The Survival Game

by Stavro Yianni

  He gave himself a lecherous grin. Yeah, dat Shandy a good time gal, for real.

  And she got real good info outa the Cobra. His tongue came loose after a night of passion and she managed to squeeze a loada stuff outa him like squeezing juice from a lemon. And like a fool he told her all about Marek and his sick pops. And where to find him. Dread I knew the game, knew it all too well—ya wanna get to a man, ya get to his family first. Nuthin’ hurt a man more than to lose the ones he loves; Dread I knew all too well about that. And now Marek knew all about it too. And if he wanted to stop any more pain, he’d know what to do—leave Dread I’s turf, get outa town. Now.

  Yeah, Shandy done good. And there was something else the Cobra let slip from his mouth. Something about Marek’s sister cooking the amber in a factory somewhere in town. When she pushed him to give her the location, he wised up, and shut his mouth tight. Dread I gave her another hit of rock and told her to work him hard. If he could find out where that factory was, he could bring ’em to their knees, wipe out their operation in a flash. Dread I had already made the first cut, and he could swiftly follow up with the killer blow; all he needed was the location. The way he saw it, the quicker he killed off Marek and his operation, the quicker he got his streets back, and the sooner he got ’em all hooked on his super killer crack again like lickle fishies. Then the money’ll come rollin’ in.

  The blood he spilt earlier on was the required sacrifice to trigger the resurrection of his empire. It was originally built on bloodshed, and it would be rebuilt on bloodshed.

  He nodded his head knowingly as he strode past a kid on a tricycle. The kid looked up at him, his eyes brimful of fear like he just seen a ghost. Dread I screwed down hard at him like he was staring at a bug crawling out from under a rock. The kid instantly turned pale and began wailin’.

  Dread I cackled to himself.

  He marched on, leaving the distressed kid behind to cry for his momma. Soon, he finally reached Shandy’s flat. He rapped on the door and waited for her to open up. But there was no answer.

  ‘Shandy! Open up!’ he shouted and knocked again, this time louder.

  Still there was no answer. Where’s dis fockin’ bambaclat?

  ‘Shandy! Open the fockin’ door or mi gonna break it down!’ Still no answer. He told her the night before to be there. To be there waiting for him when he came round. But now the bitch was playing. Not opening the door to him?

  Wha’ fock?

  A surge of rage rushed him. He swung back his boot and violently flung it at the wooden door with a roar. His steel toecap punched into it with a loud snap as if it were made of chipboard. He pulled his foot out and took a step back. He then aimed a roundhouse kick at the door, connecting full on. The force of the kick shattered the inside frame of the doorway. The door was sent flying back, smashing against the inside wall with a loud crash.

  He stared into the hallway. It was empty. Not a soul.

  He marched inside, swinging the broken door shut behind him. ‘Shandy? Come ’ere, now!’ he shouted in an aggressive fashion.

  Still she didn’t answer. He stormed into the front room, expecting to find her hiding behind the sofa, bawlin’ her eyes out. But it was empty, and the TV was switched off. He went into the kitchen. It was bare. A cold cup of tea sat next to the kettle. She made it, but didn’t drink it, now she gone.

  She best notta run away…

  He went back into the hallway. ‘Shandy!’ he shouted, now getting anxious.

  To his left was a closed door that led to the bathroom.

  He banged on it with his fist. ‘Open the door, Shandy!’ But there was no answer. ‘Mi gonna fock you up, Shandy, ya hear?’

  He grabbed the handle, turned it and threw the door open. It smashed against the bathtub. He burst inside, ready to get proper vex with the bitch, his boots splashing on the wet tiled floor. He was about to go nuclear when he was frozen dead in his tracks. His eyes locked onto the bath and what was in there. It was overflowing with warm water. Shandy was lying in it, her dead eyes staring up at him from under the surface of the water. Her bruised, purple neck and her wide, shocked eyes told him the story of her death—someone had forced her under and kept her there. Dread I stared at her breasts floating on the water like buoys, all the while rage building inside him like a pan of water left on the stove for too long.

  Just when he needed her the most, someone smoked her. She was his informer. The key. The key to him raising his empire from the ashes.

