The Survival Game (6 page)

He let out a regretful sigh as he pulled into the Edmonton Camping & Caravan Site. Soon, they were surrounded by rows and rows of caravans and staring faces as he drove along the dirt path. John raised his hand to the scruffy-looking bloke sitting in a deck chair, draining a can of Guinness while scratching his balls with his free hand. He nodded his haloed head in response before taking another gulp of his drink.

Up ahead, some kids were playing football up against a yellow caravan, much to the anger of a haloed woman wearing a long, green skirt.

Further up, a family were working together on erecting a tent. Two kids were holding it up, while their father—his face lobster red—was hammering stakes into the ground. The mother watched them in silence, hands on hips, a frown on her mug, and horns planted neatly on her head.

The place was a crisscross of holidaymakers and semi/permanent residents.

But it was also home.

It was all they could afford. John had royally fucked up and he knew it. He so badly wanted to make up for things, get things straight once and for all.

He turned to face his wife again, to see her resting her chin on one hand, her other hand gently stroking her belly, a despondent expression now etched into her features. John took a prolonged glance at her belly, the sight of it reminding him just how much their relationship was kept afloat by lies. Something he’d recently come to realise in full. He was sure Alisha got herself pregnant on purpose. She said she’d always taken her pill, but
might
have forgotten one, or that for some reason they just hadn’t worked at that particular time. John thought that was the biggest load of
skata
he’d ever heard in his life. She did it on purpose; he was certain. He guessed as a kick up the
kolo
for him. Their marriage was supposed to be the motivation he needed to get his shit together, but it hadn’t turned out that way. Now he suspected that this was her final attempt to give him one more wake-up call. Maybe fatherhood would bring out the mature, responsible person in him. In a way, he thought it was genius. It gave him a time limit.

You’ve got nine months to sort this shit out,
her belly shouted at him every time they were within two feet of each other.
Find me a proper home, Daddy. Get me the nice life that you don’t have. Love me, Daddy. Love me.

However, another part of him hated her for stitching him up like a kipper. What did she think she was playing at? He wanted so badly to spell it out for her—

—We are struggling

—We have no money

—I cannot get a job

—We don’t have a proper home.

You wanna bring up a kid in the fucking sardine tin we’re living in?

But of course, he said nothing. She’d only deny getting herself pregnant on purpose. She’d just lie her way out of it and he knew it.

He finally pulled up by a big cream-coloured caravan, sitting beneath a large sycamore tree. A few t-shirts and old jeans were hanging over a clotheshorse beside it. A knackered deck chair was perched under the tree, a tatty umbrella propped up over it, offering a little shade. John killed the engine and got out of the car, the sudden rush to his head sending that pain shooting through it again. He grabbed a painkiller from the small tub in his pocket, threw it in his mouth, and chewed it, wincing at the bitter taste.

Alisha was struggling to get out of the car, so John quickly went over to help her. Her response was to push his arm away and walk off towards the caravan alone. On reaching it, she swung the door open and slammed it shut behind her.

John puffed his cheeks and then rubbed his eyes; they felt like hot ball bearings. In the background, children were shouting at each other, some fighting, some playing. He looked up and around him. As he stared with regret at the rows of caravans, the scraggy-looking people hanging around ’em, a few of them drinking Special Brew, big dogs by their feet drinking the same stuff from their bowls, he wondered exactly how he got himself into this
skata
.

Where did it all go so wrong,
gamota
?

The thought caused a wave of anger to suffuse him. He smashed his fists on the roof of his car, the loud clang ringing in his ears like tinnitus. He was sick of living like this. Sick of being skint. Sick of things going against him. He wanted a good life, a piece of the pie. He knew he owed Alisha big time and the delivery job had been helping him do just that. It was a good earner, and every delivery was a step closer to a new home. They’d worked out they needed at least thirty grand as a deposit on a new place; even if it was just a small flat like
Yiayia
’s—the one he’d already managed to lose—it was the first step. And he was finally getting there, slowly, slowly, earning good danger money from Aziz for making the delivery once, sometimes twice a month. But in the end, even that went tits-up.

