the passenger door and helped the old man in.

John was nonplussed.

His dad? Granddad?
He had no idea.

He watched Moleface get back in his car and start it up. John copied. Soon after, Moleface was back on the North Circ. John watched him drive by before he too pulled out and got back on his tail. Moleface reached the traffic lights where he doubled back onto the opposite side of the dual carriageway. John followed. Now they were heading back the way they came.

Where is he going,
gamota
? And who is that with him?
He kept on them, wanting answers to the numerous questions surfacing in his mind. They passed beneath the Great Cambridge Roundabout this time instead of over it, coming off the North Circ and onto a slip road, which they followed round back onto the other side of the North Circ again.

This
malaka
is just going round in circles,
gamota
!

A little way up and Moleface turned left into a large car park. John looked around him trying to work out where he was. Then it hit him as he too pulled into the car park. He wound down his window and took a ticket from the machine; the barrier in front of him rose automatically, allowing him access into the hospital car park. He waited for Moleface to park up before finding a space for himself that wasn’t too close and not too far away from him. He killed the engine and took in his surroundings. A couple of haloed nurses walked past, probably on their lunch. A horned man in a suit and tie—a briefcase by his side—strolled confidently past, taking his keys from his trouser pocket and jangling them. In the distance, a bus pulled up outside the main building with the word ‘OUTPATIENTS’ painted above the entrance. This was North Middlesex Hospital and Moleface was bringing the old man here, whoever he was, ’cos he was clearly unwell.

John watched Moleface get out of the car and then help the old man out. He held onto his waist again as he guided him slowly towards the entrance.

John waited for them to get there before he got out of his car and followed them inside.

John followed them into Outpatients, passing by patients on crutches, special ambulance men helping old dears out of dial-a-rides, and drugged up cases hovering around wondering who they were and where they were supposed to be going. All around him were horns and haloes. Horns and haloes. Sick demons and angels. Just inside the entrance, some haloed old man was flogging second hand junk from a stall he’d set up in aid of the hospital—ex library children’s books; third hand video cassettes like
Batman the Movie
and
Goodfellas
; old LP records like Elvis and Gerry and the Pacemakers. John ignored it, instead turning left into the reception area. To his bemusement, he was met with what must have been a hundred horned and haloed people either sitting in chairs or just loitering around, all clutching small tickets in their hands and staring at the digital board up on the wall that read ‘139’ in big red numbers as if they were waiting for the winning lottery numbers to pop up.

This place is a fucking zoo,
gamota
,
he thought as he surveyed the scene. The whole area was all dirty and run down as if the taxpayer’s money hadn’t managed to filter down there yet. A horny, bald bloke then bumped into him as he made his way out, continuing with his journey without apology. John tutted in response and then began anxiously spinning his head around. For a horrible second, he thought he’d lost Moleface in the crowd. But as a doctor came through the double doors to his right, he caught a glimpse of the back of both Moleface and the old man beyond them. John got back on their trail, bumping past doctors and patients. He went through the double doors, where a sign on the wall on his left read ‘ONCOLOGY,’ an arrow beneath it pointing straight on.

Oncology? Isn’t that cancer,
re
?

Yeah,
onkos
is Greek for tumour… so it must be something to do with cancer…

Moleface/old man had by then made it to the end of the corridor. John put his head down and moved closer to the near wall, almost hugging it, wanting to stay low. When he reached the end of the corridor, he looked up. And when he did, what surrounded him hit him like he’d just been slapped with a wet fish. The corridor opened out into a much wider area, with chairs arranged around a big TV set that was showing some cookery
skata
. The chef—sporting a fat pair of horns—was tossing a pancake, the horned hosts giggling and jiggling around him like little devilish imps. Sitting on the chairs watching the TV were people, a lot of couples, mainly an older bunch. And there seemed to be a lot more haloes than horns here, in fact hardly any horns at all. But there was more to it than just that. John found himself staring trancelike at an old haloed woman who had a bulge in her neck the size of a tennis ball. It was a black, putrid mass of beetles that crawled and writhed, chewing away at the flesh on her neck. He tore his stare away to be met by a haloed middle-aged man who was slumped in his chair, with—John presumed—his wife next to him, wearing a red poncho. She held his hand with loving tenderness. Thin black lines branched up this man’s arms and neck like tattoos. When John looked again, he realised that he was staring at his veins. And that was the norm here. Black, pulsing tumours, and infected blood. Evil beetles and demonic flies eating people away like they were on today’s menu. And even behind his shades, John could see it all as clear as day.

His eyes then flicked over to the middle-aged man’s wife, and he now noticed the same black lines but thinner and shorter, fusing around her left temple, branching out of a very small black spot the size of a penny. His instincts told him that he was the only person in the world who knew it was there.

He couldn’t take any more. He closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead, his whole head suddenly feeling swimmy like he’d just had a hit of some kind of toxic gas.

I can see it,
gamota
. I can see their illnesses. I can see their cancer. I’m a fucking walking X-Ray machine!

He let out a scared, shaky sigh. He didn’t want to see it. Didn’t want to see this suffering.
Why was this happening? Why am I seeing this
skata
?

Then, a stern voice shouted at him from somewhere deep inside his core, the voice that had survived thirty-two years including
philaki
and a brief stint in the
strato
.
Never mind that now,
re
,
it said.
Get your shit together! You’re here for Moleface, nothing else, so go after him!