by Anton Marks
“Deacon, look I...”
Deacon’s index finger snapped up to his lips and Prentiss went mute immediately.
“No ring, two of my best trigga man pan lock dung and you waltz in, smelling like a rose with excuses. That have me worried and you know what, I’m the distrusting sort from morning.”
Deacon opened the door his elbow rested on and stepped out of the car as if he needed fresh air to continue talking.
He suddenly peered back in at him.
“You should have asked deh Babylon for witness protection.”
He slammed the door shut and walked two paces away.
Prentiss did not move but instead stared straight ahead bug eyed, the muscles of his neck taut.
The time it took Deacon to reach into his jacket for his pre-rolled spliff and slip it into his parted lips, a silent shadow floated out of the industrial detritus on the other side of the Audi. A gloved hand gently touched the passenger side glass and Prentiss looked up from inside sensing he was being watched. Three silenced rounds punctured the glass in rapid succession, exploding the interior in a crimson shower. The assassin stood beside the car with the gun smoking in the chill morning, almost reverently looking at his handiwork.
Deacon lit the spliff took a draw and glanced over to the passenger seat and then at Troy.
“Clean up dat piece a shit and bring me my replacement ride.”
Troy spoke into his mobile and the massive shutter doors to his right clattered open and the roar of the V8 engined Silver Mercedes 400SL made its presence felt by idling up beside the blood spattered Audi and stopping. The driver opened up the door and literally jumped out in greasy overalls and a tool pan. The man had long shoulder length auburn hair, pale complexion, Ozzy Osbourne type dark shades and a brilliant smile that bellied his profession as a gangland fixer.
“I thought yuh were busy?” Deacon asked, taking an intake of smoke.
“I was but as one of my best customers I made the effort,” he walked over to the Audi and opened the door.
“Nice bouquet. Can’t accuse you Jamaican’s of being boring. I think your man shit himself though Mr Deacon.
“I wouldn’t expect anyting less from a pussy like him. When will I get my car back with all traces of his sorry rass gone?”
Ozzy scratched his head.
“No body work required, window repair, bullet retrieval, upholstery repair and cleaning. I’ll bring it over tomorrow.”
Deacon had already slipped into the Mercedes and his driver was pulling away as he recounted events in his head and weaved in new strategies into the tapestry of his ever evolving plans. Messr. Remy his Haitan Vodun had warned them about the powerful guard ring Spokes wore – he had pinpointed it from a set of surveillance photograph’s they had taken of him. Only then had Deacon started to understand why all of their attempts to capture him had failed. No torture sessions to extract what Spokes knew would be possible if they could not get close to him. It would take magic to give them a window of opportunity so they could render his charmed jewellery inert. The shottas had been rendered non-threatening to Spokes guard ring for literally one hundred heart beats by an elaborate spell Remy had conjured - time enough to relieve deh country bwoy of his finger. Instead the reports from a watcher he had planted in the club made it clear, that this would not be as straightforward as he had hoped because now there were three more roadblocks to having this situation resolved. Deacon swore again on his nine month old baby’s life, that Minty’s murder would be avenged and no manner of fuck ups or incompetence would be excused from today onward.
The women who had intervened were obviously working for Spokes. How they knew this was about to happen and how they so easily got the better of some seasoned hard men, were questions to be left unanswered for now. In another time, under other circumstances he would examine these three bitches in more detail. But unfortunately for them they had become just three more victims. Three more hindrances amongst the throng of informers and wanksters but what did his old lady say? Deh hotter deh battle, deh sweeter deh victory.
“Amen, to dat, mama.” He murmured.”Amen to dat.”
Stockwell Locks, Housing Estate
23.35
The lone figure of Enoch Lacombe stood with his hands in his pockets, back against a street lamp that was flickering uncontrollably above him. In no hurry, he leaned up and moved away from his point of rest, immediately absorbed by darkness that cloaked him as the street lamp died with his departure. Enoch Lacombe was as much a part of the shadows as the shadows themselves. His favored long black coat trailed behind him as if the darkness pulled on him like a dying star whose gravity held fast to everything in its vicinity. He cast his eyes over the concrete jungle that was Stockwell Locks Housing Estate, welcoming the onslaught of memories that ambushed him.
This was one of his ends, a bank of goodwill, favors and retribution had been deposited in the past and he had every intention of making a withdrawal sometime soon. But first he wanted to feel what the situation was, absorb the present circumstances into himself and then decide his course of actions.
Stepping onto the grass verge his broad black trilby concealing his features, his long coat moving with him as if it were alive, he let the sensations emanating from the drab grey buildings engulf him as he moved steadily amongst them. The flow of evil that he was more sensitive to than most was what excited him about this city. Like a potter, his clay was the ebb and flow of depravity that the city’s inhabitants deposited like a sewer and which made his incantations so much easier to manifest.
“INFORMER MUS’ DEAD!”
The shout from one of the flats held a note of menace. Some warning to a neighbour or a statement of relief after a murder committed. Noises came from all corners as if the concrete itself was joining in.
Laughter.
Manic and shrill.