Of all fucking things, mugged off in an alley,
gamota
.

Deep down, he knew there was trouble on the horizon. He needed to get that delivery back, not only to save his job, but to get this month’s wage off Aziz ’cos it was gonna go towards the new flat. Time was against him and he knew it.

Yeah, Alisha could go back to her old job once the
moro
came along, but that didn’t bring in all that much money anyway. It would mean a lifetime of just about surviving in a caravan.
How could he look his kid in the eye when he reached nine, ten years old living like that?
He’d get crucified at school when the other kids found out. Gyppo, pikey, they’d call him. Or
her
.

Gamota
, what if it’s a girl?

She’ll be emotionally damaged for life. At least a boy could answer them with his fists.
But did he really want that, as well?

Definitely not.

But there was a way out, a finish line—£30,000.

And once that magic number was reached, he intended to draw a fresh line, and this time he wouldn’t cross it. He’d be a new man, with a new life, and a new family.

He sparked up his first
cigarro
since the previous night and it tasted lovely like a chunk of chocolate after a crash diet. He trudged towards his caravan, sighing, his head burning, all around him children shouting. On his way, he made a promise to himself, Alisha, and his unborn
moro
. He promised he’d get them there. A new home. A new start. A good life.

He promised.

But to do that, he first had to find those
malakes
that mugged him off. And he had to find ’em fast.

Dread I shook the five rocks clutched in his fist like he was giving someone the Nescafé shake. All the while he was screwing hard at the scared
dawta
he’d tied up and slung on the floor like she was nuthin’ but a rag doll. He was in nah mood to fuck around and if she didn’t do what he wanted her to, she was gonna pay big style.

He dashed the rocks down on a nearby table like he was rolling dice at a casino crap table. They clunked across its surface, making the
dawta
flinch. Behind her gag, she was crying.

Dread I kissed his teeth hard. ‘Hush, ya tear, Shandy,’ he said in a compassionless voice while he watched the rocks bounce and roll with eager eyes. The noise coming out the bitch was too much for his head to handle right then. He already had enough headache to be dealing with without listening to her hollerin’.

Once the rocks became still, he went and stared down at them with big, wide eyes, scrutinising them, searching for answers to his questions. Behind him, Shandy was still crying.

‘I said hush ya fockin’ noise!’ he shouted over his shoulder in a voice that was dripping with rage.

Shandy stopped dead her noise and began to whimper like some kinda lick up dog. Dread I hated all forms of weakness. Hated listening to bitches bawlin’. A loud grainy voice in his head was telling him to go carve her up like a melon and leave her to bleed—it was the voice that’d lost him a million dollars and a million soldiers, the voice that once put him in a cage, the voice that acted first and considered consequences only when it was too late. The voice that
writhed
in the pleasure of inflicting pain any chance it got. Dread I learnt hard over the years when and where it was okay to listen to that voice, when to let it decide his fate, and also when to tell it to hush the fuck up.

It were nah
that
voice that built up a golden empire.

Right about then, he chose to ignore it ’cos the rocks on the table were burning amber, glowing with that same recently recurring image like a film on loop—a silhouette whispering in his ear, informing him; an all seeing eye absorbing information and relaying it for his ears only.

Dread I understood. He could see with a lucid clarity what the rocks were trying to tell him; that this bitch on the floor was gonna be an important piece in the revival of his falling empire.

His Babylon Empire.

He turned and faced Shandy, hands on hips. He stared down at her with dark, obsidian eyes. ‘Now, mi gonna aks ya some questions, ya hear?’ he told her in a cold, emotionless voice.

Shandy nodded her head feverishly, her brown eyes bulging out of her skull like golf balls.

Dread I picked up one of the rocks he dashed down on the table and held it in the air for Shandy to see. He then began to roll it in between his thumb and index finger. ‘Why you nah come see me no more?’ he asked in a more easy-going tone.

Shandy’s eyes rolled like crazy as if she were desperately seeking a quick fix answer from somewhere in her surroundings; the walls, the ceiling, the floor. But there were none available.

Dread I jumped over to her. He roughly pulled the gag down from her mouth, leaving it to dangle around her neck.