  Wha’ mi gonna do now?

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out the five rocks he always kept there. He shook them in his fist and dashed them down into the sink. He looked ’em over with eager eyes. Patterns formed. They showed him a path to victory—A man. A man with a past, a future, unborn child. The initials J.E. burned inside the rocks like fire.

  He looked up from the sink and stared at his reflection in the cabinet mirror while he quickly pieced together what he just saw. There was another. Someone else who knows what Shandy knew. Then his mind conjured up an image from earlier that day and he began nodding his head knowingly.

  Hmmm, yeah. Dat Arab looking fool. Da one back at the old man’s yard. He want something from Marek too.

  But what?

  He turned and stared at Shandy again. Stared at her dead body floating beneath the water. She’d been a good gal. A good time gal, and he had his use outa her while she was breathing. But that was then. He didn’t need her no more. Now there was someone else. Someone maybe more useful.

  He swiftly marched out the flat, leaving Shandy where he found her.

  Shandy was history now.

  The future be that Arab fool.

  Now, we go find him.

  PART THREE—NETWORKING

  CHAPTER TEN

  John parked his car in a side street, walked out onto Holloway Road, and entered the Carphone Warehouse, finishing off a cigarro on the way. It was Wednesday, the day after his little tête-à-tête with Marek. He didn’t get much sleep the night before, so he was sporting his shades again to mask his tired eyes.

  Inside the shop, a horned couple were standing by one of the display stands, crowing over a mobile phone like it was the first one they’d ever laid eyes on. The bloke standing behind the counter was doing his sell on what John guessed was a Japanese exchange student, who was staring at the phone in his hands with a blank look on her face, totally bamboozled by his spiel. The salesman had two big black horns jutting out of the sides of his head and a grin on his mug the size of the Thames. CHOICE FM was playing in the background, some Beyonce skata hurting John’s eardrums. He got enough of that RnB crap from Alisha, so didn’t need more of it. He ignored it as best he could as he walked past all the phones, wondering why this shop needed to be so big just to display these tiny things. He headed straight for the counter and stood just behind the Japanese student. He removed his shades. When the salesman looked up to see who was standing there, his smile disappeared faster than a magician’s assistant.

  John nodded solemnly. ‘Ishmael,’ he said.

  Ishmael frowned, his jovial sales expression melting like ice cream in a heat wave. ‘What do you want?’ he curtly replied.

  John put his hands in his jacket pockets. ‘Can I talk to you for a minute?’

  Ishmael straightened his back. ‘I’m busy now.’ He glanced at the Japanese student and flashed her a smile. She just looked back at him nonplussed as if someone had just asked her the square root of thirty six million and twelve.

  John was in no mood for this skata. So, he persisted. ‘It’ll only take a minute, Ishmael. It’s important.’

  Ishmael’s face pinched as if he had a persistent itch in the middle of his back, that killer spot that was just out of reach. He then sighed, put on a fresh smile and turned to his customer. ‘Excuse me,’ he said to her.

  She nodded her head in return. She turned back to look at John with big, confused eyes. John smiled at her. She gave him an unsure smile in return, probably wonderi
ng what the hell was going on.

  Ishmael turned to his colleague behind the counter who was fiddling with phones. ‘Mike, can you finish this sale for me? I just need to go outside for a minute.’

  Mike put down the phones in his hands. ‘Yeah, no problem.’

  Ishmael turned back to his customer. ‘My colleague will go through this with you now, okay?’ he said in a slow voice. ‘I just have to go outside.’

  The student grinned and nodded her head. ‘Okay. Okay,’ she said.

  Ishmael looked up at John and his smile melted again, his eyes becoming hotter. John wasn’t looking forward to this just as much as Ishmael didn’t want to see John; but it had to be done.

  Ishmael walked around the counter and over to where John stood, facing up to him like they were a couple of boxers at a weigh in. John didn’t bother putting his hand out for Ishmael to shake it ’cos he knew he wouldn’t take it.

  ‘Let’s go outside,’ Ishmael then said and walked past John.

  John didn’t mind that, it got him away from CHOICE.

