by Anton Marks
Explaining what she was going through to Steve would be difficult but he would respect her need for abstinence even if he didn’t understand why. She had been blessed with a good man but eventually he would want answers and she was obligated to tell him the truth.
The whole truth.
And how was she going to do that, when the tamest thing right now in their crazy lives would make your hair stand on end.
The silence in the church made Suzy think back to touching the guard ring Spokes had on his finger. The memory was so poignant the emotions associated with returning to wherever she was transported on touching it, vivid.
Suzy found herself disembodied and in a dimension of complete and utter darkness which seemed to recognize a change in its state and burst into a constellation of lights that reminded her of looking into the night sky of the Jamaican countryside. Suzy’s very presence in this place sent a ripple of warmth through what was cold desolation, like a spark of ignition, that kick started its function. And as she looked on admiringly a still small voice was telling her that these were not stars in the astronomical sense but the lights of life.
Every human soul living today was represented and spread across the panorama in their billions. The blue of birth and the diminishing red of death sparkled in the firmament. In this place thoughts were things, brought into reality as they were conceived and all the emotions that made us who we are blew through this eternity like solar winds. Nothing remained hidden, everything was open for her to see, past, present and burrowing into the rabbit hole of the future. From time of birth to present and beyond every detail recorded with five sense clarity ready for access at a thought. As ideas came to Suzy’s awareness they played out for her to see and feel as if she was an omnipresent observer. She thought of their situation, events replaying instantaneously with details she could never ascertain in the waking world. Then Suzy pondered her past in Jamaica and before her mind settled she was reliving how she received the dragon scars on her arms. The fire at the Wushu School in Constant Spring, trapped students screaming for help, how she freed them by clearing fallen debris and pushing into the burning studio, searing the impression of the dragons embossed on the copper gilded Chinese doors into the skin of her forearms. Suzy smelt her skin burning again, felt the pain then slung forward in time where she was making the decision to intricately tattoo the burn scars in glorious colour and take ownership for something that could have been a deformity but which she made into a badge of honor. Suzy’s heart lifted with a sense of certainty that meandered its way through her soul. Her life and the life of her sisters had been ordained with a deeper purpose and Spokes was a part of that. This she knew with crystal clarity because this place had told her so. The girls had said, she had gone deathly quiet for no more than two minutes, but in that two minutes, Suzy felt as if she had lived a lifetime.
Was her life suddenly clearer for it? Not that she could draw on what she had seen from the ring, she just knew it was accessible when the need was required. Have faith, even when she felt she was balancing on a line that separated the irrational and rational world her talent of seeing and feeling things on the other side of the line was becoming more pronounced. As the dark clouds gathered around them, she had to be clear headed enough to help her girls navigate the hidden and the dangerous. Suzy needed time to calm the static and to hear the message because against Enoch Lacombe and the others who were after Spokes rass they needed every advantage possible.
This helped.
The smell of incense, dust and wood.
Suzy said a thank you as she walked out of the church hall into the main reception, her movements echoing around her. The small walk between the reception and the church brought back flashes of Jamaica and walking bare-foot on the grass. Suzy entered the impressive modern architecture of St. Jude’s through huge oak doors that were always open and welcoming. She genuflected in the aisle and sat on one of the pews for a moment.
She wasn’t a practicing Catholic but ever since attending Immaculate Conception Girls’ School in Kingston, the church building more so than anything else in her experience, trapped the essence of calm and all that was good and true in the very brickwork. Traditional Catholicism didn’t impress her but she knew one truth and that was the essence of good, God, the universe or whatever you conceived it to be, resided here. She stood up and walked closer to the altar and stood staring at the detailed structure of a dark skinned Christ nailed to the cross.
Pain.
They had promised themselves Bad II the Bone would be the final port of call. No more dead end jobs, just a single minded effort in making their dreams work. And although this was a far cry from what they had planned this felt so natural, so right.
Suzy looked up at Christ on the cross for one last time and knew this could be their own crucifixion scenario. She bent to her knees and took a moment and prayed it would not be her last.
Docklands Cargo Bay Ltd, South East London
Thursday, July 25th
21.40
Darkman observed his surroundings with a keener eye than usual, knowing he would not be here much longer. If it was at all possible to develop affection for his temporary home and command bunker, the events of the last month would endear him to this sixty foot container. But he made it as comfortable as was required; making sure that only the essential tools of his campaign against these cattle was evident.
Outside protection and concealment were laid in an area close to the entrance to the trailer. Drawn from the ash of six murders the complex vévés took him forty eight hours to map out. An intricate design that bent the boundaries, shifted realities and opened up a gateway to hell itself and provided the anonymity he required.
Inside he had cordoned off a space for his distillation plant which was constantly bubbling as it extracted the active ingredient in the demon weed essential to most of his concoctions and spells. Extractor’s whirred around the perimeter, balancing the internal atmosphere and protecting it from excess moisture. He moved around the container like a man at peace, immaculate white wife-beaters, khaki slacks and sandals but he was focused.
