The Survival Game

by Stavro Yianni

  It was no use. Before he could gain control of his senses, the bat struck him again, this time in the ribs. The breath bolted from his chest, and he involuntarily flipped his face up to meet the sky.

  Breathe, breathe! his mind screamed.

  Breathe? Fuck breathing, re! Fight, gamota! his inner instincts frantically countered.

  He swung an impulsive fist round in response, not knowing who or what he was aiming at. But all he caught was fresh air, and all he achieved was to open himself up to another attack as his head swung back round the way it came. His now vulnerable face crunched into a fist made up of fingers as thick as Butcher’s Choice sausages. His left eye instantly closed tight, and he spun back round again like a confused Ballerina, almost losing his footing. The world around him was now a jet-engined roundabout, spinning out of control, leaving him open for the kill. But somehow, he managed to keep hold of the bag, fully aware of it still gripped tightly in his hand. And that by far was the most important thing. The rest could wait…

  But now completely fucked and disorientated, he had no doubt the inevitable killer blow was about to arrive, and he knew in that instant there was nothing he could do.

  He tried his best to prepare himself for it, ready to swing every limb around in fury, going out in a blaze of glory, when a loud female voice cut through the air. ‘Stój!’

  John’s head jerked up in the direction from where the voice came. His vision slipped back into focus and through his only open eye he found himself now staring at the gimp. At her flat chest. At her svelte, leggy body, one hand idly on her hip, the other holding that gun.

  Prince Charles stopped dead, his cricket bat swung back in preparation for a final attack. His head flicked round as well. He stared back at her and snarled.

  ‘Stój,’ the gimp repeated.

  Prince Charles glanced from her to John before reluctantly backing off, taking his orders like an obedient dog. John looked back at the gimp with a dazed stare to see that she was now pointing her gun straight at him. He instantly sobered, throwing up his free palm and shaking it like he was waving someone goodbye, numbly repeating ‘nuh… nuh… nuh…’ as if his tongue had swollen too large for his mouth. No, no, no! Don’t shoot me! he wanted to shout out loud. Here take the bag! Just don’t shoot me!

  But that’s exactly what she did.

  She pulled the trigger. A split second later, there was a short sharp stab in John’s chest. He gasped and seized up in shock, his hand flying straight up to the impact zone.

  I’ve been shot! I’ve been shot!

  But something wasn’t right. His open eye blinked in confusion.

  Wasn’t there supposed to be more pain? Like a lot more pain?

  He slowly glanced down at his wound to see something sticking out of his chest. He was expecting to find a bullet hole, but instead, there was a…dart? Yeah, it was a dart, gamota. Like those tranquilliser darts they knock grizzly bears out with.

  And when a sudden, heady feeling overcame him and he staggered back violently against the alley wall, he realised that’s exactly what it was. The putana shot him with a fucking tranquilliser dart. Fear had bizarrely given way to surreality.

  Against his will, John’s legs abruptly turned to lead and they crumpled like pipe cleaners. He went straight down, hitting the concrete in a heap, an aggressive wooziness rapidly overwhelming him. His body was systematically shutting down and there was nothing he could do to reverse it.

  Keep with it! Keep with it, gamota! his mind yelled. Stay awake!

  He managed to push his eyelid open to be met with a black, oppressive sky. Unconsciousness was creeping all over him like the Grim Reaper making a beeline for a man on his deathbed. He fought against it, but there was no hope. The skata now going around his veins was strong. Too strong…

  His undamaged eye closed for a prolonged second and he almost slipped away. He forced it open again and now faces obscured that black sky—Prince Charles, the gimp, the clown, and Scream. They were towering over him, scrutinising him like he was some kind of lab rat. Prince Charles bent down and unceremoniously grabbed the travel bag John somehow still clutched onto for dear life. He yanked it from his grip. John tried with all his might to resist, but it was no use; by then all his strength had deserted him. It was like taking candy from babies.

  Prince Charles stood upright and finally removed his mask. John stared at him through his heavy, slitted eye, utilising the final remnants of strength and consciousness he barely held to take a mental snapshot, allowing that image to be branded on his mind—he clocked a meaty, shaved head; dark eyes.

