Authors: Anton Marks
“Deacon sent feh mi,” Chips made sure his hands were high when he approached them.
“What’s your name then?” one of the men asked.
“Dem call mi Chips. He‘s expecting me.”
The man nodded as if to say I’ve heard it all before and motioned to another man.
“
Call up for authority then frisk him.”
After a rough assault and personal probe that they deemed to be a body search he was directed to the interior of a stationary lift already filled with three large men for padding, he presumed. One operated the door - using his manicured but thick finger to press for the fifth floor - while the other two took turns in
scrutinizing him inch by uncomfortable inch.
An unexpected march of gooseflesh trotted up Chips’ spine alerting him to the excessive nature of all this and perceiving the possible reasons why. When they arrived on the fifth floor and the door opened a clearer understanding of what was going on r
evealed itself to him.
The atmosphere was electric. The smell of frankincense, bitter wood, some exotic plant and possible animal extracts perfumed the plush area ahead of him. He stood on the threshold and took in the scene, pinned in place for a moment too long maybe, fee
ling the reassuring poke of a gun to his back, coaxing him forward. They had not changed the foyer much, burning incense pots scattered around the furnishings. The marble floor was covered in symbols and vévés of protection etched by charcoal or lined with cornmeal. He strode as confidently as was possible for him, his eyes on the focal point of a steam room fifty yards dead ahead, issuing steam like an old Dutch pot on a cookout.
An arm sheathed in white, obviously part of a white shirt, came out from behind a massive Jabba pot that housed a huge coniferous plant and stopped him dead in his tracks. Chips looked down at the gnarly fingers and the dark skin with venom but co
ntrolled his ire commendably. The owner of the arm came out from behind the large vessel, like his movements were buoyed up by his disrespect for gravity. Bare footed, dark skinned and scrawny he was all in white, Panama hat, shirt, trousers with a pendant swung around his neck strung with unknown vegetation and desiccated animal parts. The witchdoctor blew a stream of liquid in the opposite direction to Chips, his five finger tips still on Chips’ chest keeping him in position and making sure the chicken foot he had in his right hand was doused in the liquid.
Chips fidgeted nervously.
“Stand still,” the man commanded in his Caribbean twanged, French accented English. Slowly he traced the chicken foot around Chips’ body, every meridian he stopped at he murmured a mantra or chant. When he was done he called out to another contingent of men.
“He is real and free from any dark charms.” He said to them.
The men parted, leaving his path free from obstruction, not directing him but assuming he knew where he was going. The door to the steam room was slightly ajar and plumes of steam were escaping into the foyer. Chips pulled it open and walked into the tiled room and there was Deacon lounging on one of the steps alone, his area made more comfortable by scented pillows stuffed around him. He had his eyes closed and was naked accept for a large beach towel that covered his mid section.
Chips started sweating immediately, a combination of heat and nerves.
“Suh you made it?” Deacon opened his eyes and swung his legs down to a sitting position.
“I reach as quickly as the traffic would allow mi to.” Chips a
nswered.
“Mi feel yuh, it’s a Friday night and deh roads can be fuckery at this time.”
Chips nodded and wiped sweat from his forehead.
“You’re looking good Chips. Gambling treating you well it looks like.”
“Times tough but yuh know the hustle have to continue. We all need to eat food, don‘t it?”
“Can’t fault a man feh dat but you seem to be as successful as me in surviving the tough times while others aren’t as skilled at the games as we are. I wonder why?”
Chips didn’t know what to say in response to that he was not sure where this was going.
“In the space of two weeks I’ve lost eight good men.” Deacon paused. “Well okay five good men, the others were expendable but yuh get mi drift. Twister, Cockal and Spider were virtually ea
ten alive. And Minty…” His voice trailed off absently. Then he was back.
“Forensic reports tell mi dat Spliff Tail and Morgan died of massive pulmonary distress. You know what dat mean?”
