The Survival Game

by Stavro Yianni

  I’m going to find out exactly what he’s up to, she told the voice firmly. I want to know the truth…

  Good for you, the voice replied.

  Outside, it had begun to rain.

  *****

  John checked the time on his mobile phone: 10:41. He took out another cigarro from the packet on the dash and sparked it. He was speeding towards Tottenham Hale, DnB flying out of his car stereo. He was still steaming from Alisha’s lies, but he had to put that to one side now ’cos he had more important things to attend to.

  He stopped off earlier at the McDonald’s on Tottenham High Road for another hit of coke in the toilets. By then, he was fucking buzzing. His head was an agitated beehive; his body a once flat car battery jump-started with cocaine, now ready for anything. Electrically charged on adrenaline. He was close, so close gamota, to getting this skata finally over with, and he now had the backing of a proper crew. Marek wasn’t gonna know what fucking hit him!

  He’d agreed to meet Dread I and his crew in Stoke Newington where they’d get their plan into motion. Dread I reckoned he had an arms cache there. A garage round the back of a laundrette, apparently full of guns, knives, armour, anything you like.

  He flicked past a Datsun, overtaking it into the next lane. The driver honked his horn. John glared into his rear view mirror, giving the driver of the Datsun daggers.

  He began to point at him through the rear view. ‘You bastard!’ he shouted. ‘I’ll fucking kill you!’

  The driver of the Datsun—an elderly man—looked away nervously, and immediately indicated for the next lane. John pulled away from him, his tyres screeching on the wet tarmac. He cut off another car as he switched lanes again, then flew back across the road to get into the big gap that was now there. He weaved in and out of traffic like an excited fly, wanting to get to where he was going in double quick time.

  Soon enough, he made it to Stoke Newington and the alleyway behind the laundrette; he pulled up outside the cache. He jumped out of the car and into the rain to be greeted by some of Dread I’s boys who were already there, waiting for instructions. Dread I was yet to arrive, so as second lieutenant, jurisdiction automatically transferred to John. He walked amongst them like their Commander, Darth Vader style, heading towards the garage. They ran ahead like excited little devil imps, opening up the door for him to enter. He stepped inside and out of the rain, listening to it beat down on the roof of the garage. The interior was illuminated by a single naked bulb dangling from the ceiling; it lit up the tools stashed all around him like they’d held some kind of weapons amnesty. He placed his hands on his hips and stared on—an oil drum stacked with knives to his left; a rack of shotguns on the wall to the right like it was city style hunting season. Handguns and submachine guns resting on old dumbbell racks ahead; axes, baseball bats, nailboards, and crowbars waiting on the counter below. A mannequin in the corner was sporting a bulletproof vest and a shiny knight’s helmet on its head. His foot brushed against fat spots of red on the cement floor, and when he followed them, they led to the foot of a Dentist’s chair that sat menacingly in the centre of the garage. Where the fuck they lifted that from, God only knew.

  John nodded his head in appreciation. This was a proper arsenal. Exactly what he was after since that day he came face to face with Marek and his crew in the warehouse car park. He was confident they’d be well prepared for today, no doubt about it, and a proper match for Marek.

  One of Dread I’s, no, his boys closed the door behind him once they were all inside. John looked ’em over—they were young, hungry, ready for war. Trained soldiers in the inner city strato, the one where Nike trainers and caps were your camouflage gear. They stood there to attention, waiting for orders. Waiting for orders from their new leader.

  John started dishing out photocopies of the mugshots he’d made in a minimarket on the way to the cache. ‘Right. These are the pricks we’re after,’ he told ’em. ‘I don’t know if they’ll be inside the factory, but if they are, don’t, under any circumstances kill them. I need these two alive for the time being. Got it?’

  The boys nodded affirmative.

  ‘Apart from these two, the rest are fair game. Take out who the fuck you want. They’re not important.’

  He looked his crew over one by one; every single horned child soldier in caps and tracksuits. He could taste the hunger for war in their eyes, could see the appetite for destruction burning inside them.

