The Survival Game (23 page)

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.

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. Anything. 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.

Right then, he was alone with the guilt and no maskers were at hand, even
Papa
Phillipo wasn’t around to help soothe his pain.

It IS all your fault,
the guilt demon abruptly asserted in a deep, croaky voice.
Yousif, Yiayia, Alisha, it’s all your fault, because of you, you piece of shit!

‘I may be a piece of shit, but I didn’t mean to harm anyone. No one,’ he muttered to himself before letting out a heavy sigh. ‘This
skata
was put on me, I didn’t ask for it.’ He glanced up at the painted picture of the
Panayia
and her eyes burnt into him. ‘
Se para kalo
,’ he said, pleading, ‘help me. For once. Please. Please.
Please…
’

His mobile phone then started ringing, shattering the sanctified silence of the church, echoing over and over like he was in a deep underground cave. The sound made him flinch and he sat up, going for his jacket pocket as if a ticking bomb had been placed there. He pulled his phone out and checked the number on the screen. It was an unknown caller. A twinge of excitement shot through him.
Please. Please. Please.

He pushed the call button. ‘Hello?’ he answered, anxious.

‘
It’s me,
’ Ishmael said to him. RnB was playing in the background.

John’s eyes widened and his breathing stopped. ‘Yeah?’ he replied in an eager voice.

‘
I got that thing you wanted.
’

John’s heart skipped a beat and leapt up into his throat. He could taste it. It was like a doughy ball of softened lead. ‘
The bloke you’re looking for is a Yardie don. He’s notorious, basically runs the crack trade in London. His name’s Dread I
.’

John’s mind raced back to that moment when he shot the old man. Dread I.
His name’s Dread I.

‘
Listen,
’ Ishmael continued. ‘
I’ve heard some messed up stories about this guy. You wanna steer clear if you know what’s best for you. I’m not telling you this ’cos I care about you, in fact I couldn’t give a damn about you… but I’m telling you this for Alisha, ’cos she’ll be hurt if anything happens to you and I don’t wanna see that.
’

John tried to swallow, but his mouth was too dry. ‘Your concern is touching, Ishmael, it really is. But if it’s okay with you, I’ll take my chances. Know where I can find him?’

‘
Well, I passed on your message and apparently he’s pretty keen on meeting you. He’s put the word out on the street that he’s looking for you.
’

Meet me?
John could taste his heart in his mouth again. Hot doughy lead. ‘Yeah, I know something that I think he’s pretty desperate to know too.’

‘
Well, I hope you got life insurance ’cos if you don’t give him what he wants…
’

‘What do you mean?’

There was a pause. Then: ‘
Dark shit,
’ Ishmael said without any hint of emotion. ‘
I dunno what this bloke’s into, but it must be some proper voodoo type stuff. You know they nicknamed him Satan when he was in Jamaica?
’

John laughed. ‘You don’t believe all that shit, do you?’

‘
I don’t know. But, what I’ve heard… I don’t mess with the unknown, John…
’

John looked up to see the
Panayia’
s halo glow brighter than before. It shone and spun round like a Catherine Wheel. Shone and spun.

‘
Trust me, you don’t want to get involved,
’ Ishmael continued. ‘
You might never get out of it and I don’t want Alisha involved.
’

John tutted. ‘She won’t be, Ishmael. I’m not that much of a bastard for fuck’s sake, I wouldn’t get her involved with someone like that!’

‘
The very fact that you’re down with this guy worries the shit out of me when it comes to her.
’

John sighed. ‘I’m glad you’re looking out for my wife, Ishmael. I’ll sleep better at night knowing that. Now I’d probably get my appetite back as well if you just tell me where to find him.’

‘
YOU don’t find him. HE finds you. He’s arranged everything. He wants to meet you in Stoke Newington. Tonight.
’

Another twinge of excitement jolted John. But it was mixed with confusion. ‘Tonight?’