  When they were outside, they faced up again. ‘So, what do you want?’ Ishmael asked him sharply.

  ‘I need your help,’ John told him.

  Ishmael’s angry face transformed into an ironic grin. ‘You want my help?’ He then laughed like it was some kind of funny joke.

  ‘Yeah. Me and Alisha need your help.’

  Ishmael’s temporary smile vanished and his face turned dark. ‘You’ve got balls saying something like that.’

  John shrugged. ‘It’s the truth.’

  ‘I don’t do divorces, John, so no, I can’t help…’

  John sighed, he didn’t need lip from this malaka. ‘Look. All you have to do is help me this one time and you’ll never see me again, okay? Sound like a good deal?’

  Ishmael looked away for a second and seemed to cave. His face scrunched up and he faced John again. ‘What do you want from me?’

  ‘I’m trying to find someone, but I have no fucking idea who he is or where to find him. West Indian; think he’s a Yardie. Big, dreads, drives around in an army jeep with blacked out windows.’

  Ishmael kissed his teeth and shook his head. ‘What are you getting involved with Yardies for now? How much do you owe him?’

  ‘I don’t owe him anything. He doesn’t even know who I am. I just wanna talk with him about something. It’s important.’

  ‘Well, why would I know who he is? He’s West Indian. I’m African. Not the same, even though we might all look alike…’

  John lightly bit his tongue and laughed. ‘Very funny. Now, I know you’ve still got underground contacts with your West Indian cousins from back in the day, Ishmael. You think I forget these things? One of ’em will know who he is. I just want you to find out for me and that’s it. Tell him I wanna meet him and that I know where the factory is, okay? It’s really important.’

  ‘I’m out of that scene, John. I’m a working man now.’ He pointed up at the sign above the shop they were both in a few minutes before.

  ‘I’m not asking you to do anything sus apart from ask a question. Find out who he is, tell me, and you’ll never see me again.’

  Ishmael sighed. ‘Haven’t you done enough damage? Why do you always get involved with this shit? You don’t deserve my cousin, you really don’t.’ Ishmael looked him up and down. ‘She could’ve done so much better…’

  John shrugged. ‘Maybe. No, actually you’re probably right. I’ve brought her enough shit. But I need to do this. It ain’t a game. And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention any of this to her. Keep it to yourself.’

  Ishmael gave him a rueful smile and nodded his head fervently. ‘Yeah, like the way I keep the other thing secret, innit, John? Yousif was my cousin too. It kills me to keep what happened bottled up inside me. But I do it for her, not for you.’

  That agitated John. ‘Hey! Yousif made his own choices,’ he replied pointing his finger at Ishmael’s chest. ‘In the end, it wasn’t anything to do with me.’

  ‘I don’t think Alisha would see it like that,’ said Ishmael.

  ‘Like you said, it’s for her sake that you keep it to yourself,’ John retorted. ‘And we both love her.’

  ‘Pfft…’

  ‘It’s the truth. Now, are you going to do this for us or not?’

  Ishmael looked away and shook his head, and John thought he was gonna say no and then leave. But to his relief, Ishmael’s shoulders slouched as he completely caved. He sighed. ‘All right, I’ll do it. For my cousin.’

  John forced a courteous smile. ‘Thanks. Take my number.’

  Ishmael took his phone out of his pocket.

  John recited his number and Ishmael noted it. ‘I dunno why she ever got involved with you, let alone marry you,’ Ishmael said while plugging in numbers.

  ‘She loves me.’

  Ishmael clicked the ‘ok’ button, then swiftly looked John in the eye, pointing an accusatory finger at him. ‘She feels sorry for you! After Yousif died, she saw a part of him in you and pitied you, felt like she had to help you through your pathetic life. Probably feels like it would make up for Yousif dying. You know what? My heart bleeds for her. That girl’s made of gold, she could’ve had anyone, but she ended up with you.’

  John felt the rage building up inside him, all stemming from Ishmael’s words. The malaka was winding him up proper, but he’d anticipated that. He closed his eyes and took in a deep breath, trying his best to let his mind go blank, so the words would just fall into some black hole there and disappear forever. Thankfully, it did the trick; he managed to swallow them and keep his cool.