  Prince Charles anxiously unzipped the bag, removed the jiffy bag, and peeked inside.

  ‘Dobrze?’ the gimp asked.

  Prince Charles nodded. ‘Tak,’ he replied with a broad smile. ‘Dobrze.’

  He replaced the jiffy bag and zipped up the travel bag.

  By then, the clown was now unmasked as well. He was just lounging, watching what was happening in silence. John snapped him—tall; skinny; short, spiky hair; a big mole on his right cheek.

  The gimp removed her mask. John now concentrated as best he could on her—short, dyed-red, spiky hair; nose ring; high cheekbones. Her dark eyes gleamed with lucid intelligence and for a second, John felt like he was staring at an alien Gray.

  And last but not least, off came the Scream mask. His face was a broad grin; he was waving John off into the realm of sleep.

  I’ll remember you, you bastards… I promise I’ll… remember…

  John stared beyond them at their van. Through his blurred vision, he could partially make out the first word painted on its side. It read ‘medics’ or ‘meds’ or something similar. He noted the symbol, which looked like…a dagger with a snake wrapped around it?

  He groaned, now resigned to his defeat. His head fell back down on the concrete, the sound of their laughter—loud and echoing cackles—ringing through his mind. They were laughing. Taking the piss out of him like a bunch of hyenas after stealing lunch from a lion.

  You malakes got what you wanted, you won this round. But if our paths ever cross again, you won’t win the next. I promise you…

  John’s heavy eyelid slammed shut for the final time, and unconsciousness slipped over him like a giant glove.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Alisha Evangelou had to choke back her tears the moment she laid eyes on her husband, lying there unconscious in a hospital bed. It was her worst nightmare come true. No, her worst nightmare would be having to pay him a visit at the morgue. This wasn’t that bad—he was still breathing after all—but it wasn’t that rosy either.

  She leant forwards and lovingly stroked the hair on his head, thinking if things would ever be normal, wishing that they would be. She gently pressed the icepack one of the nurses gave her on his swollen eye. They’d also put him in a room on his own, which was nice of them. They reckoned he’d been sedated with something, legal or illegal they couldn’t tell, but they saw no reason why he shouldn’t just eventually wake up seeing as he was stable.

  She hoped they were right. Glass half full and all that…

  She turned her head to the side to get a glimpse of the two men at the back of the room, standing there like a couple of hoods. The restaurant John was making deliveries to phoned that Aziz bloke to tell him what happened. Ahmed—his assistant or whatever—contacted her straight away and arranged to bring her to South London. It was nice of them, but as far as she was concerned, it was probably because of them that John was in this state. They were trouble; she could smell it all over them. But ultimately they were what they were. It was John who was at fault for always hanging around with these dodgy, low-life characters. She hated that aspect of him. He just couldn’t seem to find good people to be mates with, instead attracting these pieces of shit. She always put it down to them preying on his easygoing nature and his annoying—but at the same time kinda sweet—easily-led character. He was just too damn nice to everyone. Instead of having the sense to tell the
bad ones to bugger off, he felt he had to be best buddies with them. Besides, John had never been one to say no to something he hadn’t done before.

  Try everything once was how he lived…

  She caught Ahmed staring at her. He gave her an uneasy smile in return. She just ignored him, turning her attention back to her husband. He just lay there, breathing steadily. Looking helpless.

  She felt helpless…

  She checked her watch. It was two in the morning, and she was getting tired. So was the baby. They both needed sleep. The very notion was a complete non starter right then; she couldn’t sleep even if she wanted to. Then, from nowhere, a sudden urge for the bathroom came upon her. The way that happened had become a regular occurrence as her pregnancy progressed. She didn’t want to leave John alone with the two tossers at the back of the room, but she really needed to go.

  ‘I’ll be back in a minute, babe,’ she told John and kissed him on the forehead. She stood up straight and stretched her back. Her bloated belly pushed forwards, putting a strain on her spine, which was already hurting from sitting on a hard NHS chair for too long.