The natural oils made his dark skin gleam but there was no sweat. The rudimentary spells that created the internal eco system kept the temperature comfortable whether outside was cold or hot.
Darkman stopped his pacing and folded his arms, looking at a plastic shopping bag hooked to hanging vegetable baskets that held what was left of the demon weed. He would require every ounce of his remaining plant samples for his final push.
He eyed his humble bunk bed and discounted rest for now. Darkman had too much to plan for his departure. Jamaica was calling him with its sweet Mento melody, leaving the London war zone he had created in his own image behind. Taking his heir, his only son, a blood splattered reputation that would not be equaled and the John Crow stone.
He looked at the empty cradle with it’s Yoruba markings and imagined the powerful ancient totem back in its place.
He smiled.
A smile that was wide and menacing like the smile of a shark. Murderous yet assured of its purpose.
Deh best was yet to come, pardy.
All the players were in place and once he had enough reserves of physical and dark spiritual energy, he would carry out his final plan.
This entry into the Lacombe history books was to be concluded soon and a situation that seemed hopeless would begin to be amended.
That was his promise to the Lacombe forefathers.
The best was yet to come.
19.
Dance Night
Lunar Street, South East London
Friday 26th July
22.15
The Bentley GT pulled up into the open plan car park and so did the A5 Audi that had been following them for the last ten miles. Normally, with Patra at the wheel nothing short of a drive-by would get her to lose focus or concern herself with a motorist engaged in vehicular stalking but these dudes were insistent. As the miles diminished to the c
lub, the Audi driver became more brazen. So as soon as an opportunity arose, travelling at just over sixty miles an hour they pulled up alongside the GT, windows down and gesticulating with automatic weapons at them.
Patra bit her lip from verbally engaging them and played along. After a drawn out pursuit either to infuriate or confuse them they slowed down and turned into a parking area of one of those cut price supermarkets whose ethos was stack ‘em high, sell ‘em low. The car park wasn’t as empty as you would think at this time of night so when the Bentley suddenly sped up and slalomed through a parked car and two vans then braked violently, fishtailing around and facing where they had come from, headlights on high beam in a cloud of rubber and dust. The Audi occupants taken completely by surprise braked about a hundred or so meters away, argon lights on full, the element of surprise gone. The occupants stayed put, trying to intimidate but their indecision was borne of uncertainty. The Bentley’s doors were open and it took Patra the personification of braggadocio to step out from the driver’s side with a lighter in one hand and a cigar in the other. Lil Wayne was pumping through the Blaupunkt speakers and an obscured figure in the back seat watched the unfolding drama in silence. Patra was the epitome of ice cool sexiness. Dressed in a tight fitting cat-suit, hair braided tightly to her scalp, subtle makeup and hoop earrings, Miss P brought the cigar to her lips and flared the lighter to its tip. With legs slightly apart, she took a series of long puffs and blew smoke in the Audi’s direction. She whistled the theme song of the Sergio Leone western the Good, The Bad and The Ugly, to herself.
Patra didn’t give a shit.
That sense of panic or controlled fear she used to experience when she was about to embark on something extreme or risky was gone. Instead her preternatural instinct tingled at the back of her skull, shifting the laws of possibility ever so slightly. Before her experiences with the supernatural, apprehension would have influenced her actions, although she would discount it most times but these days were different. These wanksters were real men, mature gang-bangers who graduated from drive-bys to contracts. They could bleed and they could die. After experiencing what lay beyond and seeing what damage these forces could unleash in the world of men, these motherfuckers merely piqued her interest. What they didn’t realize was that given the opportunity confronting flesh and blood was always a pleasure.
She took another pull on the cigar and gave them the finger.
The car park lights threw criss-cross shadows across a surface that after years of usage was stripping off its original top layer and in parts was cratered from the meteor shower of age. Swamps of darkness that would never experience artificial light due to illumination that had never been fixed, lay like chasms in an imaginary landscape filled with dangers. The area had seen better days too. The perimeter was edged with trees and some cars left overnight or abandoned dotted the giant sized checker-board. The Audi had its headlights on full beam almost as if they wanted to pin Patra to the spot or compensate for the flickering bulbs from the faulty car park lamps.
The Bentley sat there, lights out, almost contemplating its fate while a defiant Patra stood her ground.
The men in the Audi dimmed the headlights and stepped out into the beam of light they made, approaching Patra with weapons drawn. The lead goon, five foot ten, sporting a Gucci t-shirt and non-descript jeans, shoots his mouth first.
“Where’s the old man? Where’s Spokes?”
Patras pointed her cigar finger to the back of the car.
“Tell your friends to come out of the car slowly.” He said.
The other two men either side of him, revolved their shoulders as if the guns were too heavy for them.
Patra took another puff on the cigar and shrugged, giving them the sign of submission, arms outstretched to the side with palms up. Frustrated, his whole body language transformed like a method actor taking on the persona of a vicious character he had rehearsed for.
“I’m not going to ask you again bitch, tell your friends to step out where I can fucking see them.”