  And he knew it was gonna be perfect.

  ‘Get tooled up,’ he ordered, and they gladly went and took up their arms, relishing the chance to carry some proper guns and knives through the streets of London.

  John watched their enthusiasm and nodded his head in appreciation.

  It was gonna be perfect.

  *****

  The first thing Alisha did was go through his things. She’d only ever done that once before, just after she’d first moved in with him. He promised her that he’d given up the skag, but he was acting funny, looked a little spaced out. He was going ‘out’ without telling her where he was off to. She suspected he was using again, so she went through his things, not knowing exactly what she was looking for, or if she really wanted to find anything anyway. But she’d buried her head in the sand enough with Yousif and wasn’t going to make the same mistake with John.

  While she had her nose in his drawer, John came back home. In a panic, she quickly threw everything back in and slammed it shut, just as he walked in the bedroom. When he asked her what she was doing, she said nothing, but she was sure her heavy breathing and the suspicious look on her face would tell him that it was blatantly far from nothing. To her surprise, John just gave her a funny look and walked away. At that moment, she didn’t know whether to be relieved or scared. He never mentioned it again, so she never found out if he suspected her of going through his things.

  She promised herself after that episode she’d never put herself in that position again. But this was different. He was acting strange, being very aggressive, something was definitely up. And she wanted to know what. Being in the caravan was different from the flat. There were no drawers to hide things in for a start. And there was less room for storage. They had a small built in wardrobe where they kept the remaining clothes they didn’t sell or give to charity when they first moved in. John kept some stuff in shoeboxes at the bottom of the wardrobe. Documents like his passport and receipts as far as she knew. She went straight there. She pulled out the old Nike box and placed it on the table. She removed the lid with a feeling of grim anticipation rising inside her. Somewhere deep down, she expected to find loads of small baggies full of heroin stashed in there. But there wasn’t. Instead, it was full of what she expected to find—his passport, driving licence, etc.

  She breathed a sigh of relief, but there was something else alongside that relief. It was almost as if she wanted to find drugs in there, wanted it to be true that he was lying to her so that she’d have justification to—

  To what, Alisha? Leave him?

  She shook her head and sighed. She didn’t know any more, she’d just become so confused with everything. Losing her home, marrying a ‘wrong un,’ being pregnant, John’s behaviour… it was all too much.

  But she was completely obsessed with John’s drug taking above all else. Always had been. Never women though. Oh, no. She was never worried about him cheating on her. But, when it came to drugs…But what could anyone expect, the shit she’d gone through with him and Yousif?

  He MUST be using again, Alisha, came that strong inner voice again. Why else would he be acting so funny recently and so aggressively just then? He was out of it.

  Yeah, he must be, she conceded. Deep down she had no doubt about it.

  ‘The bastard!’ she said and wiped her wet eyes.

  Always the same. He’ll never change. It’s all bullshit when he says he will and he’ll try to help me and the baby and blah blah fucking blah!

  She pushed John’s passport aside to reveal old photos of his
gran and his mum beneath. She looked at them and sighed. Oh, John, you never knew your mum did you? That’s why you’re the way you are, isn’t it?

  Guilt suddenly started to rise inside her. She felt bad for being so angry with him just a few seconds previous. It wasn’t his fault…

  Get a grip, Alisha! that strong voice suddenly shouted. John’s story is a weepy one all right, but yours right now is just as bad. He’s the father of your baby for God’s sake. You deserve to know exactly what he’s up to.

  She took in a deep shuddering breath and replaced the lid of the shoebox. She got to her feet with a heave and then sighed again. Her emotions were all conflicting, fighting with each other like cats, and she didn’t like it. It was all too much. But she knew she had to do something regardless. She went through his clothes, especially his pockets, just in case he was hiding stuff in there. They came up dry.

  After that, there were little other places to look.

  And what exactly would you do if you found something, huh? she then thought to herself. Divorce him? You’re carrying his—

  ‘Yes, yes, I’m carrying his baby, I know!’ she said aloud and then reached for her forehead. ‘God, what a sodding mess!’

