The Survival Game (2 page)

‘W-what?’ John replied numbly. ‘No!’ he added before lifting up his tee and hiding the bag beneath it.

Scream responded by pointing his gun with greater threat, greater expertise. He was no longer just a kid trying to flick a rubber band at the teacher’s back; now he was a ruthless criminal trying to pull off a mugging in a dark alley.

And there wasn’t another soul in sight.

‘You give me your bag, or I fucking kill you! You choose!’

Dread abruptly spread in John’s stomach like grey clouds swarming across a blue sky. He could feel tremors starting in his legs; he knew he was in a bad situation. He wished he could see Scream’s eyes, just get a little peek into them to gauge just how serious, how hard, this
malaka
in the mask really was; whether he actually had the balls to pull the trigger. But instead, unable to get a glimpse into the inner workings of Scream’s soul, the realisation that he was being mugged set in, and it brought with it a noxious mix of frustration, anger and fear.

He couldn’t just hand over the bag,
gamota
; Aziz would kill him,
or worse…
But, if he didn’t, this
malaka
in the mask might just be the one to end his life.

He let out a long, frustrated sigh in response. ‘For fuck’s sake! You know who this belongs to?’

Scream responded by putting out his palm again and snapping his fingers. ‘I don’t care!
Bag
!’

John’s instincts ordered him to hold onto the bag tighter and stand firm. And that’s what he did.

A sudden screech of tyres on the tarmac behind him made his ears prick. He spun round to see a transit van pull up across the mouth of the alley, blocking off his escape route. He caught a glimpse of a symbol and words painted on its side before the side door slid open. Three more people in masks—a clown, a gimp, and Prince Charles—jumped out of the van and made their way towards him. He suddenly felt like he was at some kind of weird fancy-dress street party. But he didn’t have a mask nor an invite.

He looked around him in bewilderment.
What the hell’s going on here,
gamota
? What is this?

He then clocked with acute alarm the cricket bat Prince Charles was carrying over his shoulder, the crowbar the clown was patting ominously in its free hand, and the gun the gimp was holding by its leg.

And now John realised exactly what was going on here—it was a professional mugging, organised like clockwork. He instantly backed up, making sure he could get all of them in his sight, his grip on the travel bag tightening even more, adrenaline and fear rapidly flooding his system. This wasn’t good.
Wasn’t good at all.
He was outnumbered and out-tooled. And that made him worried, big-time.

Stay cool,
re
,
a voice in his head said to him.
Remember the
strato
; don’t let ’em see your fear…

He forced on a screw face just as Prince Charles stepped up to him. Now they were toe-to-toe, face-to-face. John could feel the bag trembling against his chest; the hand clutching it was shaking, nervous like a kid during his first day at school. He took in a deep breath and held it.

Prince Charles held the cricket bat out to his side. John’s eyes followed it.

‘You like cricket?’ Prince Charles asked in the same Eastern Bloc accent as Scream.

A few laughs piped up from the others and John glanced over at them, suddenly hating them more than anything. His eyes locked back on Prince Charles who was now holding out his free hand, just like Scream from the previous minute or two.

‘Give me your bag,’ he ordered.

John looked him straight on and puffed out his chest with as much bravery he could muster. He then shook his head. ‘No. I can’t,’ he stoutly replied.

Prince Charles placed both hands on the handle of the cricket bat, slowly brought it back behind his shoulder, and leaned towards John in an aggressive stance. ‘You give it!’

John’s head twitched nervously in response, but he held firm. ‘No. No—’

Prince Charles swung the bat round.

John’s instincts tweaked in response, but were a fraction too slow.

There was a silent thud at the front of his mind, which was swiftly followed by an ache spreading rapidly across his jaw. The blow sent him reeling off to the side. He staggered across the ground like a drunken boxer, trying with all his might to get upright again and shield his face.

It was no use. Before he could gain control of his senses, the bat struck him again, this time in the ribs. The breath bolted from his chest, and he involuntarily flipped his face up to meet the sky.

