The Survival Game (7 page)

Dread I loved to humiliate, loved to violate. To feel like he owned ’em, like he owned their souls.

Nah, fock dat, he
did
own ’em, he
did
have their souls in his hands, and nuthin’ gonna change dat.
This bitch couldn’t run, she couldn’t escape, her soul was trapped in the fabric of his empire, and he was gonna make sure she understood that.

Shandy began coughing and choking out smoke from her lungs. She looked up at Dread I with groggy eyes that were swiftly glazing over, the terrific instantaneous hit of crack doing its thing.

She stared at Dread I for a while as if to say ‘
I’ve done what you want. Now leave me alone.
’

But Dread I shook his head in reply. ‘Nah, nah, Shandy,’ he said. ‘You smoke more. Come on. Lick it. I wanna see you smoke the whole ting.’

Shandy groaned. Dread I shoved the pipe back in between her lips again. He lit it up and she smoked more. This time, she took a bigger hit and she retched, spittle flying out of her mouth.

Dread I laughed. ‘Good. Good, Shandy. You smoke it up, and remember you belong to
me
. Ya hear?’

Shandy was now swaying from side to side in woozy arcs, her eyes rolling up into her head. She was beginning to buzz hard. Dread I shoved the pipe in her face for one more hit, and this time she took it willingly, sucking on it long and deep. After a big toke, Dread I grabbed her by the chin and tilted her head upwards. Now when he stared at her, he could see the remnants of the face he used to see all those times she was hungry for crack—the black holes for pupils, the rolling eyes, the longing desire for a hit. It was
allll
coming back. Even though she tried to run from it, Dread I knew it would always be there. Her desire and love for the drug he offered was returning, all she needed was a
lickle
memory jog.

He nodded his head slowly in appreciation of the good work he’d done. Shandy was puffing her cheeks, her eyes rolling wildly; she was out of it, inna outa space and enjoying the ride.

‘Aye, Shandy,’ Dread I said in a soothing voice. ‘This be some ultra high-grade killa shit ya smoking here, seen? Just for you.’

A bizarre smile flittered across her face. Bizarre ’cos in all truth, she had nothing to smile about right then.

Dread I began shaking her shoulders, trying to get some of her focus back. He needed her to speak. ‘Shandy. Shandy,’ he repeated.

She swayed and swooned in his hands, but couldn’t register him. He slapped her lightly across the cheek and something in her eyes suddenly came back, her pupils focussing in on him.

Dread I nodded his head firmly. ‘Now, Shandy. Ya gonna tell I every
ting
, ya hear?’

Shandy gazed at him through slitted eyes. She slowly nodded her head in understanding. She then reached out for the crack pipe in his hand.

Dread I looked down at it, before pulling it away. ‘First ya speak, then ya toke, seen?’

Shandy frowned. ‘
Okay…
’ she said, in almost a whisper.

‘Why you and no one else come see me no more?’ Dread I asked again.

This time, she answered. In a heavily slurred voice, Shandy spent the following hour spilling her guts, telling Dread I everything she knew.

And when she finished, she was begging him for another hit.

*****

John picked up a candle from the pile, and went over to the large sand-filled holder. A few other candles were already standing upright in the sand, burning brightly. He lit his own from the flame of another, and pushed it into the sand to burn with the others. He closed his eyes and muttered a small prayer for Mum and
Yiayia
before crossing himself. He followed up with a deep, juddering breath and a look around. St. Barnabas was empty. Deserted benches and lonely stained glass windows stared back at him, the eerie feeling they injected into him sending a shiver dancing up his spine. He was experiencing a proper bout of déjà vu, transported back to when he was a kid, dragged to this very place every Sunday against his will. At that time, he always wondered why
Yiayia
would put him through it week after week, the way she’d force-feed him her religion as if she were trying her best to knock the evil out of a demon; he could just never get his head around it. But once he learnt the truth about his father, he understood perfectly. Taking him to church and Sunday school was supposed to teach him right from wrong.

And look how that turned out,
gamota.

He wiped his clammy face with his hand as he began to walk down the aisle, wanting to get his business done so he could be away from these bad memories and get on the job. All around him, the empty benches watched him with sullen stares, that sense of eyes on him smothering him like noxious gas. When he looked up, he saw them—stained glass images and statues of sorrowful eyes, all beaming down at him. Watching his every move. Watching him come closer.