  She let out a regretful sigh as she made her way to their bed. She sat on its edge, feeling like she was about to collapse.

  She wished his car was outside. If he did have anything to hide, it would most certainly be in there. Inside the caravan was just too risky. And he always had the keys didn’t he? Never left them lying around. Hmm, yeah, that was true. What exactly is he up to for God’s sake?

  Enough was enough.

  She got to her feet, went to the table and picked up her mobile phone, which was lying next to a Sudoku puzzle book. She went through her phonebook, looking for help. She didn’t want to call any of her girlfriends. They’d just give her the same old ‘I told you so about him’ bullshit and be generally of no use at all. No, she wanted good, sound advice from someone she trusted, someone who had no emotional attachment to John. That way they’d really want to help her. A family member. Someone who’d be willing to prove to her that John really was up to something bad with actual evidence and not just opinion.

  She highlighted the name Ishmael.

  And then pressed dial.

  *****

  Dread I finally arrived on the scene just as the rain stopped, and in no time, the whole area was swarming with Yardies, rude boys, and gangsters. Soldiers mobilising. Shit was going down today and no one was gonna stop it.

  The factory was a ten/fifteen minute drive from the weapons cache, and a small unit had already been sent over to scope things. They soon reconned via I-Phone, informing them that an M.C.S van had just left Neocrema and was heading towards the High Road. Another small unit was immediately sent out to tail it, which John agreed to rendezvous with. He mobilised his unit, and they got in his car to chase down the M.C.S van. He slapped a DnB CD on loud to get the blood pumping and zipped up to Stoke Newington Road. One of his soldiers in the back seat was keeping in contact with the unit tagging the van via his mobile, using it like a walkie-talkie. In the meantime, the others kept their eyes peeled for astinomia. John had a car full of tooled up gangsters, and to a man were buzzing off their nuts on a cocktail of illicit substances, so if they got pulled, they’d be in the shit proper. He hid his wide bug-eyes behind his shades, excitement electrifying every nerve end. He was high on drugs, adrenaline, and power. They’d put together a plan of action, and just implementing it was giving him a supreme buzz. It was like a game, a deadly game where one fuck up could cost you your life.

  Apparently—from what was being relayed to them—the van was now on the High Road, heading towards Edmonton, about ten minutes away.

  John put his foot down, attempting to shoot through an amber light that switched to red as he approached it. As he breached the lines, his heart stopped. He checked the rear view anxiously for astinomia. The coast was blissfully clear, meaning he could breathe again. He didn’t wanna be taking risks, but he also wanted to catch the van up. It was important. If they lost it…

  The traffic now cleared slightly, and he steamed into Stamford Hill, adjusting all the time in his seat as he weaved expertly in and out of the traffic.

  Soon, they reached Tottenham High Road. The other unit informed them that the van had entered Edmonton. John began tanking it, pushing the dial up to 60 mph; the van was too far away, they had to gain ground on it fast. His heart was now pounding, he could feel sweat dripping down his forehead and plastering his tee to his back. The pressure of the situation was working him, but he just had to catch up. Had to. He zipped through a red light at Bruce Grove, drums and bass lines pounding around his head like a tribal war beat. He tightened his grip on the steering wheel and sat forwards in his seat, his eyes constantly looking in and out of his rear view for astinomia. So far, they got lucky ’cos there were none; must be a special on donuts or something, re gamota…

  The phone then rang again—the van had just turned off the main road and into a side road, Bullingham Avenue. They asked John what they should do. John’s mind worked crazily, keeping tabs on the road and on the rear view while he worked out what to do.

  He overtook a bus, now doing 65 mph. ‘Tell ’em to block off the end of the road,’ he shouted over his shoulder before checking his rear view.

  ‘What?’ came the reply from the backseat.

  ‘I said tell ’em to get ahead of the van and block off the end of the fucking road it’s on!’ John shouted, pushing his foot down more. ‘Don’t let it get out of that road! We’re coming! Tell ’em we’re coming!’