Breathe, breathe!
his mind screamed.

Breathe? Fuck breathing,
re
! Fight,
gamota
!
his inner instincts frantically countered.

He swung an impulsive fist round in response, not knowing who or what he was aiming at. But all he caught was fresh air, and all he achieved was to open himself up to another attack as his head swung back round the way it came. His now vulnerable face crunched into a fist made up of fingers as thick as Butcher’s Choice sausages. His left eye instantly closed tight, and he spun back round again like a confused Ballerina, almost losing his footing. The world around him was now a jet-engined roundabout, spinning out of control, leaving him open for the kill. But somehow, he managed to keep hold of the bag, fully aware of it still gripped tightly in his hand. And that by far was the most important thing. The rest could wait…

But now completely fucked and disorientated, he had no doubt the inevitable killer blow was about to arrive, and he knew in that instant there was nothing he could do.

He tried his best to prepare himself for it, ready to swing every limb around in fury, going out in a blaze of glory, when a loud female voice cut through the air. ‘
Stój
!’

John’s head jerked up in the direction from where the voice came. His vision slipped back into focus and through his only open eye he found himself now staring at the gimp. At her flat chest. At her svelte, leggy body, one hand idly on her hip, the other holding that gun.

Prince Charles stopped dead, his cricket bat swung back in preparation for a final attack. His head flicked round as well. He stared back at her and snarled.

‘
Stój
,’ the gimp repeated.

Prince Charles glanced from her to John before reluctantly backing off, taking his orders like an obedient dog. John looked back at the gimp with a dazed stare to see that she was now pointing her gun straight at him. He instantly sobered, throwing up his free palm and shaking it like he was waving someone goodbye, numbly repeating ‘
nuh… nuh… nuh…
’ as if his tongue had swollen too large for his mouth.
No, no, no! Don’t shoot me!
he wanted to shout out loud.
Here take the bag! Just don’t shoot me!

But that’s exactly what she did.

She pulled the trigger. A split second later, there was a short sharp stab in John’s chest. He gasped and seized up in shock, his hand flying straight up to the impact zone.

I’ve been shot! I’ve been shot!

But something wasn’t right. His open eye blinked in confusion.

Wasn’t there supposed to be more pain?
Like a
lot
more pain?

He slowly glanced down at his wound to see something sticking out of his chest. He was expecting to find a bullet hole, but instead, there was a…
dart?
Yeah, it was a dart,
gamota
. Like those tranquilliser darts they knock grizzly bears out with.

And when a sudden, heady feeling overcame him and he staggered back violently against the alley wall, he realised that’s exactly what it was. The
putana
shot him with a fucking tranquilliser dart. Fear had bizarrely given way to surreality.

Against his will, John’s legs abruptly turned to lead and they crumpled like pipe cleaners. He went straight down, hitting the concrete in a heap, an aggressive wooziness rapidly overwhelming him. His body was systematically shutting down and there was nothing he could do to reverse it.

Keep with it! Keep with it,
gamota
!
his mind yelled.
Stay awake!

He managed to push his eyelid open to be met with a black, oppressive sky. Unconsciousness was creeping all over him like the Grim Reaper making a beeline for a man on his deathbed. He fought against it, but there was no hope. The
skata
now going around his veins was strong. Too strong…

His undamaged eye closed for a prolonged second and he almost slipped away. He forced it open again and now faces obscured that black sky—Prince Charles, the gimp, the clown, and Scream. They were towering over him, scrutinising him like he was some kind of lab rat. Prince Charles bent down and unceremoniously grabbed the travel bag John somehow still clutched onto for dear life. He yanked it from his grip. John tried with all his might to resist, but it was no use; by then all his strength had deserted him. It was like taking candy from babies.

Prince Charles stood upright and finally removed his mask. John stared at him through his heavy, slitted eye, utilising the final remnants of strength and consciousness he barely held to take a mental snapshot, allowing that image to be branded on his mind—he clocked a meaty, shaved head; dark eyes.

Prince Charles anxiously unzipped the bag, removed the jiffy bag, and peeked inside.

