The Survival Game (14 page)

Moleface then began briskly shaking his head. ‘No. No one,’ he replied.

The old man then groaned again. ‘
Co sie stało?
’ he asked Moleface.

‘
Nie martw sie, Wujka
,’ Moleface replied in a soft voice.

‘Go in the front room,’ John ordered, not knowing what these two
malakes
were saying to each other and not liking it either. ‘Go!’

Moleface started up again, slowly shuffling along with his temporary Siamese twin.

‘Quick!’ John snapped.

Moleface huffed, and tried pushing the old man along the corridor faster. The old man groaned.

‘Don’t worry, old man, this will all be over soon,’ John told him as they entered the lounge. ‘Sit him down over there,’ he said, pointing at the cushioned armchair near the TV. Moleface did as he was told, and the old man collapsed into the chair like a demolished building. His chest deflated; he relaxed into his seat with a sigh of relief.

‘Good. Now you…’ John said, looking around. He pointed his gun at the sofa on his left. ‘You put your arse there.’

Moleface obediently went and sat down. John moved past him to the window. He looked outside. The traffic just droned past as normal, and the pavement in both directions was empty.

He took off his shades, and then turned his attention back to Moleface. ‘You remember me?’ he asked him. ‘Huh?’

Moleface stared at him with surprised eyes. ‘Yes,’ he replied, just as he rolled his eyes towards the carpet.

The old man then gasped loudly, making John snap his head round to face him. His wide eyes were fixed firmly on the gun in his hand. ‘
Pistolet!
’ he said sharply. ‘
Dlaczego?
’

‘Tell him to shut up and everything will be all right,’ John ordered Moleface.

Moleface just gave John a blank stare.

‘Go on!’ John urged.

Moleface turned to face the old man and tried his best to calm him down. The old man began waving his arms around like an angry octopus. It meant that Moleface had to work harder to get him to stop. After a few seconds of arm waving, the old man flopped back in his chair, exhausted.

Moleface turned his attention back to John. ‘He is sick,’ he informed him.

‘Yeah, I know,’ John replied. ‘And I’m not gonna hurt him. I just wanna know where Marek is. Does he live here?’

Moleface looked at the carpet again, and shook his head.

‘But,
you
do,’ John guessed.

Moleface nodded.

‘Where’s Marek then?’

Moleface hesitated, his eyes rolling around in their sockets like ball bearings.

‘Don’t fuck with me!’ John snapped. ‘What is he, your brother?’

Moleface looked up at John and his eyes were now crystal clear blue. They starkly contrasted the black horns that sat on his head. ‘My cousin.’

‘Your cousin. So,
he’s
your uncle,’ John asked, cocking his gun towards the old man.

Moleface nodded.

‘A tight family, eh?’ John said, his voice laced with contempt. ‘You all look after each other, take each other to hospital, help each other mug innocent people…’

Something on the sideboard then caught his attention and he went over to it. It was a framed photo of a younger Valeria. Her graduation picture. She was all gowned up. A pair of horns and goatee had been scribbled on her head and face with black felt tip pen. Sitting on the sideboard next to it was a photo of an even younger Marek. He was dressed in a muddy football kit, proudly holding aloft a trophy. The smile on his mug was wider than the Thames.

‘He plays football, eh?’ John asked.

‘Used to,’ replied Moleface. ‘He hurt his knee. Cannot play now.’

‘
So he went into the mugging game instead did he?
’ John asked Moleface sardonically. He looked from Moleface to the photo again. ‘Which knee did he hurt?’

‘His right,’ Moleface replied in an increasingly agitated tone.

John turned his mouth downwards and nodded his head.
Popped his right knee. Killed his career. Classic tale of a bright young thing never fulfilling his potential.
Skata.

He picked up the photo and held it up in the air in front of the old man. ‘Your son?’ he asked.

The old man just stared at him with a blank expression on his face.

‘He doesn’t understand you,’ Moleface told him. ‘He speaks no English.’

John rolled his eyes. ‘
Good man, your son,
’ he said, nodding his head, his voice loaded with irony.

The old man gave him a fake smile and began nodding his head too, most probably not knowing what the hell this bloke with the gun was saying to him, but just agreeing to keep him sweet.