He swung the Glock up with his right hand and steadied it with his left, the business end of the weapon pointed to Patra’s chest. The rest of the goon squad followed suit but targeted the Bentley instead. Suddenly the two men were finding it strange that both passenger doors were closed, where moments before they were open.
The lone figure still sat in the back seat.
They looked over to each other quizzically and gripped the weapons, eyes furtive.
Gucci T-shirt saw nothing; his focus was on Patra and her lack of respect for him and his gun.
Angrily he began to approach her, gun up.
And that’s when the blur hit him.
The pain from years of experience of these things was uncomplicated and direct. No signature feel to it, just the shredding of flesh and the breaking of bones. The pain in his wrist was sharp and intense, making the muscles around the carpal bones spring open as the gun flew from him into the darkness. He grunted dealing with the agony and showing his anger at being taken completely unawares and still being unsure of who or what was the source of his attack. He swung viciously with his right hand, hoping to use his clenched fist as a battering ram but instead his attack went whistling through the air in an ineffectual arc. All he could think of to protect himself was to keep moving but his efforts were clumsy and inept. Another series of small explosions of pain at the back of his legs, stomach and chest lit up his nervous system in quick succession, each erupting into miniature geysers of blood from the points of impact. His clothes were ripped and bloodied and his skin marked with tracks from something razor sharp. He had been hit at pressure points that had him on the ground trying to convince the muscles in his legs to respond but they wouldn’t. A swelling to the side of his face was throbbing and from his position he looked up without moving his head after seeing a pair of black leather boots beside him and in the distance through pain dimmed eyes his colleagues at arms being beaten severely by a petite oriental girl. He eventually managed to look up to the dominatrix-like black chick standing with a samurai sword with his blood dripping from it, glaring down at him.
He shuddered.
She deftly whipped the blade to his throat as if she was about to decapitate him, stopping inches from his Adam,s apple. There was no contact but the keenness of the sword must have magically transferred across the short distance because he could feel his skin break and a bead of blood - or was it sweat - trickle down his neck? He flinched from the discomfort of his position and that infernal humming of the crafted metal pointed at his neck made him tingle all over. His legs were weak, his wounds were gushing and he was acutely aware of the contents of his stomach gurgling. But he was under the control of the wielder of the blade so he dared not move only finding himself looking at the Japanese inscriptions on the blade and then to the woman. Steely determination met his stare and he knew the next thing he did would determine whether he lived or died.
“How we a guh duh dis?” The female with the Caribbean accent held a gun to one man’s head while the remaining gunman, dazed but unhurt aimed at all three women in turn, unsure who posed the most threat to his captured colleagues. The lone gunman looked indecisively at each situation until the black chick; obviously interpreting his indecision as stalling suddenly jerked the blade upwards against the throat of her captive. He grunted at the added pressure to the soft folds of his neck, eyes wide with terror.
“You’ve been taken motherfuckers. Accept it and walk away.” Patra had casually walked over from her vantage point and joined the intimate standoff, dusting cigar ash into the proceedings as if it was a sacrament. Defying his dumb look, the lone gunman went against his instinct and dropped his weapon. Patra retrieved them pushing one in the small of her back and one in both hands.
“One more thing to do before we leave you wanksters.” Casually she walked over to the Audi and fired two rounds into each tyre. “Yeah!” Patra said, turning to face everyone. “Hand over your mobiles gentlemen, �
�cos you don’t want me rummaging through your shit to retrieve ‘em.”
Reluctantly mobiles were handed over and smashed one at a time. “You know, this feels good but not as good as if I buss a cap in your boss’s punk ass. You tell that country boy, he better see me, before I see him because if he doesn’t, there will be hell to pay. He fucking wid the wrong bitches.”
They sashayed back to the ride and drove off.
Stockwell Locks
Housing Estate
22.15
The door buzzer chimed out a tacky rendition of Bob Marley’s So Much Trouble in the World, just as Chips reached out to scrape up his winning from the middle of the velvet poker table, to the certainty of his own corner. The door buzzer went off again and in a remote part of his mind Sully was loudly undoing the latches and bolts after looking through the peephole to identify who was outside.
A drawn out silence.
That’s when the commotion began.
Sully yelled out and then grunted, followed by raised voices and wild shuffling of feet. Gravity’s merciless pull was evident as a body hit the door, bounced off it and then met the floor again on rebound with the force of a two hundred and fifty pound man of which Sully was. That caught the attention of the men sitting solemnly around the poker table but there was no need to investigate because the men who had entered brashly walked through the hall and into the lounge unannounced. Chips flicked his chair backwards with his calf and made the authority he held over this little piece of London real estate felt.
“Yow! Don’t you know this yard is under Father Deacon’s protection? The aggression ting is bad for business champion. Talk to the man yourself, feel free...”
Chips took out his Blackberry punched a few buttons and passed the smart phone in his direction. The man ignored him simply watching Chips’ show of control trickle away, replaced by a dumb gurgle from the back of his throat as he heard a phone ring in the small hallway.