The Survival Game (24 page)

Remember that,
gamota
?

Yeah, he could see it in his mind’s eye, clear as day. The shotgun exploding and old man Kolovski’s chest caving in. He shivered. Yeah, he’d have to watch his step all right, keep his eyes wide open and not say anything to upset anyone. ’Cos even though John was alone, he was sure as hell Dread I wouldn’t be.

He rolled past a few kids in hoodies bunched around a park bench, doing what kids do these days (which was basically nothing much), keeping his eyes peeled for the underground car park. He spotted it up ahead. A butterfly flittered through his stomach as he turned into it. Once inside, he killed his headlights and slowed to a crawl. He looked around. Even though there a few lowlights remained on, the place was dark and empty, bar the odd solitary car sitting there in the gloom like ditched lovers. He followed the painted arrows on the tarmac that led down to the lower level. He rolled around the U bend, moving downwards with the sloping road.

Remember
re
, keep your eyes open,
he kept telling himself. He had no idea what was waiting for him once he rounded the corner. It could be anything. Anything. He kept his eyes peeled as he finally entered the underground level of the car park. It was even gloomier down here and completely deserted. Like a ghost town.

Except for the army jeep sitting there in the far corner like an alligator loitering in a swamp, awaiting prey.

A whole swarm of butterflies suddenly flew freely around his stomach.

The jeep was parked facing the wall, and as all the windows including the rear were blacked out, he couldn’t see who was inside. He pulled the handbrake up and took a few seconds to gather himself. There was no one else around, which suddenly became unnerving. He was all alone with that fucking army jeep, which somehow had an aura of dread about it. And now he could hear the faint rumblings of basslines emanating from inside it, making it tremble under the stress.

His attention turned to the glovebox. He opened it. His Glock sat there like a panther watching its prey in the undergrowth. He quickly reached in, took it out and stuffed it in his belt. Suddenly, he felt a whole lot better about things. He released the handbrake, got moving again and parked up in the opposite corner of the car park from where the jeep sat. He killed the engine and now the basslines from the jeep became louder. He closed his eyes and took in a deep breath to steady himself. He didn’t wanna fuck this up, didn’t wanna miss this opportunity. It was his last chance, his final throw of the dice. He stared at his reflection in the rear view. His eyes were bloodshot and his eyelids were ringed black. Stress and a lack of sleep were taking their toll. His halo had also dimmed. In fact it was nothing more than a shadow painted over his head, crackling with black static.

‘Get this
malaka
on side and let him do all the dirty work for you,’ he told the horror mask that was staring back at him in the rear view. And that
was
the plan. Nothing more, nothing less. He clenched his fist and smacked it into his open palm, geeing himself up. He sparked up a
cigarro
and took a long drag. Now, he felt much better. Stronger. Finally, he opened the door and stepped out of the car. He pulled the hood on his hoodie over his head and stuffed his hands in the pockets. He kept his stare aimed at the ground as he marched up to the jeep with a purposeful stride, while taking intermittent puffs on his
cigarro
. He could feel eyes burning on him from behind the tinted windows, but was unable to see them. When he was a few feet away from the jeep, the rumbling basslines inside died down and the passenger window suddenly slid downwards, stopping him dead in his tracks. A harsh light shone out from beyond the window into his eyes, causing him to squint badly. He turned his head to the side.

‘
Who go dere?
’ A voice said from behind the intense beam.

John suddenly felt as if he had just been pulled by
astinomia
and they were shining their torches into his eyes to temporarily blind him. An Old Bill trick that they were very fond of.
Malakes
.

‘I’m looking for Dread I,’ John shouted to the air next to him.

The light then flicked off, dumping the area into obscurity again, and John could now comfortably face the jeep once more. The interior light came on and he could now make out someone sitting there in the passenger seat. When he managed to blink away the purple and green splotches the torchlight had imprinted on his vision, a face was revealed. Suddenly, he found himself staring at those eyes again. Those dead, lifeless eyes. Dead fish eyes. They hung in their sockets like old sagging titties. He wanted to look away, to not have to see those things. But he didn’t want to look like a pussy either. Couldn’t afford to, not with this bloke. He forced himself to stare, to withstand the pressure of wanting to look away.