“Heart attack,” Chips said emotionlessly.
“Suh yuh were paying attention in class, good. Yes my yout, they were frightened to death and here you are, fit and well wit
hout a care in the world, unaffected as deh rassclaat world goes to hell in a hand basket.”
“You don’t think
I…? Listen I don’t flex dem way deh, star.”
“I know yuh not capable. But I did have my doubts because a
fter all you were the one who suggested the job on Enoch and even come up wid the plan feh rip him off. You even helped me to frame him when deh plans went south. But Enoch is locked away in prison and all the players involved in the original game are dead except me and you. I know why I’m still breathing but you had me concerned for awhile, den it clicked.”
Chips felt rivulets of sweat trickling down his back and into the crack of his ass. His dreadlocks were itching and his scalp tingling. But as uncomfortable as that was, it would not look good if he started scratching his back and head nervously. Of course, that was what Deacon wanted. The only reason behind meeting in a Mickey Mouse location such as this was humiliation and dom
inance. His vest was soaked and it was just a matter of time before his shirt then his jacket was saturated too. Salty perspiration stung his eyes and he wiped them with the sleeve of his jacket. This was turning out to be an exercise in endurance that was proving stressful.
“My theory is Enoch knows yuh a fuck him woman and doesn’t want the yout to get harmed if him retaliate.”
“Yuh talking like you think Enoch is walking street?” Chips asked.
“What do you bomboclaat tink? Duh you think what you passed outside, to get through to me was for deh drama, rude bwoy. If it’s not Enoch it’s someone him send. And whoever him send has been instruc
ted to seek revenge on the men that put him away.”
Chips listened and Sandra’s episode re-enacted in his mind’s eye - her collapse, the ace of spades playing card left beside her - but from how this conversation was heading, that memory would stay solidly in his mind. Deacon was getting paranoid and grasping at straws for answers. Chips couldn’t help him with facts, just r
umors.
“Nothing has come on mi radar ‘bout Enoch being released from prison. Him would be spotted by someone and dat nuh come to my attention.”
“Would you tell mi if it did?” Deacon asked.
“Of course...” Chips said.
“Like rass you would. Yuh an me know deh value of deh
Darkman’s treasure. Wid me out deh way, what would stop you from gaining what we both have been looking for. But I run dis shit for a reason. And becah me is like a junkyard dawg with a bone, I don‘t give in at the first sign of trouble. My dominoes are turned down, I’ve played my hand and you have just passed.”
“Believe me Deacon, if I knew anything you would be the first to know. I‘ve gone through every inch of that flat, there is nuthin in deh that would point to the treasures whereabouts.”
Deacon sniggered and continued as if Chips hadn’t spoken.
“But if for whatever reason my plan fails, now that I know the Darkman does care for something other than himself, Enoch’s girl and deh pickney will be used as bargaining chips in this drama. Whether he is on street himself or him a work him Obeah from prison, he will know mi nah play, when I start murdering dem rass, one by one.”
Chips
was kneading his hands in front of him obliviously and Deacon read his discomfort immediately. He tightened the vice with pleasure.
“Dat won’t be necessary boss, a man like Enoch cares
feh nothing but his family. A move like that will just make him even more out of control.”
“Is that real talk or are you just bloodclaat begging for the life of Enoch’s
woman and pickney?”
“I don’t care what happen to dem.” He snapped.
“They are tools but I don’t think fucking with his family is a good idea.”
“Well den, we a guh test that theory. And we will see if you come out of this as smoothly as yuh have so far.”
Chips grinned nervously looking down at himself dripping wet and his clothes elongated and baggy from being water saturated. Suddenly his actions against Sandra, the intimidation, the insults and the sporadic beatings came to the forefront of his mind with such force he felt faint. Before he didn’t care but now the prospect of inflaming the wrath of the Darkman did not sit well with him. And whether he believed he was roaming the streets or still locked up in jail, a malevolent wraith doing his bidding, some part of his consciousness had switched on to the belief that it was all possible. A neural pathway had been laid and as time passed it would be reinforced completely evaporating any doubt he had that Darkman was alive and well in London city.
