My Name Is Not Jacob Ramsay

by Ben Trebilcook

  Jason flicked back and forth from the bloody footprint to the muddy one from the Common. They looked identical. He turned to Mr Ahmed. "In the back, behind you. There's a plaster cast. Can you get it please?" asked Jason.

  Mr Ahmed didn't bat an eyelid as he complied, turning round and reaching over the back seat into the boot, pulling out the plaster cast of the shoe print. He eyed it, briefly, then handed it across to Jason.

  "Cheers," said Jason, holding it upright and switching his eyes left to right at the cast and the digital image of the bloody print outside. They were indeed the same.

  "They're identical," commented Mr Ahmed.

  "Yeah."

  "Very clear. Was the bloody shoe outside here, on the street?" Mr Ahmed asked.

  "Yep."

  "And the plaster cast? Where was this taken?"

  "On the Common," Jason replied.

  "What does it mean?"

  Jack led Edward to the back garden. It pained him to do so, but he arched his neck to jut his head forwards as he gestured to a metal grate. "There. In there."

  Edward looked to where Jack was pointing to and frowned. "What's down there?" he asked, receiving another sneer from Jack as he released his grip on him.

  "You mean you don't know? You go acting like a scary James Bond CSI man, taking pictures of footprints and putting a Vulcan Death Grip on me, and you don't know what's down there?" Jack said, gaining confidence, but in a campish manner.

  "Why should I know?"

  "Because this is Blackheath. Doesn't everyone know?"

  "Stop wasting time and tell me what's down there!" Edward said more forcefully.

  "Go down there and 'ave a look yourself, old man."

  Edward jabbed the end of the torch into Jack's side and then applied a thumb and wrist lock on him, forcing him, awkwardly, downwards.

  "You first, you cocky little sod. Go on." Edward shoved Jack towards the metal grate.

  Jack bolted his head round, suddenly with a face full of tears, and yelled at Edward. "Don't push me in here! It's not here, is it? It's there! Look! Are you blind? It's there! There's the hole!"

  Edward diverted his eyes to a small, dark, tunnel-like entrance beside Jack, near a clump of bushes and crumbling brickwork. The metal grate must have previously covered this entrance. It was around two feet across and perhaps three feet high.

  "You first," ordered Edward, as he shone his beam across the hole.

  Muddy steps, made of rock and chalk, led down into pitch-black darkness. The steps were slippery. Wet with water. Wet with blood. "Who's down here?" called out Edward to Jack, who was several steps ahead of him, caught in Edward's flashlight. Edward stopped and glanced back. A glimmer of the night sky shone twelve or so feet behind him. He fumbled for his mobile phone in his fleece pocket and illuminated the display with his torch. The phone was losing bars of signal. He thought for a moment as he paused and looked back to Jack, who was gaining distance. "Wait! It's too dark. Wait for my light!" yelled Edward, setting foot, carefully, to descend further into the cavern: Jack Cade's Cavern. The beam of light from Edward's torch shone across a more level and certainly less dangerous pathway.

  A chamber was picked out, then another, then two more. They twisted deeper into nothingness.

  Edward zigzagged his torch, widening the beam to see more. He noticed Jack round a corner of the underground chalk cavern going into one of the chambers.

  "Slow down!" Edward called, sighing and taking just one step before stopping still and staring.

  The walls were crumbling pieces of heavily bloodstained chunks of chalk. Light from Edward's torch brightened the floor of the cave to spot two men.

  Their bodies were twisted in a blood-soaked heap.

  One man had been shot in his neck and the left side of his head.

  The other had been shot in the back, arms and both thighs. The men were of Somali origin.

  Edward slowly rolled his eyes upwards, along with his beam to cast light onto Jack, who was standing in the opening of the chamber ahead. His glassy eyes glistened in the glow.

  "Jack? Jack, are there more bodies in there?" Edward asked calmly.

  Jack slowly nodded his head once. His jaw was tight.

  "Are any of them alive?"

  Jack slowly shook his head.

  Edward lowered his head, looking elsewhere with brief despair. He gasped a breath of momentarily dashed hopes. He looked up at Jack, wondering what kind of devil hell was beyond him in the next cave. More bodies for certain, but was his son, Michael, amongst them? Shining his light downwards, he stepped past one of the dead bodies and over another, looking upwards to the chamber entrance to where a warm, orange glow seeped out from within.