Shandy began breathing short and sharp, but still she didn’t speak.

‘Why you and no one else come see me no more? Huh?’ Dread I asked again in an even softer tone, juxtaposing his actions.

Shandy’s chest heaved. She went to speak, but she choked on her tears, making nothing but nasty guttural sounds. She shook her head at the same time, pleading with him to leave her alone. But Dread I wasn’t going to let her off lightly. He was desperate. Everything he’d built up—all the blood, sweat, and tears—was burning down around him like he was Nero. But he wasn’t prepared to just stand there and fiddle. He kissed his teeth hard just as a mad rush of anger surged through him, his face screwing up into a snarl. He bent over and grabbed Shandy by the hair. She let out a soundless scream, her vocal chords betraying her.

Dread I twisted the hand gripping her hair making her face turn up to meet his. ‘Why mi boys coming back with mi product and no money to give?’ he asked, loud and angry this time.

Shandy just shook her head in reply, trembling with terror.

‘Tell me!’ Dread I shouted as he yanked her head left and right. ‘Tell me, ya fockin’ whore!’

Shandy just continued to cry, unable (or unwilling) to answer.

‘
Fock dis!
’ Dread I spat before he dashed her back down to the floor with an angry grunt. She hit the carpet with a soft thud. She immediately rolled over and tried to crawl away in desperation. But her tied up limbs couldn’t take her far. Dread I chuckled to himself as he watched her try and crawl away like a baby. A contemptuous smile hung on his scarred face as he casually reached in his combat trouser pocket and pulled out a blackened glass pipe.

He blew out any dust and shit clogged inside it, then looked down at Shandy. ‘Wanna hit?’ he asked, wedging a rock into the end of the pipe.

Shandy made it to the sofa and was trying her best to get upright. In one stroke, Dread I shoved her over onto her side.

When her eyes locked onto what was in his hand, she began to shake her head vehemently. ‘No… no… no…’ she repeated endlessly, speaking for the first time in ages.

Dread I ignored her pleas and squatted down beside her. He put the pipe up to her face. ‘Put it in your mouth,’ he ordered.

She shook her head, her lips pursed tightly like a child being force fed Brussels sprouts.

‘Put it in!’ Dread I snapped. He grabbed her cheeks with his free hand and squeezed hard. Her lips popped open. He shoved the pipe in her mouth. It clanged against her teeth, but he forced it in regardless. He then pulled out a lighter from his pocket and sparked it up. Shandy watched the flame with terrified eyes as it arced across the air and met with the rock stuck in the pipe. A recognisable crackling sound soon filled the air, swiftly followed by that horribly familiar melting-plastic-like stench. The pipe was quickly consumed with thick white smoke.

‘Tek a lick,’ Dread I ordered. ‘Tek a lick,’ he repeated.

Shandy refused and managed to spit out the pipe from her mouth.

Dread I recoiled, but was soon back in her face. ‘Tek a fockin’ lick or I’ll
beat
ya and
rape
ya!’ he threatened.

He shoved the pipe in Shandy’s mouth again. She groaned, her eyes brimful with fear. Dread I could taste her terror; it was like milk ’n honey. He watched her lips tremble like leaves on a light wind with intense pleasure. A low murmur escaped from behind them. Dread I smiled, his gold tooth twinkling against the sunlight shining through the window.

‘Dere. Ya remember that feeling, Shandy, huh? Now tek a lick so ya can remember every
ting
I have to give you.’ He relit his lighter and held the flame next to the rock. It began to burn and sizzle again.

Shandy closed her eyes, tears squeezing out from between the lids and streaming down her cheeks. Against her will, she finally took a drag from the pipe. Dread I began nodding his head, liking what he was seeing—the way she was sucking on his pipe even though she didn’t want to. It reminded him of how eager she used to be for a hit just a few months before. She’d
beg
for it.
Do any
lickle
ting for it.
Sometimes she had no money to give. But she would beg.

Dread I would just laugh pitifully at her and say—‘
Ya know da rule dem, Shandy. Ya don’t have the cash, ya gotta suck for ya rock.
’