1
3
.
Hyde Park
Thursday, July 20th
11.40am
A sunny day never failed to make Y introspective.
Throw in a shady tree, the smell of green grass, a bit of privacy with a few home comforts and she could idle the day away easily.
And she was tempted to but she was still on the clock as it were and this moment of tranquility was just a brief respite from bodyguard duties. She had deposited Spokes at the only place he trusted to get his hair cut – Lenny’s Hair Emporium in Notting Hill - while she took some much needed ‘me’ time.
Y sighed.
Look at this place, straight out of someone’s fairy tale but so few realised it was a buffer helping to protect you from the realities of the other side.
She shivered.
The girls had discovered the gardens by accident and because it was a stone’s throw away from the Underground they had decided it would be an ideal meeting point while in London.
Y had got here early for the express reason of some quality thin
king time before Patra arrived. And she could do that without worry. There were no playgrounds built here and it was far enough from the traffic to make you think you were isolated. No animals were allowed in its confines so no worries of treading in unexpected mounds of dog shit. Whoever created these grounds definitely had solitude and beauty in mind. The grass was like the green velveteen, uniform in height with not a blade out of place, as if barber Carlene was vexed with doing human hair and decided to take her trusty shears to the turf instead. A wrought iron fountain with some mythical seafaring beast spewing massive jets of water to the sky was set dead centre while interconnecting walkways criss-crossed the area like a spider’s web. Then set in concentric circles like the patterns of ripples in a pool were the startling colors of planted flowers. Y found herself admiring the ground-man’s skill.
You’ll never go hungry, Mr. Grounds-man, she thought.
Lying on her back with her legs drawn up and her head propped at an angle by a folded towel, above her the sun sat regally on a soft mound of pale blue sky as the few remaining clouds drifted ponderously out of sight. In the distance frisbees were being thrown, footballs kicked, lovers cuddled and the only blot on the picture perfect landscape was the filthy looking hobo muttering to himself in the immediate distance. He slithered about the park his clothes slick with dirt, a grimy bag that seemed like a coal sack with a thick rope like pull string on the top. She didn’t know why but the thought popped into her head that he was some kind of anti-Santa some perverse version of St. Nick from some other place that instead of finding out who is naughty or nice when he slid down the chimney it was with a skinning knife to eviscerate your family with a guttural Har!Har!Har!
Y shivered
again at her flights of fancy and closed her eyes the image fading. She took in a lung full of the fragrant air and adjusted the earphones on her MP3 player. The music of Eyrikah Badu formed a seamless backdrop to the calm.
A sweet musical score for how life should really be.
For long moments nothing mattered. All the pain she had been through was a hazy memory that could so easily have never happened and her contentment while it lasted in the here and now was all that existed.
Not for long.
Already, the darkness they had been exposed to was grating on her perceptions of the world she had spent twenty five years understanding. To be introduced to another aspect of existence that was hinted at in religions or popular culture but never truly accepted by the majority was scary, almost impossible to comprehend.
“Wake up an’ smell the goddamn roses,” the voice of reality whispered in her ear and she sighed. Opening one eye she looked up to see Patra blocking the precious sunlight and grinning down at her. “Wha’s happenin’ bitch?” Patra was obviously in a boiste
rous mood and having a dig at her for good measure.
“I was great before you turned up,” Y said as she raised up on her elbows. “How did you get here?”
“I rode my baby. And I must have shaved at least ten minutes off the time it took me the last time I was here.”
“Orgasmic?” Y said sarcastically.
“Hell yeah!” Cleopatra looked around. “Where’s Suzy at?”
“She bought her roller blades with her so she’s skating through the park somewhere.”