  He opened his eyes again. ‘Listen, I need this info urgently, yeah? I’m talking tomorrow at the latest. Call me when you find out.’

  Ishmael put his phone away. ‘Yeah, I’ll call you. And then that’s it. No more favours. No more secrets. I don’t wanna see you again.’

  ‘That’s fine by me, Ishmael,’ John replied.

  Ishmael gave him a final dirty look before turning away and heading back into his shop without saying goodbye. When he was gone, John’s shoulders hunched as if a weight had suddenly been shoved on his back. Feels sorry for me? What is that prick on about? Ishmael’s words had hit a nerve, a sore one that he didn’t need aggravating right then. He was already under crazy pressure, he didn’t need that as well.

  You shouldn’t have come here to see him, an inner voice told him.

  Hmm, that was probably true, he knew he’d probably end up regretting it.

  But what’s done is done.

  The story of his life thus far.

  He turned away and headed back for his car, a sinking feeling working its way into his stomach. He placed a cigarro between his lips and looked up at the sky. Grey clouds were gathering fast. It would probably rain again soon.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  To keep up the lie he fed Alisha about working in Aziz’s shop, John had to be well away from the caravan during the day. He also didn’t want Aziz grilling him about the delivery, so hanging around the hall was out of the question. So he found himself in St. Barnabas again, sitting on a bench near the pulpit, his fingers interlocked into one big fist, his nose resting upon them. It was now Thursday. Aziz’s deadline was tomorrow and he was still waiting for Ishmael to call.

  High above him, the Panayia stared down at him with her sorrowful painted eyes. He could feel all the eyes on him—not of people ’cos the church was empty, but of the painted apostles (John the Baptist, Saint Christopher carrying Christ as a moro on his shoulder, Saint George slaying a dragon), the Panayia, and Christos. He could feel them scrutinising him the same way he was scrutinising himself. Guilt had reared its ugly head again. All ’cos of that malaka Ishmael. He knew it was a bad idea to go and see him, and that he’d regret it afterwards. There was bad blood between them that only his relationship with Alisha stopped from becoming spilt blood. But at this point, he was so desperate, he’d do almost anything to get out of the skata he was in. A
nything. He tried all night with no success to get Ishmael’s words out of his head—she feels sorry for you. She saw a part of him in you and pitied you, felt like she had to help you through your pathetic life.

  What was the prick on about, gamota? Feels sorry for me? She loves me. Why else would she have married me? Carry my baby? Stick by me through all this crap?

  No, no, no, he was talking proper amounts of skata, re. Alisha loved him, he was one hundred percent sure of that. Not ninety-nine percent, but one hundred, gamota. He tutted loudly and it echoed around the church. What did he know, anyway? He’s just pissed that his cousin married a Greek instead of a black Muslim. Stick to your own ’n all that rubbish. Malaka will say anything just to cuss me down, make me feel bad ’cos he doesn’t want me, doesn’t want me ’cos of Yousif.

  It’s all ’cos of Yousif.

  He sighed heavily. It was the very mention of Yousif’s death that had sent the guilt flying around inside him the previous night and all day today. He sat in his car for most of last night, smoking cigarra and drinking beer, much to the displeasure of Alisha. But he couldn’t do anything else, he was waiting anxiously for Ishmael to come through like a crack fiend waiting for a hit, thinking about Marek, about Aziz, about that Yardie, about the delivery, about Yousif… Damn Yousif. It wasn’t my fault, gamota. I’m not a murderer! You can blame me all you like!

  The real problem though, was that the Yousif situation walked hand in hand with Yiayia’s death in terms of the guilt.

  It is your fault, the thing that controlled the guilt said to him from deep inside him. It was a demon, a big fat nasty toad that breathed the guilt into his mind like noxious fumes. The stinking guilt that, when it hit, felt like a hungry shark was taking a nice big chunk out of him. The problem he had was when he did those fucked up things in the past he’d gone wading too deep into the shark’s waters and couldn’t swim back. The damage had been done; the demon was there to stay. Drinking only numbed the pain for so long. Drugs worked better, but they too had their time constraints.