‘Dey all look for Dread I,
bredda
. Dey all wanna piece a Dread I. But, dey only find him if
he
be looking for
dem
first.’ A big grin then spread across Dread I’s mug, and his snake dreads began to dance wildly as if excited by John’s presence. But even though he was smiling, Dread I’s eyes still sagged and remained gleamless. ‘Come ’ere.’

John moved closer to the jeep, not wanting to get too close, but just close enough. He knew he reached that point when he got a massive whiff of burning skunk, which stirred up memories of his drug days. He stopped dead and waited, not letting his stare leave Dread I.

Dread I then looked him up and down, sizing him up. ‘Ya wanna roll with us,
bredda
?’ he asked once he finished and locked eyes with John again.

‘I think we can help each other,’ John replied in a confident tone, taking a puff on his
cigarro
.

‘That so?’ Dread I retorted, nodding his head.

‘Yeah. The Kolovski twins. You want ’em. I want ’em too.’

‘Ya know where dey are?’

‘Better than that. I know where their factory is.’

Dread I’s mouth turned downwards. ‘That right,
bredda
?’

John nodded his head with assurance. ‘That’s right,’ he said.

Dread I laughed out loud to himself, and John was once again listening to that rusty blade laugh, the one that made the skin on the back of his neck crawl. When Dread I stopped laughing, his grin disappeared like aircraft in the Bermuda Triangle.

He stared sternly at John with his scarred, chiselled face. ‘Why you wanna bring ’em down?’ he asked.

John took a final drag on his
cigarro
and threw the butt to the side. ‘Marek nicked something from me,’ he informed Dread I. ‘I want it back. But he’s got a crew. A big crew.’

Dread I’s mouth turned downwards again. ‘A big crew huh? Bigger than mine,
bredda
? Mi got hundreds a soldiers lining the streets ready fi war, seen?’

John remained poker faced. ‘Like I said—we can help each other.’

Dread I just nodded his head and stared.

‘So, what’s
your
beef with them?’ John then asked, not sure if he should be asking, but wanting to know exactly where they both stood.

‘Business,
bredda
. Business. Dem kill off mi trade. Mi want it back! Nothing gonna take away mi empire,
YA UNNERSTAND
!’ Dread I was rapidly getting more and more tetchy, leaning further out of the window, and John got ready to reach for his gun if he had to. He could feel his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down his throat, his body anticipating something was about to go down. After a second, Dread I seemed to calm down and he fell back in his seat.

He stared ahead, out of the windscreen for a small while. ‘Ya wanna roll with us,
bredda
,’ he then said to his windscreen in a calmer voice. ‘Ya haffa tek a test. Pass initiation into mi crew.’ He turned to face John. ‘Get inna da back.’

The rear door of the jeep then swung open, releasing a hot gush of skunk and some aggressive Ragga playing on low. John peeked inside to see two horned blokes in the back, one with braided hair, the other clean-shaven. Baldy was toking on a fat spliff while Braids had what looked like a submachine gun sitting on his lap. But that wasn’t the crazy thing about him. The crazy thing was that he appeared to be no more than ten years old. They both stared at John with tough inner city scowls, and even though they were blatantly young, their eyes held precisely zero percent fear.

John cautiously approached the car. He had his tool, but this lot were packing proper hardware. His pistol was no match for a submachine gun,
gamota
. The seat next to Braids was beckoning and he went towards it, not wanting to, but knowing he had to. He reluctantly entered the jeep, taking the seat next to the Braids. John looked into his youthful eyes, sensing the hatred burning inside them. It was like looking at twin volcanoes, hot and merciless. They were a complete contrast to his boss’s dead eyes. These burned with life, just the dark, hateful side of it.

The driver then turned his head and faced John, sizing him up. His head was covered in small dreads that sprouted spider-plant-like from his scalp. Two horns neatly poked out from somewhere inside them. A deep scar ran from his forehead down his cheek, the sight of it broken by the shades we wore to presumably cover a damaged eye.