He made it near the pulpit before he turned right and headed that way, now amongst the benches. He turned and faced the front, then took a seat on a hard, bony bench. It creaked slightly under the pressure, the sound echoing around and around like he was on some kind of horror film set with Frankenstein and the Mummy. He sighed and tentatively glanced over both shoulders. This place more and more became
Yiayia
’s life the older she got. Probably sitting exactly where he sat right then, praying to Christ, lighting endless amounts of candles for her dead daughter. It became a ritual. He craned his neck up to see a huge painted image of the
Panayia
staring down at him. Goosebumps crawled all over him like ants as he locked eyes on the halo burning around her head.

She
was guiltless.
He
was guilty.

He pulled his weatherworn leather jacket to the side and stared down at the handle of the Glock he’d stuffed into his trouser belt. He’d just bought it from the Cornershop, a minimarket in the backstreets of Wood Green where you could get
whatever you wanted
. If he was gonna get that delivery back, he needed to fight fire with fire. He got caught cold once and he wasn’t gonna let it happen again.
They
had tools, now
he
had tools too.

The bloke at the Cornershop had his sales pitch down to a tee. He took John out back where he kept a bag full of guns and knives for sale to whoever wanted ’em. After handling a few others, he convinced John that the Glock was the best choice for him.

There’s seventeen bullets in magazine, my friend. It’s semi-automatic weapon. When magazine unload, barrel come back and stay; tell you is empty.

This is good gun, my friend. You can trust this gun.

Something about it all made John feel a little sick. Anyone with enough cash could get themselves a serious weapon in this city,
gamota
. Anyone.

He placed a hand around the handle. It was cold to the touch. While choosing his gun, he realised it was the first time he’d held one since the Cypriot
strato
. But it felt like it had been just the previous day; just like riding a bike, you never forget. Holding it reminded him of his rifle. The one they gave you when you first entered the barracks. The amount of time he spent messing around with that thing meant he could pick up virtually any gun at any time and use it with competence, the same way a trained chef can pick up any frying pan, use it at any hob, and still make perfect eggs.

He glanced up at the innocent eyes of the
Panayia
again. She stared down at him forever, her halo glowing brightly in the afternoon light, even though the sky outside was military grey. When Aziz said that ‘this is war. This is life,’ back at the hospital, he wasn’t wrong. John never envisaged there’d be a very dark side to his delivery job. Part of the job
was
to protect the delivery against thieves, and he failed that part of it. He got sloppy. If protecting the delivery meant using a gun, then so be it. But he only realised this now, when it was too late. Even though he wasn’t there long, the
strato
trained him to be a merciless killer, to snuff out the lives of other soldiers. Especially Turkish soldiers. John came to the realisation soon after joining that he didn’t believe in these ideologies. It wasn’t his philosophy. He didn’t want to kill. He was a pacifist, believing in giving people the benefit of the doubt. So he came back to London to live with
Yiayia
again, his tail between his legs, a traitor in some Greeks’ eyes. A disloyal traitor. A snake that shouldn’t be trusted.

And John had to live with that label ever since.

Even though he didn’t complete his training, he did enough to develop the cold-blooded nature needed to kill. Killing ‘in the name of war,’
gamota
. Which in John’s eyes was still murder, the worst kind of
armatia
. And if he used the gun in his belt on the people who mugged him off the other night, it would be
armatia
on a level he’d never been to. And so he’d have to atone for murder.

But this is war, this is life…

He took in a deep, shuddering breath, looking from the
Panayia
’s image down to the gun in his belt. He then looked up to meet her sorrowful eyes again.

He let out a heavy sigh, feeling torn inside. ‘Please help me,’ he said to the
Panayia
. ‘Give me the strength to do this. And please forgive me.
Please
…’

A voice to his left then made him start. ‘
Yiannaki?
’

His head twitched round and he found himself staring at
Papa
Phillipo, who was standing at the end of his bench. He hadn’t even noticed him. A halo glowed brightly around the whole of his head, making him look like a human candle.

‘What are you doing here?’
Papa
Phillipo asked.

John quickly pushed the gun back down into his trousers, pulled his jacket across his body, and crossed his arms over his chest.