  Four roadwork lights delivered an orange bloom, illuminating the large, solid, chalk-walled chamber. Benches, carved into the rock, faced one another on either side. Two twisted pillars and a bar in one corner. The place was a magnificent, secret gem of a meeting place, concealed deep under Blackheath.

  Edward appeared at the chamber's arched entrance and stopped instantly. With Jack standing opposite him, he eyed his surroundings and took in the cold stench of death before him. It was all around him.

  The body of another young Somali man lay awkwardly just two feet in front of him. His entire clothing wet with blood. His eyes were open and stared like a waxwork figure.

  A fourth Somali man was seen, tangled and twisted, with two darker-skinned men, half on the ground and half upon one of the carved-out benches. The Somali, with his eyes closed, clutched his shot gut with one hand and gripped a Mac 10 Uzi machinegun pistol in the other.

  The other two men were Nigerian.

  One wore dark blue jeans, a black roll neck and a black bomber jacket, with one milky eye staring blankly upwards and a scar running from this eye and down his cheek. He, too, had been shot and was incredibly blood-soaked. His body contorted and entwined with his fellow Nigerian national, slumped over the bench, with one arm missing.

  The wall was spattered with blood and riddled with bullets.

  Edward was pained by what he saw. He turned his horrified eyes to one of the pillars in the middle of the chamber.

  At the base of it was one more Nigerian, half soaked in his own blood and half covered in a pink and red powder. Bullet shells, blood, cocaine and death were contained within this underground lair.

  "What the hell happened here, Jack?"

  "I - I was trying to study. I - I need to study. I can't concentrate if I hear just the slightest sound. It disturbs me. It's like - it's like being woken from a dream. Maybe this is a dream. Yes. Yes this is a dream..." Jack's voice trailed off.

  "Jack!" Edward shouted, jolting Jack from his momentary trance-like state.

  "I had my headphones on the second time. It just sounded like drilling was happening under my house."

  "Jack. Jack, please. Tell me what happened," Edward asked, calmly.

  Jack sat in his living room reading a book on childcare, in between flicking through a copy of Heat magazine, tutting at the snippets of D-list celebrity gossip he feasted his eyes upon. He checked his white Baby-G wristwatch. It was 17:15. He twitched, turning his head as he heard a car engine outside. Placing the book and magazine down, he knelt on the sofa to peer out of the window. He saw a couple of figures outside, but they were gone as soon as he had time to crane his neck further sideways to see.

  "Are they going down the side?" he said to himself, curiously, sliding off the sofa and striding out of the room.

  A door opened and Jack stepped out from the kitchen to an outside pathway. The same pathway that Edward and he had now walked down. Rugged, overgrown with weeds, but when Jack went for the first time that day it was much lighter outside, giving a somewhat fantasy, Secret Garden vibe. He looked to the right and jolted with fright to see Sinatra shuffling his feet down the pathway from the street.

  "Babe? What are-"

  "Shut up, man. Ssh," Sinatra said, aggressively.

  Jack frowned and th
en fixed on the Nigerian man from the Common walking a couple of feet behind him.

  "What's going on?" Jack asked.

  "Who he?" asked the Nigerian.

  "He's ma boy. Chill bruv," replied Sinatra, passing Jack as he pushed back a branch to step further to the garden.

  "I'm just taking him out and then it is all for you to deal with. Understand?" barked the Nigerian.

  "Sin, deal with what?" Jack was confused.

  "Go back inside, man. It's cool, init blud. Seriously, just go back inside da house, man," insisted Sinatra.

  "No. What are you doing?"

  "You not pleased to see me? Oh my days," scoffed Sinatra, acting up.

  "You two lovas can kissy kiss make up later. Sinatra. I get da man for you now. I have to go," said the Nigerian, stepping out of sight to the street.

  "What's going on?" asked Jack, with a hurt expression looking at Sinatra who pushed on through to the garden. Jack followed him, frowning to see Sinatra pushing back bushes and branches, as if to search for something.

  "Where is it?"

  "What are you looking for?"