John put the photo back in its place. ‘Right. This is what we’re gonna do,’ he then said, getting down to business. ‘The old man’s coming with me in
my
car. You’re gonna follow us in
your
car. When we get to where we’re going, you’re gonna give Marek a call and tell him to come and meet us.
He
hands over what he stole from me,
I
hand over his dad. Simple.
If
you try anything on the way like driving off or if I
think
you’re trying anything, or
about
to try anything, I’ll drive down a dark secluded road and put a bullet into your uncle’s head.
You got it?
’

Moleface’s chest tightened. John could see the pain written all over his mug, knowing exactly what he was going through ’cos for once it was someone else who’d just been given the impossible choice.

Moleface finally nodded, an extremely fed up look now plastered on his mug.

‘Trust me, mate, I didn’t want any of this,’ John told him. ‘I just want my shit back. You got a problem with that, you have it out with your cousin.’ He turned back to the window and checked the streets. The pavement was clear. ‘Okay. Let’s go. Help your uncle.’

Moleface reluctantly stood and held his hand out to the old man, who stared back at him with pained eyes. ‘
Chodz, Wujka. My musimy zostawiac teraz
,’ Moleface told him.

‘
Gdzie?
’ the old man asked, glancing from Moleface to John.

‘We go to car. We drive away,’ John informed him, miming someone operating a steering wheel as he spoke. ‘Up!’

Moleface reached down and grabbed his uncle by the arm, hastily helping him to his feet. The old man moaned loudly as he struggled to get up. Once he made it, Moleface put his arm around him and once again, they became Siamese.

John moved up behind them, and poked his gun into Moleface’s back. ‘Give me your phone,’ he ordered, and held out his free hand. He didn’t want Moleface making any calls from his car. Moleface reached into the pocket of his jeans, pulled out his mobile, and handed it to John.

John pocketed it. ‘I’ll give you it back when we get to where we’re going so you can phone Marek.’ He put his shades on, and nudged Moleface with his gun in the small of his back. ‘Let’s go.’

Moleface/old man Kolovski headed for the front door. John was pleasantly surprised just how smoothly he was handling the situation. Cool as a fucking cucumber,
gamota
. Even though he had no intention of hurting the old man, he was a hundred and ten percent sure there was no way Marek would risk his father’s life for the delivery. And at this rate, he reckoned he could have it back in Aziz’s lap within the hour.

If Marek hasn’t moved it on himself already,
re
…
He quickly told himself not to think like that. He hadn’t moved it on. Nah, he had a funny feeling that Marek wasn’t looking to make a profit. There was some other reason; he just couldn’t quite work out…
Maybe something to do with the old man? Who knew…?

They got to the front door and Moleface stopped to open it. He pulled the handle down, and swung the door wide open for them both. They began shuffling outside. John ducked his head down and followed up behind, his gun wedged firmly into the small of Moleface’s back. The sound of the droning traffic was now very loud, but something abruptly broke it like a scratched record. Loud aggressive Ragga filled the air like tribal war drums. Tyres screeched on tarmac. A car door slammed shut soon after. John heard all these sounds, but they only registered somewhere at the back of his mind.

The next thing he heard however, was clear as crystal. It was a gruff voice. ‘
Get back inside!
’

John’s head flinched upwards. He frowned.
Who said that?
He peeked over Moleface’s shoulder. When he clocked the twin barrels of the shotgun pointing straight at the three of them, his eyes almost popped right out of his skull. He flicked his head upwards to get a look at who was holding it, and when he did, he instantly removed his shades just to make sure he was really seeing what he thought he was seeing.

Standing in front of them was a brick outhouse, wearing a camouflage coloured tee and khaki combat pants. Dog tags dangled round his neck like he’d just stepped out of ’Nam. Big, thick dreadlocks sprouted out of his head and hung around his shoulders like jungle vine. Horns—loads and loads of ’em that made the evil doc’s horns back at North Mid look like mere thorns on a rose bush—covered his head like a viral infection. But when John stared at the eyes embedded in this bloke’s deeply scarred face, his balls curled right up into his body like hazelnuts, ’cos they were the cold grey eyes of a dead fish. Lifeless and gleamless, the greyish/brown skin beneath ’em puffy and saggy as if they’d never seen a night’s sleep.