  God, I so badly just wanna be at home with my husband so I can put my feet up and do nothing else, she thought to herself with lament.

  She sighed, and then glanced once more at those two at the back of the room. Aziz was staring solemnly at her with his wear-lined face while the other one was staring at his shoes, his gelled hair pointing straight at her like a bed of nails.

  ‘I’ve got to go to the bathroom,’ she informed them.

  ‘Would you like an escort?’ Aziz asked her.

  ‘No, thank you,’ she replied in a courteous manner. ‘I’m fine by myself.’ She wanted as little assistance from them as possible.

  She walked past them, and out of the room, taking one final look back at John before she closed the door behind her.

  *****

  John’s eyes flicked open just as the door clicked shut.

  The white ceiling dominated his vision, contrasting the black night sky—the last image he saw before he was knocked sparko. Harsh spotlights burnt his eyeballs, forcing him to squint. Where the hell am I? he asked himself.

  There was a steady beep somewhere in the near distance like he was on board a submarine that had broken through the surface of a black sea. And bullet-like, a memory from the previous night flashed in his mind. He saw a tall slender woman wearing a gimp mask firing a pistol at him, and he instantly reached for his chest.

  Jesus Christ. Did that really happen?

  He lifted his head, and his eyes fell upon something he recognised all too well, or rather someone. Now confusion and fear were hitting him from all angles ’cos the last person in the world he wanted to see right then was standing at the back of the room like a bad trip.

  ‘John? Are you awake, John? Yiannaki?’ Aziz repeated in his now thin Turkish accent. His eyes were wide and bulging; he looked proper eager.

  John remembered very distinctly being on a job for the man standing ahead of him, but more importantly, more disturbingly, he’d managed to get his stuff half-inched while he was at it.

  Ah shit… Yeah, that was right wasn’t it? It wasn’t a dream after all…

  He removed the mask strapped to his face so he could to start blagging his way out of the mess he’d created. But he barely had time to start ’cos Aziz darted over to the side of his bed, a dark look carved into his mug. He was pissed, John could clearly see that, but he was also concerned about something. He touched John on his arm and as he did, a massive pain shot through his head, making him groan.

  ‘Listen to me, Johnny,’ Aziz said in a stern but hurried voice. ‘You’ve been in a coma for around five hours. I’ll explain more later, there’s no time now. Alisha went to the toilet. She’ll be back any minute. Listen to me—make sure you don’t tell her anything about what you were collecting from Omar last night. Okay? Don’t tell her a thing; if you have to lie, you lie, make sure—’

  The door then clicked open and Alisha ambled in, cutting Aziz off mid-sentence. And just as he stopped, the serious expression that was planted on his mug suddenly became much worse. His lower jaw dropped and jutted out like an enraged bulldog’s. His eyeballs flushed bloodshot as if they were about to explode from the inside out. A low, phlegmy growl emanated from somewhere at the back of his throat. John watched on, open-mouthed, as two black horns—demon horns, shadowlike—sprouted out the top of his head like time-lapsed plants.

  What the…?

  John began blinking rapidly as if he were trying to shake off a hallucination. He then looked back at Aziz, but he’d already spun round to face Alisha, taking his distorted face and horns with him. Aziz made sure to put on a broad smile as he opened up his palms and held them out in front of him as if he were presenting her with a new car.

  Alisha looked from his beaming face to the bed. Her jaw dropped and her eyes widened. ‘Is he awake?’ she asked in a highly excited voice.

  ‘Yes, he just woke up, my dear,’ Aziz replied with a friendly chuckle.

  Alisha’s hands rushed up to her face, and when she saw a thin smile appear on John’s face, saw him give a tired wave—which was nothing more than a token gesture—tears began to stream down her cheeks like obliterated dams. She immediately bounced over to his side and smothered him.