  "Nuffin. There it is," Sinatra said, breaking a branch and tugging some of the bush apart to reveal the metal grate that covered the cave entrance.

  "Why do you want that? Oh my God!" Jack said, catching sight of Michael being shoved forth into the garden, down the pathway, by the Nigerian. Jack looked him up and down, seeing the silver gaffer tape across his mouth and a piece of black electrical tape over his eyes.

  Michael's wrists were tied behind his back with plastic ties and he mumbled, poking the tape out with his tongue and blowing it out enough for him to speak.

  "Where are you taking me?" Michael yelled out.

  "Shut the fock up and move!" shouted the Nigerian, barging him forward.

  Michael stumbled a couple of steps and then received his beige canvas bag in his back, knocking him down.

  "All yours. What are you doing down there, arrow boy?"

  Sinatra scowled at the Nigerian who was shaking his head at him, then tilted his look as he squinted to stare at the metal grate concealing the cavern below.

  The Nigerian turned and set off back to the street. He stopped to look back at the metal grate and paused for thought. He nodded his head and pointed a forefinger at the grate as he smirked. He sneered and continued until he was out of sight.

  Jack curled his lip and looked at Sinatra. "Who the hell was that?"

  "I may not be able to see you, but I can hear you. I'll identify all of your voices," Michael said, getting to his feet again. He swallowed and cocked his head to try and hone in on every sound around him.

  Sinatra continued to scowl. He paced past Jack and entered the house via the kitchen side door.

  Jack sighed, glanced at Michael in the garden and then walked after Sinatra, who returned with a tool box, slamming it down on the ground and alarming Michael.

  Sinatra located a screwdriver and unscrewed part of the metal grate. Some of it came away with ease, however he struggled to extract the screws from the other half. He gripped the grate and pulled and pulled. He strained hard. His biceps flexed and he gritted his teeth as the grate finally came off the brickwork it was attached to, sending Sinatra rolling backwards into the bush.

  "Help me up, man," Sinatra snapped, staggering out of the bush, with Michael's iPhone dropping from his pocket.

  "I'm not getting muddy. It's filthy down there," complained Jack, eyeing the phone on the grass as he took a step forward.

  "It's just for one night. He can stay there 'til we figure out what to do," Sinatra said, picking up the phone and brushing and blowing off the dirt. "I'll do it then. Get out my way, yeah," he continued.

  "This isn't good for you. It isn't good for us! Bad things will happen, do you not understand!" Jack cried, not fully comprehending the situation.

  Sinatra put the phone back into the pocket from where it had previously slipped out. He looked at Michael and then at Jack, welling up with tears before making his way into the house.

  Jack rested his hands against the kitchen sink, tight-lipped, flustered and feeling emotionally betrayed.

  "Why don't you ever tell me what's going on with you!" Jack shouted. He stepped out of the kitchen and outside to the path, catching sight of Sinatra disappearing, with a flashlight, into the darkness of the cavern. He frowned and ventured into the garden, crouching down by the hole in the wall. "Sin? Sinatra, what the hell, man."

  "This is fucking nuts, blud. I'm the Don. I am the Don!" Sinatra's voice echoed and he laughed, twirling around with his flashlight in the cavern below ground.

  The light caught Michael standing in the darkness. His jaw trembled. He managed to speak through a gap in the gaffer tape.

  "Sinatra, I know it's you. Please. Just untie me. This is a serious issue. You'll get done for kidnapping."

  "Kidnapping? I don't think so," Sinatra said, stepping away to shine his light elsewhere, exploring.

  "I do think so, Sinatra," Michael contradicted him, firmly, twitching his head and hearing a rock or a stone tumble down the steps from the darkness behind him.

  Sinatra's flashlight whipped round, shining on Michael and the area around him, picking out the chalk walls and glimpses of the chambers, as well as Jack, who peered from the set of rocky steps.

  His face was frightened, yet concerned. "Sinatra, let the man go."

  "Who is that? Yes. Yes, let me go! Listen to him, Sinatra. Listen to your friend," Michael pleaded.

  "Are you mad? You need to be taught a lesson, bruv," scoffed Sinatra, chuckling to himself.

  "Where am, I Sinatra? I need to tell people I'm OK," Michael called.

