The Survival Game

by Stavro Yianni

  Alisha was struggling to get out of the car, so John quickly went over to help her. Her response was to push his arm away and walk off towards the caravan alone. On reaching it, she swung the door open and slammed it shut behind her.

  John puffed his cheeks and then rubbed his eyes; they felt like hot ball bearings. In the background, children were shouting at each other, some fighting, some playing. He looked up and around him. As he stared with regret at the rows of caravans, the scraggy-looking people hanging around ’em, a few of them drinking Special Brew, big dogs by their feet drinking the same stuff from their bowls, he wondered exactly how he got himself into this skata.

  Where did it all go so wrong, gamota?

  The thought caused a wave of anger to suffuse him. He smashed his fists on the roof of his car, the loud clang ringing in his ears like tinnitus. He was sick of living like this. Sick of being skint. Sick of things going against him. He wanted a good life, a piece of the pie. He knew he owed Alisha big time and the delivery job had been helping him do just that. It was a good earner, and every delivery was a step closer to a new home. They’d worked out they needed at least thirty grand as a deposit on a new place; even if it was just a small flat like Yiayia’s—the one he’d already managed to lose—it was the first step. And he was finally getting there, slowly, slowly, earning good danger money from Aziz for making the delivery once, sometimes twice a month. But in the end, even that went tits-up.

  Of all fucking things, mugged off in an alley, gamota.

  Deep down, he knew there was trouble on the horizon. He needed to get that delivery back, not only to save his job, but to get this month’s wage off Aziz ’cos it was gonna go towards the new flat. Time was against him and he knew it.

  Yeah, Alisha could go back to her old job once the moro came along, but that didn’t bring in all that much money anyway. It would mean a lifetime of just about surviving in a caravan. How could he look his kid in the eye when he reached nine, ten years old living like that? He’d get crucified at school when the other kids found out. Gyppo, pikey, they’d call him. Or her.

  Gamota, what if it’s a girl?

  She’ll be emotionally damaged for life. At least a boy could answer them with his fists. But did he really want that, as well?

  Definitely not.

  But there was a way out, a finish line—£30,000.

  And once that magic number was reached, he intended to draw a fresh line, and this time he wouldn’t cross it. He’d be a new man, with a new life, and a new family.

  He sparked up his first cigarro since the previous night and it tasted lovely like a chunk of chocolate after a crash diet. He trudged towards his caravan, sighing, his head burning, all around him children shouting. On his way, he made a promise to himself, Alisha, and his unborn moro. He promised he’d get them there. A new home. A new start. A good life.

  He promised.

  But to do that, he first had to find those malakes that mugged him off. And he had to find ’em fast.

  PART TWO—CONNECTING DOTS

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Dread I shook the five rocks clutched in his fist like he was giving someone the Nescafé shake. All the while he was screwing hard at the scared dawta he’d tied up and slung on the floor like she was nuthin’ but a rag doll. He was in nah mood to fuck around and if she didn’t do what he wanted her to, she was gonna pay big style.

  He dashed the rocks down on a nearby table like he was rolling dice at a casino crap table. They clunked across its surface, making the dawta flinch. Behind her gag, she was crying.

  Dread I kissed his teeth hard. ‘Hush, ya tear, Shandy,’ he said in a compassionless voice while he watched the rocks bounce and roll with eager eyes. The noise coming out the bitch was too much for his head to handle right then. He already had enough headache to be dealing with without listening to her hollerin’.

  Once the rocks became still, he went and stared down at them with big, wide eyes, scrutinising them, searching for answers to his questions. Behind him, Shandy was still crying.

  ‘I said hush ya fockin’ noise!’ he shouted over his shoulder in a voice that was dripping with rage.

  Shandy stopped dead her noise and began to whimper like some kinda lick up dog. Dread I hated all forms of weakness. Hated listening to bitches bawlin’. A loud grainy voice in his head was telling him to go carve her up like a melon and leave her to bleed—it was the voice that’d lost him a million dollars and a million soldiers, the voice that once put him in a cage, the voice that acted first and considered consequences only when it was too late. The voice that writhed in the pleasure of inflicting pain any chance it got. Dread I learnt hard over the years when and where it was okay to listen to that voice, when to let it decide his fate, and also when to tell it to hush the fuck up.