If they were in the Wild West and not North London, this lot would be sleazy looking Mexicans in sombreros, sporting handlebar moustaches, rotten teeth and thick stubble, who spat thick brown phlegm on the ground and who walked around lawlessly from bar to whorehouse with bullet belts strapped across each shoulder like they were a fashion accessory. John didn’t feel any kind of comfort being amongst them at all, but this wasn’t about making friends, this was serious business. This was about getting to Marek so he could carry on catching fish for his wife and
moro
to eat.

He made sure to leave the door open just in case he suddenly had to do a runner, nor did he sit back and get comfy, instead sitting on the edge of his seat so he could make a sharp exit if he had to. Baldy offered him a puff on his spliff and he declined. He wanted a clear head right then, didn’t want anything to slow him down. After all, that
could
be their plan, slow him down, so he’d be easier to take care of.

And why exactly would they do that,
re
? Get a grip…

‘Now, you wanna roll with us,’ Dread I then said, making John turn his head in his direction. ‘Ya haffa prove ya worth.’

He sighed. ‘What do you want me to do?’ He wasn’t planning on having to take any test
skata
just to get Dread I on side.
But, surely it couldn’t be anything bad. Could it?

‘Mi
bredrin
here, Green T,’ Dread I said slapping Baldy on the knee. ‘His sister, she a whore. She work inna massage parlour over Edmonton way. The pimp running tings down dere’s a man called the Cobra. Marcel Dobra AKA Dobra the Cobra. Ya heard a him?’

John frowned and shook his head in response. ‘Nah, should I?’

‘He one a Marek’s boys.’

John’s face scrunched up in confusion. ‘
Yeah
?’ he retorted in a surprised voice. ‘That’s a coincidence.’

‘
Hm-hm.
He went inna the pimping business when he come over. He pick up the girlies from round the way and stick his fockin’ amber and other drugs into dem system. He like to mix it ’cos it twist ’em up, that way he can tek control a dem mind. He then sell ’em and use ’em for his own personal perversion, ya seen?’

John glanced at Green T to see his eyes lined with tears and glittering with rage.

‘He be there now, with Green T’s sister, getting her high on amber, coke, weed, any
ting
he can find. Try and mash up her head ’fore he get
real
busy…
He like the way a black woman
punani
taste, ya get me?
’

John looked away from Green T and down at his hands. ‘How d’ya know about Dobra?’ he then asked.

‘He killed mi informer,’ Dread I replied.

John looked up. ‘How d’ya know that?’

‘The rock dem tell I…’

John’s brow furrowed in confusion. ‘
Right…
So, what’s this amber thing?’

‘Ya don’t know? That’s the drug they cook up in that factory, the stuff killing mi trade on mi own fockin’ doorstep.’

Something in John’s mind clicked, and another piece of the jigsaw finally fit into place.
So that was what Valeria was making in there!
Amber.
But what the hell’s amber?
He’d never heard of it. Even though he was off the scene, he thought he would’ve at least heard of a new drug doing the rounds. It had to be something super new.

‘And it’s
more
addictive than crack?’ John asked incredulously.

‘Nah addictive,
bredda
; it detox dem addiction,’ Dread I informed him. ‘It
cleaner
. Cheaper. Nah paranoia. Don’t fock up the body like dem other drug, seen? People can work and live dem life normal, ya get me? It make ’em…’ Dread I stared into the distance for a second or two. ‘
It make ’em ’appy…
’ he finished, continuing with that distant stare.

John looked away. If what he was saying was true, then yeah, a drug like that would take the fucking market by storm, and would put all the others to bed.
Christ, if that fucking Valeria
putana
invented that then she really must be a genius,
gamota
!

‘So, what d’ya want me to do about it?’ John then asked. He’d already ascertained that Dobra had something to do with this initiation
skata
, what exactly he didn’t know, but he had a few ideas where this was leading. And it wasn’t good…

‘Tonight, Green T gonna pass initiation into mi crew. Him gonna go kill the Cobra. You go too. Make sure the Cobra die, and then you can ride with us…’

John’s face screwed up. ‘You what?’ he exclaimed. ‘Go with him into a brothel and pull a hit on a pimp? You joking?’

Dread I then chuckled hard, and that rusty blade sound filled the car again. John felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand to attention.