  Sinatra suddenly pulled Michael into a chamber.

  "ARE YOU CRAZY!" yelled Jack, feeling his way in the pitch black, crawling on his backside and gently easing himself down the muddy, chalky steps.

  The beam from Sinatra's flashlight was like a firefly bouncing around the chamber and Jack used it as his guide, making his way towards it. He peered into the chamber's entrance.

  "Sinatra, please. This isn't it a joke now. You have to understand how serious this is for you." Michael's voice trembled as he stood near a pillar in the large and impressive chamber.

  "Serious for me? Are you mad? It's serious for you, prick."

  "What are you planning to do, Sinatra? Jesus! How long are you going to keep him here for? A few days? A week? Are you going to feed the poor man?" Jack called from the chamber's rocky arched entrance.

  "Ah yeah. I didn't fink about dat. Are you hungry, Michael? I've only got some gum. D'you want dat?" Sinatra asked, delving into his jean pocket and retrieving a pack of Wrigley's Juicy Fruit.

  "Sinatra, chewing gum is not food," Jack stated.

  "I'm being kind, man!" Sinatra removed a stick of gum and unwrapped it. He gently peeled off the silver gaffer tape from Michael's mouth.

  "Open your mouth, man. Michael, open your mouth."

  Michael warily opened his mouth as Sinatra popped the stick of gum between his teeth. He began to chew.

  "I'll be back in a minute, man," Sinatra told Michael then joined Jack.

  "What the fuck are you doing, Sinatra?" Jack whispered.

  "Just scarin' him, man," he replied, casually, pulling the iPhone from his pocket and slotting it inside Michael's workbag. He slung the bag into the darkness and edged Jack out of the chamber.

  Michael stood alone, against the pillar, in the dark, deep underground. "Hello?" his voice echoed and his body shivered.

  "I dunno where to park, man," moaned one of the Somali men driving the Ford Focus into Greenwich Park.

  "We're nearly late. Just park anywhere," responded the Somali in the passenger seat, clutching his Adidas track bags. He looked at his cheap digital wristwatch: 18:55.

  The four Nigerian men walked through a chalk tunnel, deep underground.

  The twin brothers gripped Maglite torches, while the man carrying a bag of cocaine and another man, with a Ber
etta pistol, held roadwork lights, casting orange beams ahead of them.

  "I always forget the way," noted the man with the Beretta.

  "Me too. Every step looks the same," chirped the man with the milky white eye.

  Jack and Sinatra sat on the sofa in his small living room. The television was on and the movie Harry Brown was playing on the DVD.

  "Dis film is crap, man," commented Sinatra, sighing.

  "It's seven o'clock, Sinatra."

  "So?" Sinatra replied, scowling and turning the sound up on the TV.

  "Turn it down and talk to me," Jack said, placing an arm around Sinatra, with him edging away.

  "Get off me, man. Stop being gay."

  "Stop being gay? Are you serious? Why are you pretending to be so tough? This isn't you, Sinatra."

  "Isn't me? What you saying, isn't me? How do you know what is or isn't me? Fool." Sinatra kissed his teeth and zapped the TV sound up some more.

  The orange glow of the roadwork light shone on the pale skin of Michael's face. He must have sensed the bright beam as his head twitched. Perhaps it was the sound of footsteps that echoed into the chamber.

  "Whoa! What the fock is this!" gasped the Nigerian with the milky eye.

  "Who's there please?" asked Michael, in fear.

  "Shit man. Who is he?" said the cocaine carrying man.

  "Please. I've been kidnapped. Can you call the police or something? Please. Anyone."

  The Nigerian with the cocaine in his sports bag laughed out loud. He formed an intense frown.

  "Call the police? I think not. Who are you, and why are you worth kidnapping?"

  "I work in a school."

  "Shut up!" spouted one of the men. He was the twin without the scar. The one who'd helped Sinatra.

  "I've heard your-" Michael was soon interrupted when the five Somali men entered the chamber from another tunnel.

  "You are late," said the Nigerian with the cocaine.

  "I've been down 'ere once, init. Joo fink I can remember deez caves and da layout anshit?" replied the Somali with the two track bags.

  "Who the fuck is he, man?" came one of the men, waving his Glock pistol in Michael's direction.