  It were nah that voice that built up a golden empire.

  Right about then, he chose to ignore it ’cos the rocks on the table were burning amber, glowing with that same recently recurring image like a film on loop—a silhouette whispering in his ear, informing him; an all seeing eye absorbing information and relaying it for his ears only.

  Dread I understood. He could see with a lucid clarity what the rocks were trying to tell him; that this bitch on the floor was gonna be an important piece in the revival of his falling empire.

  His Babylon Empire.

  He turned and faced Shandy, hands on hips. He stared down at her with dark, obsidian eyes. ‘Now, mi gonna aks ya some questions, ya hear?’ he told her in a cold, emotionless voice.

  Shandy nodded her head feverishly, her brown eyes bulging out of her skull like golf balls.

  Dread I picked up one of the rocks he dashed down on the table and held it in the air for Shandy to see. He then began to roll it in between his thumb and index finger. ‘Why you nah come see me no more?’ he asked in a more easy-going tone.

  Shandy’s eyes rolled like crazy as if she were desperately seeking a quick fix answer from somewhere in her surroundings; the walls, the ceiling, the floor. But there were none available.

  Dread I jumped over to her. He roughly pulled the gag down from her mouth, leaving it to dangle around her neck.

  Shandy began breathing short and sharp, but still she didn’t speak.

  ‘Why you and no one else come see me no more? Huh?’ Dread I asked again in an even softer tone, juxtaposing his actions.

  Shandy’s chest heaved. She went to speak, but she choked on her tears, making nothing but nasty guttural sounds. She shook her head at the same time, pleading with him to leave her alone. But Dread I wasn’t going to let her off lightly. He was desperate. Everything he’d built up—all the blood, sweat, and tears—was burning down around him like he was Nero. But he wasn’t prepared to just stand there and fiddle. He kissed his teeth hard just as a mad rush of anger surged through him, his face screwing up into a snarl. He bent over and grabbed Shandy by the hair. She let out a soundless scream, her vocal chords betraying her.

  Dread I twisted the hand gripping her hair making her face turn up to meet his. ‘Why mi boys coming back with mi product and no money to give?’ he asked, loud and angry this time.

  Shandy just shook her head in reply, trembling with terror.

  ‘Tell me!’ Dread I shouted as he yanked her head left and right. ‘Tell me, ya fockin’ whore!’

  Shandy just continued to cry, unable (or unwilling) to answer.

  ‘Fock dis!’ Dread I spat before he dashed her back down to the floor with an angry grunt. She hit the carpet with a soft thud. She immediately rolled over and tried to crawl away in desperation. But her tied up limbs couldn’t take her far. Dread I chuckled to himself as he watched her try and crawl away like a baby. A contemptuous smile hung on his scarred face as he casually reached in his combat trouser pocket and pulled out a blackened glass pipe.

  He blew out any dust and shit clogged inside it, then looked down at Shandy. ‘Wanna hit?’ he asked, wedging a rock into the end of the pipe.

  Shandy made it
to the sofa and was trying her best to get upright. In one stroke, Dread I shoved her over onto her side.

  When her eyes locked onto what was in his hand, she began to shake her head vehemently. ‘No… no… no…’ she repeated endlessly, speaking for the first time in ages.

  Dread I ignored her pleas and squatted down beside her. He put the pipe up to her face. ‘Put it in your mouth,’ he ordered.

  She shook her head, her lips pursed tightly like a child being force fed Brussels sprouts.

  ‘Put it in!’ Dread I snapped. He grabbed her cheeks with his free hand and squeezed hard. Her lips popped open. He shoved the pipe in her mouth. It clanged against her teeth, but he forced it in regardless. He then pulled out a lighter from his pocket and sparked it up. Shandy watched the flame with terrified eyes as it arced across the air and met with the rock stuck in the pipe. A recognisable crackling sound soon filled the air, swiftly followed by that horribly familiar melting-plastic-like stench. The pipe was quickly consumed with thick white smoke.

  ‘Tek a lick,’ Dread I ordered. ‘Tek a lick,’ he repeated.

  Shandy refused and managed to spit out the pipe from her mouth.

  Dread I recoiled, but was soon back in her face. ‘Tek a fockin’ lick or I’ll beat ya and rape ya!’ he threatened.