He then cleared his throat. ‘I came to light a candle for my mum and
Yiayia
,’ he told
Papa
Phillipo.

Papa
Phillipo nodded his head in understanding.

‘How come
you’re
round here?’ John then asked him. ‘It isn’t Sunday.’

Papa
Phillipo smiled. ‘I come here
every
day, Yiannaki. This is my church.
And
yours.’

Papa
Phillipo then began to walk towards John. John shifted over in his seat, turning his body away from him.

‘It’s good to see you here, Yiannaki,’
Papa
Phillipo said as he got close to him. ‘I haven’t seen you in here since
Yiayia
died.’

John lowered his head; partly in response to the mention of
Yiayia
’s death, and partly to check that he’d hidden the gun properly. The last thing he wanted was
Papa
Phillipo to clock it. That would be very bad.

‘I don’t get much time to come down here,’ John replied. ‘Especially since I got married.’

‘
Ah
yes,’
Papa
Phillipo said and smiled. ‘How is Alisha?’

John shrugged. ‘She’s all right. Apart from being seven months pregnant…’

Papa
Phillipo’s face lit up. ‘
Ah
, congratulations. Wow, you’re going to be a father? I had no idea,
re
.’

John slowly shook his head. ‘No, I don’t think either of us have seen you since you refused to marry us, have we?’

Papa
Phillipo sat down next to John, leant forwards and placed his wrists on the backrest of the bench ahead of them, his fingers interlocked.

He remained staring forwards as he answered. ‘I didn’t
refuse
you, Yiannaki. The Greek Orthodox Church cannot marry a Christian to a Muslim. You know that.’

John gave him a rueful grin. ‘She doesn’t even practice Islam, Phillipo. It’s just the religion her parents follow and even they’re moderate. I just thought it would be nice for my cousin to marry us in his church instead of having to go to a registry office.’

Phillipo sighed. ‘And it saddened me too, Yiannaki. But those are the rules I have to follow. I made that clear when you asked me to marry you both.
I
don’t make the rules, but I have to follow them,
re
.’

John flipped his hand on the air. ‘Whatever, Phillipo. You know I don’t agree with you or the church on that.’

Phillipo briskly nodded his head. ‘Yes, you made your feelings very clear at the time,
re
Yiannaki…’

John crossed his arms over his chest. ‘Anyway, are you
sure
that was the real reason?’

Phillipo turned his head to face him, a confused expression now on his bearded face. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Are you sure it wasn’t ’cos she’s black and the local Greek community wouldn’t have been best pleased to see a Greek man marry a black woman in
their
church, and the Muslim angle was just a convenient excuse?’

Phillipo’s serious expression melted into a chuckle. ‘You’re being paranoid again, Yiannaki. I can assure you it had nothing to do with her skin colour. We are in the twenty first century now.’

‘Really? Your dad could’ve fooled me. At the time, he said I’d disgraced the names of my mum and
Yiayia
by wanting to marry a
mavroua
.’

Phillipo raised his eyebrows and smiled wryly. ‘My father is old fashioned in his ways…’

John sharply flipped his hand in the air. ‘It’s not just him, anyway. It’s the others as well. Since I got married, I’ve been treated like a leper. Most of my Greek friends don’t wanna know me any more. It’s like I’ve got a disease, man. I mean what is it that I’ve done that’s so wrong?’

Phillipo sighed. ‘
Re
, Yiannaki, do you want me to spell it out for you? You’ve committed a lot of
armaties
in your life. You walked out on the
strato
. You sold drugs.
Philaki
. All of these things would be used to judge you way before the fact that you’re married to a black woman.’

John’s face scrunched up. ‘Yeah well, not all of that was my fault. Especially
philaki
; I was stitched up,
re
.’ He shrugged his shoulders and held them there. ‘I mean come on, how did
astinomia
know I had a key of hash at the flat? They couldn’t have. I’m telling you,
re
, someone who did know grassed me up. Never found out who though, but know it must’ve been someone I proper pissed off.’ John sniffed hard and wiped his nose. ‘Good job they didn’t bust me a few days earlier ’cos they would’ve found two keys, but I’d shifted one already. Would’ve got a much harsher sentence than that
putana
of a judge already gave me.’ John adjusted in his seat. ‘Still remember that day they busted me, remember the look on
Yiayia
’s face. She was ashamed…’