Patra nodded and took her iPhone from inside her leather jacket. She punched the touch screen and bought it to her ear.
“Alriiight,” she began. “Where here?” She nodded pointing to the floor. “Waiting for you girlfriend. So bring your big balloon ass over.”
Y shook her head and laughed.
“You sleep with it, don’t you?”
“Nothin’ gets past you, girlfriend. This is dual function shit, right here.” Patra held out the Smartphone in the palm of her hand as if she was a shop assistant about to go into a preamble on the benefits of the product. “It keeps me connected and is a cleverly disguised dildo too,” she laughed, girlishly. “I’ll get one for you on your birthday, aiight?”
“Thanks.” Y said.
It didn’t take long before Suzy was whizzing up the path towards them. Her movements were a blue and black blur with her dark hair flowing behind. Swerving past obstacles with a fluid grace and leaping over a park bench as she approached.
A sharp bank and she was standing in front of them in a cloud of dust and Chanel.
“Everyting criss,” Suzy said brightly.
Patra high fived her.
Y nodded.
“So, let mi guess,” Suzy said breathing evenly and looking at Y’s unconvincing show of impassiveness. “Yuh couldn’t tell us over the phone, suh it must be serious.”
Patra looked over to Y questioningly and then to Suzy.
“So what’s this about?”
“A development.” Y said cryptically.
“Goddamit, Y man! This is a good gig,” Patra blurted. “No, this is a great gig. You’re not going to fuck it up with some deep an
alytical shit are you?”
“It’s not about Spokes, this time.”
“Well, cool,” Patra sighed, relieved, her voice lowering. “If it don’t affect my paper, I’m peachy.”
“It’s Tyrone.”
“Damn,” Patra blurted out. “Why didn’t you say it was about that cocksucker?”
“If I knew it was about him, mi woulda come sooner.” Suzy said her voice more urgent.
“Well our friend has been sighted. The response from the blog has been incredible. The sisters out there are as pissed off as we are about our money.”
“How many subscribers we get so far?” Suzy questioned.
“Two thousand, one hundred.”
“Goddamn in four days. The sisters got our back, man.” Patra said.
“Feh real,” Suzy sounded incredulous and then the canvas of her face altered to a blank emotionless stare. She was looking beyond Y and Patra but couldn’t seem to look away. Her focus was in the middle distance which became a blurry netherworld of past and future, cause and effect, filled with the uncountable threads of possibility stretching into an unknown horizon then image faded. Suzy was gripped by a compulsion that tightened the muscles of her neck, holding her sight squarely on a hobo in the distance. This was the first time the derelict had come to her attention and must have taken a circuitous route, around and around the park, in ever diminishing circles, gibbering, dragging his lace less boots - that had become almost slippers - picking up detritus that was fascinating to his eyes only.
For every nugget his crazy mind conjured out of thin air and he popped in his mouth, he let out an almost sorrowful mewling sound and continued on his way. And his way was ever closer to where the girls sat.
Patra looked around briefly at the sound but turned back to the conversation.
“He’s been spotted three days ago in Croydon,” Y said evenly.
Suzy turned back to face her, pale.
“You mean dat son-of-a-bitch nuh have the decency to leave London at least. Him bold nuh rass?”
“Nah that nigga ain’t bold, that’s his way of telling us to kiss his black ass.” Patra shook her head and planted her left hand on her hips. “In other words that jiggaboo thinks we can’t touch him, he thinks he’s in the clear.”
Suzy c
racked her knuckles combatively, getting back into the conversation.
“I know how you
guys feel and that’s why I felt I better break the news in person.” Y said.
Patra and Suzy sat on the grass.
“I just feel like I want to go and stake him out inna Croydon, right now,” Suzy said. “Just check out his coming an goings.”
“I’m with that.” Patra said.
“Me too,” Y said. “But we‘ve got enough on our plates to deal with so leave that dawg for now. I got something special for Tyrone, trust me.”