  He shoved the pipe in Shandy’s mouth again. She groaned, her eyes brimful with fear. Dread I could taste her terror; it was like milk ’n honey. He watched her lips tremble like leaves on a light wind with intense pleasure. A low murmur escaped from behind them. Dread I smiled, his gold tooth twinkling against the sunlight shining through the window.

  ‘Dere. Ya remember that feeling, Shandy, huh? Now tek a lick so ya can remember everyting I have to give you.’ He relit his lighter and held the flame next to the rock. It began to burn and sizzle again.

  Shandy closed her eyes, tears squeezing out from between the lids and streaming down her cheeks. Against her will, she finally took a drag from the pipe. Dread I began nodding his head, liking what he was seeing—the way she was sucking on his pipe even though she didn’t want to. It reminded him of how eager she used to be for a hit just a few months before. She’d beg for it. Do any lickle ting for it. Sometimes she had no money to give. But she would beg.

  Dread I would just laugh pitifully at her and say—‘Ya know da rule dem, Shandy. Ya don’t have the cash, ya gotta suck for ya rock.’

  Dread I loved to humiliate, loved to violate. To feel like he owned ’em, like he owned their souls.

  Nah, fock dat, he did own ’em, he did have their souls in his hands, and nuthin’ gonna change dat. This bitch couldn’t run, she couldn’t escape, her soul was trapped in the fabric of his empire, and he was gonna make sure she understood that.

  Shandy began coughing and choking out smoke from her lungs. She looked up at Dread I with groggy eyes that were swiftly glazing over, the terrific instantaneous hit of crack doing its thing.

  She stared at Dread I for a while as if to say ‘I’ve done what you want. Now leave me alone.’

  But Dread I shook his head in reply. ‘Nah, nah, Shandy,’ he said. ‘You smoke more. Come on. Lick it. I wanna see you smoke the whole ting.’

  Shandy groaned. Dread I shoved the pipe back in between her lips again. He lit it up and she smoked more. This time, she took a bigger hit and she retched, spittle flying out of her mouth.

  Dread I laughed. ‘Good. Good, Shandy. You smoke it up, and remember you belong to me. Ya hear?’

  Shandy was now swaying from side to side in woozy arcs, her eyes rolling up into her head. She was beginning to buzz hard. Dread I shoved the pipe in her face for one more hit, and this time she took it willingly, sucking on it long and deep. After a big toke, Dread I grabbed her by the chin and tilted her head upwards. Now when he stared at her, he could see the remnants of the face he used to see all those times she was hungry for crack—the black holes for pupils, the rolling eyes, the longing desire for a hit. It was allll coming back. Even though she tried to run from it, Dread I knew it would always be there. Her desire and love for the drug he offered was returning, all she needed was a lickle memory jog.

  He nodded his head slowly in appreciation of the good work he’d done. Shandy was puffing her cheeks, her eyes rolling wildly; she was out of it, inna outa space and enjoying the ride.

  ‘Aye, Shandy,’ Dread I said in a soothing voice. ‘This be some ultra high-grade killa shit ya smoking here, seen? Just for you.’

  A bizarre smile flittered across her face. Bizarre ’cos in all truth, she had nothing to smile about right then.

  Dread I began shaking her shoulders, trying to get some of her focus back. He needed her to speak. ‘Shandy. Shandy,’ he repeated.

  She swayed and swooned in his hands, but couldn’t register him. He slapped her lightly across the cheek and something in her eyes suddenly came back, her pupils focussing in on him.

  Dread I nodded his head firmly. ‘Now, Shandy. Ya gonna tell I everyting, ya hear?’

  Shandy gazed at him through slitted eyes. She slowly nodded her head in understanding. She then reached out for the crack pipe in his hand.

  Dread I looked down at it, before pulling it away. ‘First ya speak, then ya toke, seen?’

  Shandy frowned. ‘Okay…’ she said, in almost a whisper.

  ‘Why you and no one else come see me no more?’ Dread I asked again.

  This time, she answered. In a heavily slurred voice, Shandy spent the following hour spilling her guts, telling Dread I everything she knew.

  And when she finished, she was begging him for another hit.

