by Anton Marks
A Movado ringtone. Deacon’s favored dancehall artist.
Chips’ eyes bulged incredulously, as a man stepped out of the hallway dressed in a long black Burberry raincoat, hands in his trouser pockets. Almost shielding his eyes was an Adidas flat cap on his smoothly barbered head. Beside him was a dark skinned man whom he had encountered at Deacons Gym, neat straw hat on his head and around his neck were links of herbs and flowering plants. He carried a khaki bag around his shoulder and he was bare footed. He observed the surroundings with a furtive stare and mumbled to himself.
“Father Deacon,” Chips stammered. “Good feh see yuh.”
Deacon nodded as the room filled with large men all bearing weapons.
“Weh she deh?” Deacon asked.
Chips looked confused but Deacon’s stare was unwavering.
“She…..” Then it dawned on him. “Yuh mean Sandra? She’s in the bedroom with deh yout. Problem?”
Deacon closed his eyes and bowed his head slightly.
“The problem is that nothing useful has come from you shacking up wid dis gal. I’m no closer to finding the obeah man’s treasure than I was four years ago.” He paused and considered his next words. “Before, I would happily play deh longtail but as of now rude bwoy, time is an issue.”
“But dis has been a success.” Chips sounded bemused, motioning around him. “I’ve produced good money for you.”
Deacon laughed throatily, a gold tooth flashing.
“Money is only a measure, star. Power, now that is the new currency and Darkman’s treasure and its secrets are power. The obeah man has a weak link and although him try to play gangster with a real gangster, him have feelings feh him little family. He will tell me where the treasure is or sacrifice life of what he holds dear. Guh get her.”
Deacon directed his question to his men and then pointed at Chips.
“If this rastaman overstep deh mark, bag an tag him bomboclaat.”
Chips flopped back down in his chair, defeat tugging on the slit of his eyes and twisting his lips. He folded his winnings with a resigned certainty that the poker game was well and truly over.
“Yuh look disappointed star? Don’t blame me if you didn’t get deh pussy, you had ample time? You losing your touch?”
Deacon grinned made the mobile phone sign with his fingers and glared at the soldiers left in the lounge.
“Keep her here until I call with further instructions. Enjoy yourselves but keep her alive. Nobody leaves. Dat clear?”
The men grunted responses and Deacon ambled out of the room with his Haitian Vodun beside him and two other thick set men who valued his physical welfare above their own. He suddenly stopped in his tracks, his entourage mimicking his abruptness and watched him close his eyes as if he needed to focus. Sandra’s screams echoed behind him and only then did he smile and proceed to the front door.
Sandra’s piercing screams did not hold the exquisiteness to the ear for Chips that they had for Deacon. The uncertainty of this situation and the caliber of men Deacon had left behind to do his bidding did not bode well. Every whimper, every wail, bruised the atmosphere that before was expectant with profit but now only served to set Chips’ nerves on edge. No matter what he thought of Sandra and her little brat, he wasn’t sure if he could sit back and allow them to do this. The men around the poker table had already retrieved their meager winnings and had been corralled into a spare room. Everyone witnessed Sandra being unceremoniously dragged by her legs, kicking and screaming into the lounge and everyone remained silent. What would his rep be like if he followed suite and did nothing? He would be a laughing stock, if the streets recorded this story and his essential role lacked some resistance or protest.
Sandra’s flailing hands and kicking feet were knocking over all that she had lovingly displayed to try and make her surroundings homely.
“You don’t hafe do dis.” Chips spoke evenly and stepped towards the men as he did so but the slap of leather that accompanied his plea for compassion said none would be given. Five guns were pointed at him with safeties off.
“We do have to,” Bookworm said - slight frame, almost the antithesis of gangster dress, glasses with a psychotic stare. “And if you keep questioning Deacon’s orders I’m going to take it you want to challenge what I’m going to do next.”
Chips raised his arms in defeat and backed away humbly.
“Mi just a seh.”
“Well it’s duly noted that you disapprove. I’ll give the boss your feedback.” He scoffed.
Chips wasn’t sure he could stay to endure this but what choice did he have? Sandra was still screaming and thrashing, her wild eyes fixing his with panic beseeching him to help but never directly calling out for him. Was he waiting for that to happen?
Maybe.
He tended to speak to her disrespectfully, even slap her a few times but no one else would dare touch her except Deacon himself. He listened as baby Rowan, next door, feeling his mother’s distress, began crying too and the hard hearted gambler that Chips aspired to be began to melt away and it made him angry. Deacon may have been right about his feelings for her but Sandra did not deserve this.
Chips buried those feelings for her as deep as he could.
Now they were past the point of no return.
The three men that held Sandra in the air like a human sacrifice slammed her down on the table. She grunted, saliva exiting her mouth, a rictus of pain as her face cracked on the table, the effect caused her eyes to twirl in their orbits with disorientation.
“Wha deh fuck rude bwoy, easy?” One thug entreated.
It was like these bastards had been given the order to hurt her before killing her.
Chips didn’t think.