John tried to blink it all off, but the whole intimidating image was still there for him to see afterwards—some kind of monster/zombie Yardie, and he looked proper pissed,
gamota
.

‘I said get back in ya fockin’ yard!’ The Yardie said with more aggression, and raised the shotgun more threateningly.

Moleface spun his head round to face John, and gave him a look that said ‘what shall I do?’

John stayed put behind the Siamese uncle and nephew, and poked his gun out the side of them so that the Yardie could see it, even though it was no match for the mighty tool he was already threatening them with. ‘Get the fuck out of here!’ he snapped with fake gusto. ‘Go on. Do one. This has got nothing to do with
you.
This is between me and
them.
’

‘Who the
rass
you be?’ the Yardie shouted over the combined shoulder of Moleface/old man, trying to get a look at who it was hiding behind them. ‘What click you roll with?’

‘What?’ John replied, confused. ‘I don’t
roll
with any click, for fuck’s sake.’ This was getting out of hand. If someone saw them like this… ‘Look. I came here to do a kidnapping and you’re fucking it up for me!’

The Yardie stepped back, and pointed his shotgun at the dead centre of them all. ‘Look like you da one who be kidnap,
bredda
,’ he replied. ‘Now, get ya
rass
back inside, or mi gonna make a
big
fockin’ hole through all three a ya!’

Moleface turned his head to the side. ‘I think we should do as he says,’ he suggested.

John tutted. ‘I think you should shut the fuck up and leave the thinking to me, all right?’ But the
malaka
was right. This Yardie didn’t look the type to fuck around. And John’s gun was a peashooter compared to his,
gamota
. He sighed and took another look through Moleface/old man at the Yardie to try and get a new feel for him, see if he really was
loco
. When he did, one of the Yardie’s dreads suddenly came alive. It sprang up, hissed, and snapped its mouth on the air like a snake. John flinched back, not wanting go near it.

‘Ya got three second before mi start shooting,
bredda
,’ the Yardie then warned. ‘One!’

John huffed. ‘For fuck’s sake! Okay! Okay!’ he shouted, frustrated and angry. ‘Come on then. Let’s go.’ He began dragging Moleface/old man backwards. The old man groaned out loud. His day was going from bad to worse, the poor old sod.

Once they were back in, the Yardie followed them inside. ‘That’s right. In dere,’ he said, indicating the front room.

John backed up into the front room, making sure he stayed behind uncle and nephew, not wanting the Yardie to get a clear shot at him, just in case… Once inside, Moleface helped his uncle back down into his chair. He flopped back with a tortured groan. Moleface took his seat on the sofa again. John backed up and took the seat by the window, and they were now back where they were two minutes beforehand. The Yardie stepped in the room after them and John could now see just how big the
malaka
was. His snake dreads were now dancing round his horned head like he was Medusa. But, unlike her eyes that turned people to stone, his eyes were stone dead. Dead fish eyes.

John leant forwards and carefully placed his gun on the coffee table to show he meant no harm. He then crossed his arms over his chest and huffed.

‘Where Marek?’ the Yardie then asked, looking round them one by one with his dead eyes. Silence answered him. He pumped his gun, making the old man flinch. He bent down and put his face right in the old man’s. His snake dreads looked to John like they were biting the old man all over his head and face, but he didn’t even notice.

‘Mi looking for Marek,’ the Yardie told him. ‘Where he at? Upstair? You his pops? Tell I where he is.’

The old man just stared at him with frantic eyes and shrugged his shoulders.

‘He doesn’t understand you,’ John said in an exasperated voice. This
malaka
was wasting valuable time and he was getting more and more agitated. ‘He doesn’t speak English.’

The Yardie stared at the old man with contempt. ‘
Rhaatid!
’ he said to the air ahead of him.

‘You may as well speak to the fucking walls, bruv!’ John told him.

The Yardie turned to face him. ‘That so,
bredda
?’

John gave him a sarcastic smile and nodded. ‘Yeah. We were just about to—’

He was cut off mid sentence as the Yardie, suddenly and without warning, stuck the business end of his shotgun into the old man’s chest and ruthlessly pulled the trigger. The gun exploded. The old man’s body slammed back into his chair before it collapsed completely.