‘
Yeah. There’s an underground car park next to the Tesco’s on the High Street. He wants to meet you in there on the lowest level. 10 o’clock.
’

John smiled to himself. This was going even better than he expected. He was just beginning to think he wouldn’t even manage to track down Dread I, never mind get a meeting with him. But to do both
so
quickly… He suddenly wished that Ishmael was right next to him so he could give him a big fat kiss. Then he quickly got his shit together once he realised just how much of a stupid thought that was; they hated each other’s guts,
gamota
. But the truth was, Ishmael
had
done him a massive favour and without him even realising, could’ve saved both John’s nuts and who knows what else…

‘I appreciate this,’ John said to the telephone in a flat tone. He wanted to thank him, but didn’t want to be licking his
kolo
at the same time,
gamota
.

‘
Yeah, well, I’m doing it for my cousin, not for you.
’

Suddenly, any good feelings towards Ishmael crashed and burned like a failed rocket launch and he hated the
malaka
again. Hated him proper. ‘I’ll see you on the other side then, Ishmael. Don’t be late.’

‘
It’ll be a dark day when I see you again. Thanks for all the shit you’ve brought my family.
’

John tutted. ‘
I
make your cousin happy ’cos I love her.’

‘
Pfft. After all the shit you’ve done to her? If that’s your interpretation of love, I’d never wanna see your vision of hate.
’

John let out an angry huff. ‘I’d love to continue this with you, Ishmael, but I’m in a church right now.’

‘
Hmm. Repenting your sins?
’

‘Something like that. And I don’t think raised voices on mobile phones are welcome here,
you get me?
’

‘
I respect the sanctity of a church, John. I respect all faiths. So, I’ll end this call now—
’

‘Good. Bye then.’ John clicked ‘end call’ before Ishmael had a chance to respond. He then angrily stuffed the phone back in his pocket.

Malaka.

Always trying to wind him up, put him down…

He looked around him, agitated, then up at the
Panayia
. He flinched back. Her eyes had changed. They were no longer sorrowful painted eyes, but had transformed into the soulless eyes of a long dead fish, devoid of any signs of life. Her halo had vanished and had been replaced with black writhing snakes, twisting and turning. John found himself staring at them with a feeling inside him that at first he couldn’t identify
(dark shit, proper voodoo type stuff, used to call him Satan back in Jamaica),
but when it sunk in fully and began to make his hands and feet tremble, he knew exactly what it was.

It was fear.

Cold, unadulterated fear.

*****

He made it to Stoke Newington a few minutes before ten, not running into much traffic on the way. He phoned Alisha a little while after his phone conversation with Ishmael to tell her the bloke who does the night shift at Aziz’s shop was having domestic problems, so he’d have to cover for him all night, and that he’d see her in the morning. He told her the good thing was it would mean overtime money and another step closer to a new home. The second he ended the call, guilt prangs set in and his conscience began to work him over. The fat demon toad that resided in there let him know that he was a nothing more than a
malaka
of the highest order. A prick. A no good scumbag for lying to her again. John told it to fuck off and die, but it had no intention of doing that. Instead, it rode shotgun with him as he crawled through the streets of Stoke Newington.

He soaked in his surroundings—old, run down at the best of times; a traditional part of London made of the same bricks it was built with. But at night, the low life filtered out of the bricks and worked the streets, crossing over into Hackney and Dalston to make moves, conjure cold hard cash out of thin air. The perfect place to meet a bloke like Dread I, who’d no doubt blend in effortlessly, meaning no one would bother them in their negotiations. John made sure to pack his gun. He didn’t fancy having to use it, but after what Ishmael said about Dread I and more to the point, what he’d seen of him with his own eyes, it wouldn’t come as a surprise if the headcase either had something nasty planned for him for whatever reason he fancied, or he just plain switched on him for the fuck of it and decided to give him a blast of his shotgun.