The Survival Game (15 page)

John slapped his hands on the sides of his head, his jaw dropping like an anchor.
What the fuck?

Moleface jumped up like a jack in the box, his eyes fixed firmly on his uncle’s corpse. It took a second or two for what happened to settle in, but when it did, he swiftly turned his attention to the Yardie and went for him with his claws bared like a wild, vicious cat. The Yardie didn’t flinch. Instead, he just coldly pointed his gun in Moleface’s direction and pulled the trigger again. There was another loud report, and Moleface was thrown back onto the sofa. John became still, staring trance-like at the wall behind the sofa; it was sprayed red like someone had thrown a pot of paint at it. He’d almost jumped out of his seat without realising, his fists clutching the armrests for dear life, his knuckles turning white.

Jesus Christ what’s going on here? What the fuck just happened,
gamota
?

‘What did you do that for!’ he exclaimed, turning his attention to the Yardie.

The Yardie stared at him with those dead eyes, the smoking barrel of his shotgun resting idly on his shoulder. ‘A message,
bredda
. A message for Marek to get outa town. Dis ’ere my town. Not his!’

John flopped back down into his chair. He grabbed the sides of his head and growled in frustration. ‘
Grrr
, I was about to use the old man as bait to bring him out of wherever he’s hiding!’ he declared through gritted teeth. ‘If you’d have let me fucking finish, I would’ve told you that and we both could’ve got what we wanted. Now that’s all gone fucking tits up!’ John was getting angrier and didn’t give a fuck if the Yardie even turned the gun on him now.

But he didn’t. Instead, he chuckled like it was all a big joke. ‘Well, he’s all yours now,
bredda
,’ he said, and smiled. He then raised his hand, and waggled his fingers ‘goodbye’ at John before laughing out loud, making his snake dreads move wildly around his head like they were dancing. The sound of his laugh in John’s ears was like rusty blades sharpened on a grinding machine. It made the skin on the back of his neck crawl.

When he finally stopped laughing, John gave him daggers. The prick thought it was funny, but inside, John was screaming. ‘Thanks a lot,
re malaka
,’ he said, not giving rat’s
kolo
if he offended the Yardie.

The Yardie ignored him and just darted out of the room, taking his snake dreads and dead eyes with him. John heard the front door slam shut soon after. He immediately jumped up and went to the window. He watched the Yardie race over to an army jeep with tinted windows that was parked up on the pavement. Beyond it, the traffic raced past as per usual. Some loud aggressive Ragga then began blasting out of the jeep before it wheel spun away into the traffic. In no time, the music faded and the jeep and the Yardie were a distant memory.

John put his hand up to his forehead, just as a migraine was forming.

What the fuck just happened,
gamota
? Who the hell was that?

He looked behind him to be met by two dead bodies and bucket loads of blood.

He shook his head.
Jesus Christ, what am I gonna do now?

His chest was heaving. He rubbed his head with both hands, his mind in a haze like he was back on drugs ’cos all he could see wherever he looked or whenever he blinked were two eyes.

Dead fish eyes.

*****

He got his shit together ASAP. That Yardie’s gunshots were loud, and although most people would probably put ’em down to an exploding exhaust on a clapped-out Skoda, it was a safe bet that at least one nosy parker would think otherwise. Also, if one of the twins just happened to pop by to see how daddy’s leg was doing today, he’d be caught red handed. So he blanked those dead fish eyes out of his mind straight away and began assessing the situation like the head fireman at the scene of an inferno. Even though his bargaining chip was now brown bread, it didn’t necessarily mean he was useless. For starters, Marek didn’t know he was dead. Therefore, John could call his bluff. As long as Marek
thought
his old man’s life was in danger, the plan could still go ahead. Take the body away from the scene and who could say for sure apart from John and the Yardie that the old man was as dead as a dodo? And actually, the Yardie may have inadvertently done him a little favour here—he could leave Moleface exactly where he was; his dead body would trick Marek into believing that John was nothing less than a stone cold killer, a ruthless criminal, a man not to be fucked with, and that he was being serious once he threatened to harm his old man unless he got the delivery back. Hopefully, Marek would shit bricks, think twice about the man he’d mugged, and cave in to John’s demands. It could turn out to be the perfect leverage in the deal.