‘
Dobrze
?’ the gimp asked.

Prince Charles nodded. ‘
Tak
,’ he replied with a broad smile. ‘
Dobrze
.’

He replaced the jiffy bag and zipped up the travel bag.

By then, the clown was now unmasked as well. He was just lounging, watching what was happening in silence. John snapped him—tall; skinny; short, spiky hair; a big mole on his right cheek.

The gimp removed her mask. John now concentrated as best he could on her—short, dyed-red, spiky hair; nose ring; high cheekbones. Her dark eyes gleamed with lucid intelligence and for a second, John felt like he was staring at an alien Gray.

And last but not least, off came the Scream mask. His face was a broad grin; he was waving John off into the realm of sleep.

I’ll remember you, you bastards… I promise I’ll… remember…

John stared beyond them at their van. Through his blurred vision, he could partially make out the first word painted on its side. It read ‘medics’ or ‘meds’ or something similar. He noted the symbol, which looked like…
a dagger with a snake wrapped around it?

He groaned, now resigned to his defeat. His head fell back down on the concrete, the sound of their laughter—loud and echoing cackles—ringing through his mind. They were laughing. Taking the piss out of him like a bunch of hyenas after stealing lunch from a lion.

You
malakes
got what you wanted, you won this round. But if our paths ever cross again, you won’t win the next. I promise you…

John’s heavy eyelid slammed shut for the final time, and unconsciousness slipped over him like a giant glove.

Alisha Evangelou had to choke back her tears the moment she laid eyes on her husband, lying there unconscious in a hospital bed. It was her worst nightmare come true. No, her worst nightmare would be having to pay him a visit at the morgue. This wasn’t
that
bad—he was still breathing after all—but it wasn’t that rosy either.

She leant forwards and lovingly stroked the hair on his head, thinking if things would ever be normal, wishing that they would be. She gently pressed the icepack one of the nurses gave her on his swollen eye. They’d also put him in a room on his own, which was nice of them. They reckoned he’d been sedated with something, legal or illegal they couldn’t tell, but they saw no reason why he shouldn’t just eventually wake up seeing as he was stable.

She hoped they were right. Glass half full and all that…

She turned her head to the side to get a glimpse of the two men at the back of the room, standing there like a couple of hoods. The restaurant John was making deliveries to phoned that Aziz bloke to tell him what happened. Ahmed—his assistant or whatever—contacted her straight away and arranged to bring her to South London. It was nice of them, but as far as she was concerned, it was probably because of them that John was in this state. They were trouble; she could smell it all over them. But ultimately they were what they were. It was John who was at fault for always hanging around with these dodgy, low-life characters. She hated
that
aspect of him. He just couldn’t seem to find good people to be mates with, instead attracting these pieces of shit. She always put it down to them preying on his easygoing nature and his annoying—but at the same time kinda sweet—easily-led character. He was just too damn nice to everyone. Instead of having the sense to tell the bad ones to bugger off, he felt he had to be best buddies with them. Besides, John had never been one to say no to something he hadn’t done before.

Try everything once was how he lived…

She caught Ahmed staring at her. He gave her an uneasy smile in return. She just ignored him, turning her attention back to her husband. He just lay there, breathing steadily. Looking helpless.

She
felt helpless…

She checked her watch. It was two in the morning, and she was getting tired. So was the baby. They both needed sleep. The very notion was a complete non starter right then; she couldn’t sleep even if she wanted to. Then, from nowhere, a sudden urge for the bathroom came upon her. The way that happened had become a regular occurrence as her pregnancy progressed. She didn’t want to leave John alone with the two tossers at the back of the room, but she really needed to go.

‘I’ll be back in a minute, babe,’ she told John and kissed him on the forehead. She stood up straight and stretched her back. Her bloated belly pushed forwards, putting a strain on her spine, which was already hurting from sitting on a hard NHS chair for too long.

God, I so badly just wanna be at home with my husband so I can put my feet up and do nothing else,
she thought to herself with lament.