Instead he dashed forward attempting to tackle one of the men pinning Sandra’s left foot to the table. In that drawn out second it took him to gather momentum, his breath hissing through his teeth, anticipating the impact and knowing he had to do something, it all went wrong.
Bookworm needn’t have worried.
A split second of restraint saved Chips from being shot by a dude whose ancestry was an unfortunate coupling of Neanderthal man and a mountain gorilla. He was light on his feet too and stepped into his path as he barreled forward, smashing down into the Rasta’s skull with his ham fists and spinning Chips to the ground in a mound of arms and legs.
“Stupid must be your middle name moron,” Bookworm spat.
“Dump him rass in the room with the others.”
Dance Night
The Crypt Nightclub
South East London
22.40
The velvet rope unhitched from the Swarovski encrusted posts and two huge shadows parted to allow Bad II the Bone entry with Spokes huddled between them like a prize boxer being escorted to the ring. Y led the way on the red carpet and her every step was followed with hungry eyes and gasps of surprise. She was an imposing figure in a black tight fitting strapless jump suit with her katana slung around her shoulders in a custom made sheath emblazoned with the Gucci logo. Suzy and Patra were similarly attired but with some slight variations to the theme. Patra wore her padded driving gloves and Suzy’s design had one arm sleeveless showing the fire breathing tattooed dragon scars stretching the length of her arms. Sexy and practical. All had communication earpieces set to club frequency. They were being asked for autographs.
“Damn,” Patra said, signing a flyer that had been thrust at her with a pen. “The party’s jumping G.”
Spokes nodded.
“What you expect with the magic touch.” He turned to have a better look. “Check it out?” He pointed to the snaking queue stretching into the distance. “I will miss deh old place but tonight is a fitting tribute to it and my departure. New start.” The grin on Spokes’ face was getting wider as they entered the Crypt to the overwhelming presence of hundreds of partygoers letting loose.
He knew it was time but he would miss it.
The serendipitous events of finding the crypt and
being bequeathed stolen treasure had set up a whirlwind of unexpected adventures for him. It had taken him to places he would never have imagined and altered his perception of the world forever. Even the inspiration behind the design of the club - Spanish Inquisition torture chambers - was something he stole from a film he loved by one of his favorite classic film stars - Vincent Price. The six cages were hung from the ceiling and contained two male and four female dancers. Like the furnaces that the real house of horrors had to brand its prisoners, the lighting rigs caught dancers and revelers in splashes of red and orange simulating the purifying flames from the Grand Inquisitor himself. The world famous Stone Love Sound System from Jamaica was spinning the hits and the excitement level was seismic.
His relief that he was here, relatively incident free was hard to mask.
Both he and Carlos had enjoyed unparalleled success at the club but that would end tonight. There would be no charms or spells that would attract the club goers week in week out. He would disappear start a new life away from England, protected from esoteric attack by his ring and live a normal life. Jimmy’s remains and his family would be looked after, he would see to that.
Spokes looked around his surroundings nostalgically.
“Let’s get dis done,” he said and pointed to a network of gantries above that led them to the far side of the club without the inconvenience of wading through the dancers. Y took point, leading them over to the scaffolding type structure. She clambered up the rungs quickly, Spokes behind cushioned between Patra and Suzy.
Stockwell Locks
Housing Estate
22.40
Bookworm was acutely aware of what was going on and what he needed to do next. He took centre stage finally without any further interruptions and watched the Rasta man being dragged away. His advancement in the organization depended on how he handled this situation. The men respected decisiveness and showmanship and he was about to give them both.
Sandra was held fast, mouth stuffed with a bathroom flannel, muffled moans of desperation ineffective as he looked down on her. She wore a black and white house dress with buttons to the front. Her chest rose and fell with the panic this situation brought with it and her skin glistened with the perspiration of fear. The Harry Potter reject ran his index finger between her breasts.
“We are going to keep you entertained for a few hours so relax.”
His cronies leered, trying to keep that professional detachment but unable to ignore the potential excitement to be had from this. There were times when Bookworm despised his job and was able to take nothing from it that could edify him in any way. But today was one of those rare occasions that made up for.
Beautiful black woman great figure, smooth chocolate skin.
No, this would be a pleasure.
The thought trailed and before he took control of his hand it had already reached under her cotton dress, the tips of his fingers feeling the warmth of her flesh and the sheen of her skimpy panties. He gripped on the material and ripped them off.
Sandra couldn’t see exactly what was going on at her feet but knew what was about to come. She railed and kicked, her screams ineffectual through her gag but that did not stop her from trying.
Baby Rowan could sense her panic and was screaming at the top of his little lungs, losing volume at times but making up for it as he caught his breath.
“For fuck sake hold her steady,” Bookworm hissed and in that moment Sandra could only think that for a gangster his hands were smooth and warm. Like a teenager fumbling in the dark at his first intimate tryst, he finally grabbed onto the waist of her silken underwear and ripped it from under her.