He smiled to himself.
Cheers,
re
Yardie…

And just as he thought about the Yardie again, a shiver jigged its way up his spine.
How cold was he,
gamota
?
Just pulling the trigger like that. Blam! Blam! And two lives are gone.
No wonder he had all those horns on his head…

And snakes too,
re
. Don’t forget the fucking snakes.
How could he forget those? And what was the
malaka
on about, ‘this is my town, not his?’

Looks like Marek’s got an uncanny habit of pissing people off,
re...And the wrong people at that.

He shook these thoughts away, realising he had to get moving. He looked around him. The plan was set. All he had to do was get the old man’s body to his car. He turned and looked out of the window. The traffic hummed by.

How the fuck am I gonna get him to my car without anyone seeing,
gamota
?
It was true. The North Circ was chock-a-block. Someone would see him for sure. How could he blag carrying a dead body in his hands,
gamota
? His mind worked. Then it hit him like a fully charged stun gun. He’d have to cover him with something. A bag,
or a…

He slowly glanced down at the floor. Beneath his feet was a rug. A nice, big rug the coffee table was sitting on.

Or a rug.
Perfect.

He got to work. He threw off his leather jacket before tipping the coffee table on its side. He pulled the rug closer to the old man’s death chair. He then went to grab the old man first by the legs, then by the arms, then the… He couldn’t do it. For some reason, he couldn’t help thinking that the second he touched his body, it would spring back to life like some kind of zombie.

Come on,
re
. Stop fucking around. You HAVE to do this. Have to!

He took in a deep breath to steady himself, then slowly reached for the old man’s legs with a stronger mind, forcing himself to snatch ’em up. When he finally grabbed them, they felt like two pieces of rolled pork joint. Dead and meaty. He turned his head to the side and yanked. The old man slunk down further into the chair, and John realised just how horribly heavy his body was. Like a big sack of rocks. He pulled harder. The old man’s trousers began to ride up his legs, exposing his bare skin. Now John could see his cancer. Black and veiny, running up and down his leg like cable.

At least he won’t have to worry about that any more…

John planted his feet into the ground and pulled harder as if he were engaged in a tug of war. The old man slipped off the chair and down onto the rug in a heap. John then stood upright for a breather. He went to wipe his forehead, but saw that his hands were smeared with blood. When he looked down, it had somehow got onto his tee as well. He knew he shouldn’t have worn a white one.

I look like a fucking butcher,
gamota.

There was no way he could walk around outside like that. He’d be labelled a fucking serial killer and
astinomia
would be on his case like flies on
skata
. He took it off, mopping up any excess blood on his skin with it before slinging it down on the rug alongside the old man.

He dusted his hands. There was no time to dwell. He needed to get the old man wrapped up in that rug as soon as. He went back over to him, grabbed his legs again, and swung him round so that he was within the parameters of the rug. He let go of the old man’s legs and they dropped to the ground like lead. The big fat hole in his chest was leaking blood onto the rug like a burst pipe. Luckily for John, the rug was navy blue and the blood blended into it.
If, on the other hand, it was beige, or magnolia, or cream…

Strawberries and cream…

From nowhere, he suddenly started thinking about the
strato
. This is exactly the crap he’d have found himself doing and seeing if he’d finished his training and was ever sent out to war. Dead bodies shot to pieces all around him. Limbs blown off. Casualties on his team, who’d be relying on him to get them back to base alive. And they’d trained him to deal with exactly this type of thing. Maybe it hadn’t been a waste of time after all. And maybe he’d have been a complete total wreck in this situation if he hadn’t. As it was, he was surprising himself just how much in his stride he was taking it.

Like a trained pro.