“Suppose he skips town?” Patra asked.
“Well if your theory is right and he thinks that he’s got one up on us then he’ll stay and gloat.”
“An’ we have him.” Suzy rose up gracefully from a legs crossed position all thought of Tyrone drained out of the discussion. I
nstead her eyes were on the bag man, head down coming their way. Suzy flowed into a Wushu form her stance solid and ready but it was her eyes that gave her away. Her eyes that made Patra ask.
“What’s up Ms Wong?” Then she looked back herself and scrambled to her feet.
Y was able to have a better look at the derelict and it did nothing to improve his standing in her eyes. Instead it made her sense of disquiet much worst. His hair was brown shoulder length matted and caked with grime. He sported a substantial beard that was flecked with saliva and fragments of his last meal. Persistent gnats swirled around him in a cloud of which he was the centre.
He muttered as he dragged himself closer.
“Be careful Y.” Suzy’s said the words with considered emphasis. “Him is not what him seem.”
Those words reverberated in her head discordant and chaotic. Y reached out to Patra and both pulled themselves up to standing, turning to face the hobo who was shuffling towards them as if they did not exist.
“Let’s just leave this crazy motherfucker. He can do his strange shit on his own, it’s a big park.”
“London is not big enough for you to hide from me, girlies.” The hobo said, his voice roared like the flames in an ancient hearth stoked with a bellow of air.
The girls took a step back.
The
bagman that earlier was engrossed in his own sick world was suddenly present, in the here and now, aware and curious. A cold intelligence inhabited his eyes, where a vacant one had been. His posture snapped rigid in a crouch, his movements almost feline prowling. As he circled his prey, his focus steadied on them with an almost furious heat of anger or hunger or something, that ignited in him.
A monstrous smile unfurled
from his lips.
“J
esus.” Patra said. The girls were fixed to where they stood in rapt amazement.
“I’m going to enjoy tearing you apart. Who will be first, first ,first?” His voice boomed with otherworldly sibilance and he licked his lips with an impossibly long lizard tongue. The tip was forked, the body a mottled, meaty protuberance, black, pink and grotesquely prehensile.
“Oh, Christ!” Y rocked back, reached behind her and snapped the latch of her Versace monogrammed sword bag on her back. She gripped the handle of the katana and pulled it free.
“You can try.” Suzy said her face losing
color in degrees, her voice carrying horror instead of intent.
The hobo thing laughed its shoulders rising and falling, expo
sing a dirty flannel shirt and an unzipped body warmer every time laughter gurgled repulsively from its mouth. The flesh under it rippled and contorted. A barely audible hum and buzz of insect intelligence, moved under his shirt with the hive mind of a swarm.
The hobo thing shivered deliciously. Cockroaches and Black Beetles fell from under his shirt and scurried away. He caught one, an armored beetle and looked at it inquisitively. He then popped it in his mouth, where it proceeded to burrow into his cheek, travelling under his skin to his neck and disappeared. The hobo thing rolled his neck in satisfaction.
“You I want first,” he pointed to Patra his finger nails dirty thick talons.“Ah!” He sniffed the air like a hound.“Juicy, tender and bloody. Somebody’s nasty.” He said in a sing song voice.
Like a cell from an old film reel stuck in a dilapidated projector, an instant in time that hitched in her memory cold and clear, Patra could feel her adolescent embarrassment flush over her again, tears pooling in her eyes
“Somebody’s nasty.” Her class mates had teased as her first ever period left it’s bloody mark on her grey metal chair. Patra caught herself drifting under the hobo things spell and shook her head, swearing under her breath.
It had burrowed into her mind,
knowing it was her time of month and purposely picked the trauma from her past, using it against her. Fucking with her head, fucking with all their heads. Patra composed herself and instinctively took back control and slammed the trapdoor of her mind shut to its intrusions.