Sandra’s mind was a tableau of fear and panic, tears were streaming down her cheeks, the fear for her baby, the fear for herself, it gave her crazy strength but it wouldn’t be enough. Her captors were impressed with her fight but the novelty didn’t last and a pile driver of a right hand from an impatient Bookworm put paid to any further struggle.
Sandra looked peaceful with a trickle of blood at the corner of her mouth but the baby continued screaming with an unearthly sibilance.
“Will someone shut that fucking kid up!”
When Chips regained consciousness he was being dragged by his arms, like he was a side of beef by the two goons who had put him in that position in the first place. He dug his heels into the carpet to get their attention and turned to look back at Sandra struggling on the table then braced himself again. Waves of anger swept through him. His fists clenched so tightly, his nails bit into the life lines of his palms and he could feel trickles of blood running over his fingers. He wanted to get back there and swat deh fool dem from her but he did not have the strength against the men who watched him. He could do nothing but close his eyes and groan.
And that’s when he felt the cold. A numbness, that at first he thought was shock, his body rebelling against the punishment meted out to him. But no nausea followed, no light-headedness just the plummeting temperatures. His breath plumed from his lips and the men in the room began to feel its effect too.
“Hey, what the fuck?”
“You feeling dis?
The windows crackled as a formation of ice slid across the double glazing in every room.
Then darkness followed.
A deep darkness, that made Chips think his eyes were closed.
He blinked and could see nothing still. A reaction of panic made him gasp at the depth of night that had descended on them. It was a primal darkness, impenetrable and bone chillingly cold. It was absence of light like a tangible blanket of dark stuff that had been scrapped from the guts of a dead star and then unceremoniously flung over everything.
Chips had his arms around his shoulders shivering and questioning his sanity in the same breath, not giving a shit about the grunts of exasperation and confusion from the professionals who had held him captive.
His eyes were shut tight. He shivered and mumbled to himself, only moments later did he figure out that he was saying a prayer.
Jah knows, he had not prayed in years but whatever was on its way to them demanded a cry for help from the highest authority he knew of.
“Sandra, I’ve come feh deh yout!” The voice reverberated around the room with the force of its bass and still Chips couldn’t tell if it was in his head or sensed it from his ears.
“They can’t hurt you again but my son is coming wid his father, yuh hear mi?”
Someone didn’t care about his demands and opened fire.
An immediate grunt and somebody went down.
“Hold your fire wanker!”
“Moron!”
“Easy nuh!”
A single flame jumped into prominence in the darkness.
Someone in the heat of the moment felt a lighter flame would dispel the confusion but instead it escalated it into absolute terror.
A man stood with his hands in his pockets, a billowing cloud of darkness flowing not just around him like a sentient mist but protecting him like an extension of himself. Chips had not seen him for five years but the distinctive features were unmistakable. Darkman stood looming, his face war painted with a grotesque white skull, his own eyes and mouth forming the mask and looked down on the men with unshielded venom.
“Yuh shouldn’t have done dis to my family but mi glad yuh did. Letting go is going to be sweet, so sweet.” His eyes rose to the ceiling and his arms outstretched as he beseeched the dark ones. And like a key in a lock, the door to the pit cracked open and something of its horror snuck through.
The men sensed it, opening fire, the multiple muzzle flashes lit up the room in the direction of that horrific image of the Obeah man, their bullets deflecting off the malignant aura surrounding him. Chips should have taken his own advice and kept his eyes closed but he didn’t and that image would remain with him, burnt in his unconscious to torment him for the rest of his days.
“Yuh ready fi dead?” Darkman’s voice was low and sibilant, like the growl of a tiger that was able to speak.
Its force filled the room. “Tek dem, leave no guilty man standing.” He commanded. “Kill every muma claat a dem!”
Chips could only see in second intervals that corresponded with flashes from some of the weapons’ fire but it was enough, too much. Darkman’s command agitated the writhing nimbus that had surrounded him into a frenzy. Diabolic tendrils of pitch black sprang forth, becoming flying, slivering, crawling abominations with a taste for human flesh. They sprang claws, fangs, horns and tore, shredded and pierced. Some were greedily swimming through the air like black mambas through water tearing through stomachs. Others descended like hawks, gouging out and popping eyeballs. And still others entered rectums and mouths, eating their exit out of guts and chests with spectacular effect, in a frenzy of carnage. He tried to block out the sounds of screaming, flesh being torn, the splash of blood, the splatter of gore hitting the ceiling, floor and walls but he couldn’t.
How do you stop yourself from smelling expelled bowels and steaming viscera, even with your arm over your mouth and nose?
You can’t.
He dry retched and closed his eyes, whimpering, as the smells of the human abattoir were thick in the air. To his disgust he didn’t need his eyes to experience this slaughter because his mind recreated the horror for him with equal verisimilitude. Chips prayed for his life to be spared.
Prayed like his life depended on it.
20.
The Crypt Nightclub
22.55
The bouncer protecting the door to the main office - all six foot four of him - nodded as the group approached.
“Mr. Patterson sir, what’s good?”
Spokes and the big man shook hands vigorously.
“Yow, Ricky, I’m irie partner. How’s dat pretty little girlfriend of yours doing?”