  *****

  John picked up a candle from the pile, and went over to the large sand-filled holder. A few other candles were already standing upright in the sand, burning brightly. He lit his own from the flame of another, and pushed it into the sand to burn with the others. He closed his eyes and muttered a small prayer for Mum and Yiayia before crossing himself. He followed up with a deep, juddering breath and a look around. St. Barnabas was empty. Deserted benches and lonely stained glass windows stared back at him, the eerie feeling they injected into him sending a shiver dancing up his spine. He was experiencing a proper bout of déjà vu, transported back to when he was a kid, dragged to this very place every Sunday against his will. At that time, he always wondered why Yiayia would put him through it week after week, the way she’d force-feed him her religion as if she were trying her best to knock the evil out of a demon; he could just never get his head around it. But once he learnt the truth about his father, he understood perfectly. Taking him to church and Sunday school was supposed to teach him right from wrong.

  And look how that turned out, gamota.

  He wiped his clammy face with his hand as he began to walk down the aisle, wanting to get his business done so he could be away from these bad memories and get on the job. All around him, the empty benches watched him with sullen stares, that sense of eyes on him smothering him like noxious gas. When he looked up, he saw them—stained glass images and statues of sorrowful eyes, all beaming down at him. Watching his every move. Watching him come closer.

  He made it near the pulpit before he turned right and headed that way, now amongst the benches. He turned and faced the front, then took a seat on a hard, bony bench. It creaked slightly under the pressure, the sound echoing around and around like he was on some kind of horror film set with Frankenstein and the Mummy. He sighed and tentatively glanced over both shoulders. This place more and more became Yiayia’s life the older she got. Probably sitting exactly where he sat right then, praying to Christ, lighting endless amounts of candles for her dead daughter. It became a ritual. He craned his neck up to see a huge painted image of the Panayia staring down at him. Goosebumps crawled all over him like ants as he locked eyes on the halo burning around her head.

  She was guiltless. He was guilty.

  He pulled his weatherworn leather jacket to the side and stared down at the handle of the Glock he’d stuffed into his trouser belt. He�
�d just bought it from the Cornershop, a minimarket in the backstreets of Wood Green where you could get whatever you wanted. If he was gonna get that delivery back, he needed to fight fire with fire. He got caught cold once and he wasn’t gonna let it happen again. They had tools, now he had tools too.

  The bloke at the Cornershop had his sales pitch down to a tee. He took John out back where he kept a bag full of guns and knives for sale to whoever wanted ’em. After handling a few others, he convinced John that the Glock was the best choice for him.

  There’s seventeen bullets in magazine, my friend. It’s semi-automatic weapon. When magazine unload, barrel come back and stay; tell you is empty.

  This is good gun, my friend. You can trust this gun.

  Something about it all made John feel a little sick. Anyone with enough cash could get themselves a serious weapon in this city, gamota. Anyone.

  He placed a hand around the handle. It was cold to the touch. While choosing his gun, he realised it was the first time he’d held one since the Cypriot strato. But it felt like it had been just the previous day; just like riding a bike, you never forget. Holding it reminded him of his rifle. The one they gave you when you first entered the barracks. The amount of time he spent messing around with that thing meant he could pick up virtually any gun at any time and use it with competence, the same way a trained chef can pick up any frying pan, use it at any hob, and still make perfect eggs.

  He glanced up at the innocent eyes of the Panayia again. She stared down at him forever, her halo glowing brightly in the afternoon light, even though the sky outside was military grey. When Aziz said that ‘this is war. This is life,’ back at the hospital, he wasn’t wrong. John never envisaged there’d be a very dark side to his delivery job. Part of the job was to protect the delivery against thieves, and he failed that part of it. He got sloppy. If protecting the delivery meant using a gun, then so be it. But he only realised this now, when it was too late. Even though he wasn’t there long, the strato trained him to be a merciless killer, to snuff out the lives of other soldiers. Especially Turkish soldiers. John came to the realisation soon after joining that he didn’t believe in these ideologies. It wasn’t his philosophy. He didn’t want to kill. He was a pacifist, believing in giving people the benefit of the doubt. So he came back to London to live with Yiayia again, his tail between his legs, a traitor in some Greeks’ eyes. A disloyal traitor. A snake that shouldn’t be trusted.