A joke told to the madman’s schizophrenic self that could have been shared, but the punch-line could only be understood if you were capable of entering the warped psyche.
“He-he-he-he-he-he-he-he-he-he!”
And so he continued annoying and persistent. His cackling needling its way into deep sleep or keeping the dreary eyed awake.
“SHUT THE FUCK UP YOU WANKER!” came the hoarse cry of desperation from a neighboring block.
You were given the impression that it was just a matter of time before laughing boy would be found by a group of sleep deprived vigilantes and flung from the fourteenth floor.
“He-he-he-he-he-he-he-he!”
Splaaaat!
The man adjusted the coat around his shoulders and directed his piercing eyes to new sounds.
His heightened senses could feel the high rise buildings radiating tremors of Grime and Dancehall music along the building’s framework. Four hundred watt speakers that were over equipped for an auditorium were throwing out seismic waves of sound in a ten-by-five bedsit.
Cats squealed, dogs barked and the sounds of faked orgasms - which to his ears may well have been fed through amplifiers - added to the mix.
This vibrancy would continue until exhaustion brought peace in the hours of dawn.
And then the cycle would begin again.
He appreciated the chaos, the confusion making his skin tingle and focused on what he had to do.
Darkman finally stopped and looked up at the lighted squares on a dark rectangular tableau that was Columbus House. He took the trilby off his head, and inhaled the spores of degeneracy and corruption like a wolf, tracking his prey.
He smiled hungrily.
Stockwell Locks, Housing Estate
Columbus House, Flat 915
“A wha wrong wid dis bloodclaat baby, man?” Chips pulled the bedroom door shut stifling the sounds of the child’s sobs and continued to put crack crystals in small self seal bags.
Taking up a woman with another man’s yout was not a habit he endorsed or wanted circulated around town but these were extraordinary circumstances at play here. And if he had t
o say so himself, this move was inspired genius. What was the best way to circumvent the arduous graft and considerable risk to life of establishing a notorious rep in the drugs business?
To be vouched for, of course, or by circulating the story that he was the caretaker of the child of Enoch Lacombe the most feared man residing in London at the time - even if that awe was based on not just gangster exploits but his supposed mastery of all things otherworldly and unexplained. The very same man Chips had a hand in sending to prison for a very long time indeed.
He had never truly ascribed to his parents beliefs in the powers of the old ways but reliable sources, skeptics with greater doubt than himself swore that Enoch was a necromancer of great power who also favored the collection of old valuables, artistic and arcane relics. Stories leaked out about diamond encrusted crosses, chalices made from gold, African masks peppered with precious stones, manuscripts, books and crates filled with oddities, antiquities and hard cash. At that time the Witch Doctor was working his magic with Sandra, an ambitious and beautiful ghetto chick who had converted a part of her flat into a gambling den. Clean, warm and with Sandra acting as a hostess the news spread to all the gambling pros and hustlers that it was a Spot. Reggae artists, gangsters, hustlers would all pass through the doors and Darkman would over see it all from the wings.
At that time Chips was a weekend regular, meeting the notorious Darkman only once in his visits - and that was one time too many. You immediately knew there was something about him, something malevolent. Softly spoken, a firm handshake, soulless eyes that knew things no one else did with a whiff of controlled anger that was never expressed but you felt was being restrained from bursting forth Hulk style.
It wasn’t personal and although Chips didn’t like his air of superiority – of course he did not admit to himself that he was frightened of him too - it was his taste for valuables that decided his fate. Chips hatched the plan with this St Lucian kid who had worked closely with Darkman for some years expecting to be given secrets to wealth for his dedication but saw only hard work and promises ahead of him. The operation required resources, they did not have so that’s how the drug lord Deacon got involved – a mistake in hindsight, Chips thought but it was what it was. Together they organized the shake down and the frame up that landed Enoch Lacombe in jail. What they did not expect was to come away from the whole sorry incident with nothing for their troubles, the treasure spirited away as if it never existed.
Enoch was sent down for racketeering, theft and murder – thirty years minimum – and that’s when Chips embryonic plan required him to show a keen interest in Sandra. He kept a low profile for weeks hedging his bets that maybe, just maybe the Darkman was capable of escaping from prison. Was this an elaborate part of the Darkman’s grand plans? After all he was a gifted obeah man and smart too but for all the hoopla nothing of his notoriety materialized. And with all such things that the street elevated to cult status Darkman’s power and mythology waned.
Chip’s concluded he was a fake and felt even more justified setting him up in the first place. All that unnecessary fear he had harbored.
What a waste!
His focus then became Sandra and his plan blossomed to what it was now. She was a beautiful dark skinned woman with an air about her that was more suited to the middle classes than the ghetto classes that frequented her home. Then again some sisters were turned on by the danger and once they set along that path it was a trend that was difficult to break. Armed with all this and nuff discreet inquiries later he found out that the posing and the big timer lifestyle pre-Darkman had evaporated and she had fallen on hard times with a young child, living on the ninth floor.
Chips elected himself as her savior.