  John groaned under the immense weight, suddenly finding himself with a job on just trying to push her off. He gave her a tired shove with the little strength he had. Thankfully, it did the trick. Alisha pulled away, a sharp pain raking across John’s head at the same time. Something had happened to him that he didn’t totally understand, but he understood the pain it had left in his head perfectly well. The last thing he wanted was to be smothered and pinned down by anyone, let alone a heavily pregnant woman, even if she were his wife. It felt like being the loser in a WWF title fight, gamota.

  When he was finally free, he breathed in deep and it felt glorious.

  Alisha became still and scrutinised him with tearful eyes. It was a stare that John knew all too well—she was analysing him, cold reading him like a book from the inside out. John gave her a nervous smile and nodded. She responded by bringing her open palm back and throwing it forwards in one swift hard swipe, slapping him firmly on the cheek.

  A rocket of pain erupted in John’s head and he let out a loud groan. ‘Thanks, Leesh,’ he said in a joyless voice as he rubbed his stubbled cheek.

  ‘You stupid shit!’ she replied in a stern tone, her eyes flashing with anger. ‘What the hell have you done now? You got me worried sick, scared the shit out of me!’

  John showed her his open palm in an attempt to halt her angry rant, his eyelids shut tight.

  She huffed and carried on regardless. ‘The doctors said something about…’ She stopped, made a syringe gesture with her hand and mimed the process of injecting herself in the arm.

  John opened his eyes to see her doing it.

  ‘You better tell me that ain’t true…’ she added in a grave manner, her face a picture of anger.

  John’s back straightened and he sat upright. He frowned. Is she fucking joking, gamota? The very suggestion now made him angry too.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ he curtly replied. ‘No, no, no. No way!’ He looked her in the eyes with sincerity, but she looked away. John grabbed her firmly by the arm and pulled her his way, ignoring the pain in his head. ‘Listen to me! That’s bullshit, Alisha. You know that.’

  Alisha smeared a tear across her cheek. The fireworks that were in her eyes a few seconds before dampened just a touch, suggesting to John she’d cooled off a bit. The last thing he needed was her thinking that.

  ‘Well, that’s what I thought,’ she retorted in a calmer voice. ‘And that’s what I told them. ‘John would never, never do that to himself or to me,’ I said to them.’

  ‘And it’s true,’ John said, adamant.

  ‘Well, what did happen, then?’

  John looked past her at Aziz, whose face wa
s just lines and shadow, those weird horns still sticking out the sides of his head making him look like Jamiroquai. The last thing he could remember was going back to his car with the travel bag when he was attacked and shot with some sort of tranquilliser dart. But he couldn’t tell Alisha all of that. No way. He was under orders. He’d have to lie to her, and he hated doing that.

  He looked back at her with a tired, painful feeling in both his head and heart. ‘I was…’ careful, re Yiannaki, ‘doing my monthly delivery to Omar’s, like I do every month. I picked up the usual things, you know, like I told you—the Greek coffee, the sugar, the Cyprus brandy, the cigars, and cigarettes ’cos Aziz gets ’em cheap…’

  John raised his eyebrows and nodded his head at Aziz, looking for corroboration. Alisha turned round to face him. Aziz gave her a cheesy grin, nodded, and winked. She turned back round, a slightly disgusted look on her face as if she’d just smelt five-day-old skata.

  John forced a smile and carried on with his story. ‘So, I went down to Omar’s and parked round the back in the alley, took the stuff in, got the cash, and left. I got back to the car and was about to get in when I got jumped. By about five-five or six geezers. Pretty sure it was six, could’ve even been seven come to think of it…

  Think they were Eastern European; sounded Russian. They came out of nowhere, man. One smashed me round the head with a fucking cricket bat! I sent a couple of ’em down, but there was too many. They were just laying into me from all directions, didn’t have a chance… Anyway, while I’m all fucked up from that, dazed and confused, this horrible bitch—looked just like that weirdo from the Eurythmics, Annie whatever—comes along from nowhere and shoots me with a fucking tranquilliser dart! Knocked me out stone cold with some nasty skata, man…’

  Alisha gave him an incredulous stare. ‘Tranquiliser dart?’

  John stared at her with wide eyes. ‘Yeah. Tranquiliser dart.’