  He flattened his foot, zooming between a motorbike and a Transit van, almost clipping the bike and sending it flying.

  A loud horn went off in his ears. ‘Yeah, fuck you too!’ he shouted out of his window, before checking his rear view with hot, paranoid eyes. By then, he was doing close to 70 and if any astinomia clocked him they’d be chasing him down hard.

  Just a little more, re… just a little more…

  The other unit were in the process of carrying out John’s orders. The side road the van went down was up ahead, maybe a couple of miles. His unit just had to get there in time, and not a second late…

  John blatantly jumped a lingering red light at the crossroads that would lead them into Edmonton. A car emergency braked to his left, its tyres sliding along the wet tarmac, just about avoiding a head on with him. Its horn rang in his ears like an air raid siren amongst the frantic drums and basses. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and checked his rear view. Behind him was a mishmash of cars.

  ‘Which road are they on?’ he shouted over his shoulder, ignoring any near pile-ups he’d just caused.

  The other unit relayed that they’d made it to the end of Bullingham and had blocked off the exit. They were just waiting for the van to reach them any second.

  ‘Tell ’em to hang on. Hold your ground! We’ll be there in a second!’ John shouted.

  He clunked it into fifth, and flattened his foot. He raced into Edmonton, his hands gripping the steering wheel vice-like, his knuckles white as bone. The others were keeping their eyes peeled for the road. Suddenly, they began shouting. For a split second, John thought it was astinomia and his heart shot up into his throat. Hot doughy lead. His head spun round left and right.

  ‘That’s the road.’

  ‘… Missed the road!’

  ‘Road’s back there!’ he heard ringing in his ears, all at the same time, but no mention of astinomia, which was a relief.

  But worse, they were pointing back and to the right, and he quickly realised he’d passed by Bullingham Avenue, and he was on a busy main road. He’d have to go keep going and double back at the traffic lights in the distance, which would kill any chance they had of catching the van in time.

  His eyes were darting everywhere, searching for quick answers, while his mind raced in a million different directions, hoods all around him shouting and pointing. He ha
d to act fast, had to improvise. Had to do something. Now!

  He slammed the brakes and yanked up the handbrake, frantically spinning the wheel round like a madman. Tyres screeched all over the tarmac like multiple nails down chalkboards; horns went off all around him like a bizarre concerto. The world blurred by them like they were taking a ride on the Waltzer, the kids in the back screaming like schoolgirls. John gritted his teeth, hanging onto the wheel for dear life. The car jacked round 180 in one smooth sliding motion across the wet tarmac.

  It came to an abrupt stop, making them all jerk across to the right.

  Everything went quiet.

  John glared out of the windscreen with anxious eyes to see they were now on the opposite lane. He puffed his cheeks. Good move, re…A few small hands patted him on the shoulder. He began grinning and nodding. But a car then clipped past them from behind, its horn and driver raging at them. John checked his rear view; his grin quickly vanished. A stream of cars were now heading his way, and they didn’t look like they were in any mood to slow down. He quickly released the handbrake, instantly caught the bite, and put his foot down. The car revved into gear, and in no time, they were heading back for the turning he missed.

  One of his boys started pointing to the left. ‘In there!’

  John looked up. The sign read—Bullingham Avenue. He quickly turned into it. He pushed himself forwards in his seat, his eyes eagerly scanning the road ahead for the M.C.S van.

  ‘They made contact!’ his boy on the walkie-talkie informed him. ‘At the end of the road!’

  John put his foot down, zipping past parked cars and houses. And as he went a little further, he finally clocked it. The van’s brake lights were on. Beyond it, John could see the other unit’s car parked sideways across the road, blocking the van’s exit, as per the plan. One member of the unit was standing by the side of the car. A bandanna was covering the lower half of his face; he was pointing at the van and shouting at it. John raced up behind the van, just as its reverse lights flicked on. It was trying to get away, but John’s unit had arrived just in time. The van abruptly braked just as John went right up its kolo. It then became still; sandwiched in, caught like a bug in a Venus flytrap.