He thought of it as standing on the shoulders of giants, some misinformation here and there, namely that Darkman had given his consent for Chips to look after his woman in his absence - a story that could not be confirmed or denied strangely enough. Darkman’s high security prisoner status meant visitors were limited to family members, friends - at the discretion of the Warden and his legal team only. Chips had tried the procedure himself and was met with a really weird request. Darkman wanted to have no visitors family, friend or legal.
And that meant peace of mind and that his story was bullet proof. All he had to do now was keep the Spot a hit with the punters and find any clues to Darkman’s treasure from the inside.
Unfortunately that mouth watering prospect came with its burdens.
A four year old juvenile from hell.
The incessant gurgling, screaming and exploratory destruction was bad and nappy changing was the worst. He farted and fired streams of milk-based shit with ballistic velocity in mid change, leaving the cloying stench of digested baby food permeating the air. For the sort of clientele that was attracting to the Spot he couldn’t have that. Trying to transact a deal with a serious player and then wading through a mountain of nappies to get to your merchandise, was not cool.
The problem was Sandra loved the pickney dearly and trying to convince her adoption was the best option was not a good idea. Sandra’s hatred of him plumbed new depths and he slowly sidelined the mother and her infant to the spare room. Any cross border movement had to be done with his mother in tow or there would be hell to pay.
It seemed to be working because she truly believed he hated the child due to fact it was Darkman’s offspring. Chips wished it was that straight forward.
There was something not quite right about that child, something he could never quite put his finger on. It wasn’t just a pathological dislike either. How could he hold a grudge against a child because of its parents? Not even he wad that callous.
That was some immature pickney business that he did not ascribe to. After all he was a grown ass man. But he couldn’t ignore how his mood would take precipitous dives around the kid and he, seemed to have the same effect on the infant too. Can you see something of the father in a child so young? Chips was not one for deep inquiring thought but he couldn’t help asking the question. And even now the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.
A gurgling, shit smelling informer, whose sole purpose was to remind all suitors the true king to his mothers throne was locked away for life. He appreciated why the kings of yore on the History Channel would not just execute traitors but their whole families.
Little Rowan was evil.
Even the thought made his stomach knot and his knees go weak. Disquiet telegraphed through time and jangled his nervous system, transporting him back to the flat with that demon pickney asleep, passing the room with its crib, the door closed and listening to a child who could barely speak, annunciating words in an unrecognizable language, over and over again like scratched record in guttural inhuman tones that even he knew was impossible from the vocal chords of an infant.
As long as that child stayed the fuck away from him he was good.
More important to him right now was making sure the dollars kept flowing and as he eyed suspiciously the assorted clientele of gamblers, thieves and druggists, he snuggled into his comfort corner and made sure his old forty five was on his table, greased and ready to transact business if anyone felt the need to test him.
Sandra brushed away a strand of hair from her eyes and tested the warmth of the baby’s feed by dotting some of the mixture on the back of her hand. The temperature of the contents was okay for Rowan’s delicate palette and so she screwed the teat on and made for the sitting room.
It was if she was trapped in a bubble of tranquility that would burst if she opened the door from the kitchen.
She hesitated for a moment and listened.
The sounds of the crisp cards being flicked by professional fingers like the harsh flight of cockroaches filtered in from the adjoining room.
Strange the places she felt comfortable in within her own home.
She looked at her surroundings with a detached almost otherworldly familiarity. As if all this time her essence had been elsewhere and she expe
rienced everything through the eyes of this body that she was not familiar with.
Unwashed plates in the sink, glasses and greasy pots, cooking oil sprayed from a frying pan in constant use formed a sticky residue on the wall nearest the stove. The bin was full and smelling of spoilt food and ripe nappies.
Sighing, she gazed at the spectacle with eyes like a tired mountaineer who was wondering if she had taken on one insurmountable peak too many.
Another chore to complete.
She rested the bottle on the draining board and leaned back.
All of this was the sum total of the challenges life threw at her outside of raising her son, a therapeutic escape comprising of Fairy washing up liquid, soggy sponges and greasy plates, a doorway into herself, away from the frustration, the constant demands, sexual advances and worthless promises.
The pit was closing in on her but the response wasn’t one of a desperate struggle to get out, instead it was making herself comfortable, in a state of complete acceptance. Succumbing to what felt like to her an overpowering force of apathy that held her fast while simultaneously sapping her of all impetus.
That was one way of explaining her eroding standards to herself. In another life almost, another place in time the kitchen would have been sparkling.
She bent down, tying the mouth of the black garbage bag filling the kitchen with its filthy bouquet. A face looked back at her from the polished metal surface of the toaster that she didn’t recognize.
Look at me, she kept muttering to herself. Look at me.
Sandra was never plain looking even with the most conservative descriptions. Crude oil black skin, silky long eye lashes shading eyes like glistening dark pools, and her subtly strong features making her remember what Enoch used to call her, his Queen of Spades. Other than the changes in her body from pregnancy and the frown marks around her mouth she had not changed much physically. It was that aura of hopelessness that branded her, a stark statement of decline all could see that shuffled around with her like a colostomy bag. What she knew for sure was that her strength of will was dying and she did not seem to care.