He bent down next to the old man’s body and grabbed the edge of the rug. He lifted it up and over, pushing the old man’s body away from him. At first, he wouldn’t budge, but once he got moving, he rolled smoothly round and round. John stood upright and sent him along, the rug wrapping snugly around him like the whole thing was a giant Swiss roll. He gave him a final push and the wrapped old man rolled away to the end of the rug, slowed, and then stopped dead. Job done.

He grabbed his jacket, put it on, and zipped it up over his bare chest. He could find no visible signs of blood on himself, so the only thing left was to get the body to his car before the blood started soaking through the rug. He glanced at the chair the old man had been sitting in. The huge bloodstain on the backrest was a giveaway that two people had been shot, so he flipped it over to make it look like the old man had been lifted from it after a struggle. Hopefully no one would turn it over before John made contact.

He checked outside again. The pavement was clear.

Time to go,
re
…

He went to pick up the old man when something started vibrating up his leg and a jingle sounded out. He stood upright in shock, and instantly reached for his pocket. It was Moleface’s phone, and it was ringing. He took it out and checked the name—Marek. His eyes widened. He thought about answering, but quickly realised that it would fuck up the plan. He needed Marek to
come
to the house, not to be warned away from it. He let it go to voicemail, and pocketed the phone again. His guess was that Marek was checking how daddy’s appointment went. But now that Moleface was history, he’d never know. The good thing was that the more Marek tried to get in contact without success, the more worried he’d become. Soon enough, he’d be round to check up on them both. Just like John wanted him to. But not while he was still there. He put his shades on and then jumped over to the rug. He slipped both hands underneath it before he pulled it upwards. It weighed a ton, but with all his effort, he managed to stand upright as best he could, the old man held in his arms like he was John’s bride and he was about to carry her over the threshold.

He steadied himself.
Those weight-training sessions in
philaki
weren’t for nothing after all,
re
…

He puffed his cheeks continuously as he headed for the front door. Once there, he managed to pull the handle down with the tips of his fingers to get it open. He swung it away with his foot and checked outside. The traffic droned by, but suddenly he felt like a million pairs of eyes were on him like back in the alleyway behind Omar’s restaurant the other night. But this time instead of a travel bag stuffed with cash, he had a navy blue rug stuffed with a dead body, and another in the house behind him. Christ, he’d be locked up for life if he was caught. But luckily, he’d had a proper result with the rug being there, he didn’t know what he’d have done without it.

Snug as a bug in a rug. Snug as a bug in a rug.
He shivered. He took in a deep breath, and stepped outside. Abruptly, like he’d just been given an almighty kick up the
kolo
, he ran as fast as he could to the end of the garden, his body moving slow and jerky like he was completely blottoed. The old man bounced up and down in his arms as if he’d sprung back to life.

John finally hit pavement. He stuck his head down and made a beeline straight for his car, all the time feeling those eyes burning on him—people in their cars turning their heads to check out the dodgy looking bloke holding the dead man wrapped in a rug. The cars were now like spectators and he was the attraction at the zoo. They were all looking at him, watching what he was doing…

Fuck ’em,
re
!
his inner core screamed.
This ain’t nothing, just like when you used to walk around with two keys of hash stuffed in your pants, you used to walk right past
astinomia
no problem. Just treat it the same as that. They don’t know shit and they won’t find out shit either.

Just get to the fucking car, and keep your fucking head down!

Good advice. So, he did just that. He steamed past Moleface’s Volvo and over to his car, not caring if anyone
was
watching. It was make or break right then. Make or break.

He dashed around to the boot and placed the rug carefully on the ground next to it. He opened up the boot, reached in and lowered the back seats to create enough space to for the old man. Adrenaline was flying recklessly around his body, making his hands shake. He wasn’t enjoying the feeling one iota. It was acidic. Raw. Nasty.

He jumped back, and straight away got the rug up again. With a loud grunt, he slung it unceremoniously into the boot. It landed inside with a dull thud, making the rear bumper grind. The end of the rug was sticking out the back, and he had to lean his body into it as he forced it inside. It slid along smoothly until it hit the front seats and stopped dead. But by then, it was fully inside. John quickly got the boot closed up.