The Survival Game (25 page)

‘Nah way,
bredda
. Dread I never joke. You keep an eye on Green T, help him out if need be, and you ’come one a us…’

John turned his head to see Green T nodding his head slow and deliberate as if he’d gone over the plan in his mind a thousand times already. He knew exactly what he was gonna do and how he was gonna do it.

John sighed. He was being put in another one of those
skata
impossible situations again. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He didn’t count on this happening. Having to pass some bloody initiation to get Dread I on side. But, the alternative was to walk away and face Marek alone.

So all in all, it would turn out to be worth it.

‘And what’s
he
gonna use to kill him?’ he asked Dread I. But it was Braids who answered him. In one fluid motion, he expertly clicked a fresh magazine into the Uzi in his lap and handed it over to Green T, who nonchalantly took it from him like it was nothing but a Super Soaker. He placed the gun down on his lap and gave John an intensely smug look.

John puffed his cheeks.
These are just kids,
gamota
. Fucking kids trained to handle weapons like soldiers.

He shook his head in disbelief.

In the background, Dread I’s rusty blade laugh was echoing around the car.

’Cos he was loving what he was seeing.

They went over to Edmonton in Dread I’s jeep, some heavy Hip-Hop blasting out of the stereo; proper gangsta style lyrics being spat by London kids with unbroken voices, their balls having yet to drop an inch. By then, skunk smoke had consumed the jeep, turning it into a giant bong, ready and waiting for a toke. The fumes went straight to John’s head, making his mind fuzzy, and as a result, he was struggling to clarify his thoughts. He was about to storm a massage parlour without scoping out the place first. That wasn’t good. But it was clearly how these boys did their business. He remembered Dread I storming into the old man’s home and just shooting up the place without even blinking. They didn’t give a fuck,
gamota
. Shoot first, think later was how they do.

Even though John liked getting shit done fast, he preferred to err on the side of caution. Years of having to blend in with his surroundings whilst carrying shitloads of gear stashed down his pants made that way. But that wasn’t how things were going down tonight, so he had to get into their way of doing things fast.

He tried his best to clear his hazy mind, get his shit together, gear himself up for an assault, just like the
strato
trained him—to switch off, focus on the battle, become a cold, sick killing machine. Get into the act, do your thing, then just hope to survive. Now with that level of thinking, the fact that this was a bumrush job became a good thing. Dobra had no idea they were coming for him and so the surprise element was theirs. That thought made John feel better about things. But only slightly.

He nervously puffed his cheeks and looked around. Dread I was silent like it was the calm before the storm. He was Julius Caesar, eager to see how well his subjects were going to perform in the Coliseum, whether or not they were worthy. And then a realisation suddenly hit John like a bucket of cold water, sobering him—if he fucked up, he’d lose this opportunity, and he’d have no choice but to go get Marek on his Jack Jones. He glanced over at Green T, who was staring out of the window, his Uzi still sitting on his lap, awaiting him. John began to wonder if it was wise to rely on this kid, to put his faith in him in to pull off this job and not fuck it up for him—for them both. On the one hand, Green T was just a
moro
, but on the other, he seemed to hold that gun with ease, like it wasn’t new to him.

He can handle the thing, yeah, but when it comes to the crunch, does he really have the nuts to pull that trigger and kill someone?
If John
did
put his faith in Green T to have the balls and he ended up freezing, Dobra would make mincemeat out of them both. John found himself seriously caught between the choice of whether to take complete control of the situation, or have faith in Green T doing what Dread I did to the old man and Moleface, and leave him to go berserk in the parlour. The noxious combination of the skunk in his mind and the loud music in his ears was making this decision harder, and he was running out of time fast. The other point he needed to consider was that he was packing a Glock and nothing else; Green T was tooled up with a submachine gun. The balance was uneven. If things got sticky, he’d rather shoot his way out with a fully automatic than a semi any day of the week. He thought he could maybe get the kid to swap weapons. But then again, Green T looked pretty fucking angry and very determined, even if he was just a
moro
. John didn’t think for a second he’d be up for trading at all.

Maybe I’ll just have to snatch it off him at some point during proceedings…
he thought to himself.

They spun around a roundabout, knocking John’s train of thought off course; he held on as his body swayed to one side. He glanced out of the window. They were approaching Edmonton, which meant it was nearly time for action. His eyes closed in a sleepy, prolonged blink. Behind them, he saw
Papa
Phillipo standing over him, reciting words from the Bible. He was uttering a prayer that would protect him, and would help him to repent for his
armaties
. The words soothed him; they helped him in a dark hour. He was in uncomfortable surroundings and his cousin’s face and voice were a pleasantly surprising comfort.

He raised his head to look at his cousin again. But things changed. Phillipo opened his mouth to recite more incantations, and his teeth inexplicably began to jut out and then grow longer becoming like a cave full of stalactites. Hair sprouted out all over his face, matching his beard. John stared on, rooted with terror as Phillipo’s eyes flushed from brown to a piercing green, his pupils becoming slits. In no time his whole face was a ball of jet-black fur. Whiskers—thin and wire-like—shot through the fur just above his upper lip. His voice morphed into a screeching howl that was akin to long fingernails scraped down a blackboard. His harsh green eyes pierced John’s soul like lasers. He wanted to run so badly but couldn’t budge an inch, ’cos when he looked down, he saw his legs were chained to a huge lead ball on the floor next to him. The thing that used to be
Papa
Phillipo held out a spoon for John to take his Holy Communion. But it wasn’t a gold plated spoon of wine and bread. Instead it was a rusty, burnt thing full of cooked heroin.
Papa
Catman pushed the spoon forwards into John’s face. He couldn’t turn his head in time. The spoon slipped into his mouth with ease. The liquid was hot and acidic. It made him choke.
Papa
Catman’s howl became a whiny laugh.

John shook his head briskly, the bitterness in his mouth overwhelming, that howl reverberating in his mind. He wanted to scream, to let it all rip, get that noise out of his head, out of his mind. He took in a deep breath, opened his mouth, and—

His eyes snapped open….

He was back in Dread I’s jeep, Hip-Hop beating against his chest like a mallet smashing down a brick wall.

He looked around him, blinking rapidly.
Did I just fall asleep,
gamota
?

He snapped his head back round to see Dread I’s horned head turned to the side, his scarred cheek raised by a smile. A dread snake arced towards John and its mouth snapped on the air. John looked away from it and out of the window. It had started to rain.

As he blinked, he could still see the horrific image of
Papa
Catman in his mind.
Jesus, this is no time to be tripping out,
gamota, he told himself, rubbing his eyes.

Then, in the next instant, the music went right down low, the loud beats becoming a patter. The driver slowed down to a crawl.

Here we go,
re
…

John took in their surroundings—they were in a dark, thin street. Up ahead was a row of shops; some were closed, but a few were open for business, their shopfront lights reflecting off the wet pavement. The jeep came to a halt and the driver killed the engine.

‘We ’ere,’ Dread I said to the windscreen but aiming his words at the people in the back of his jeep. ‘The place called
Golden Massage
. Watch ya back in dere, and nah stoppin’ to get ya hoses cleaned, seen?’ He laughed that rusty blade laugh again and John’s chest heaved. Green T nodded his head obediently and stepped out onto the street without hesitation, keeping the Uzi low by his leg. He shut the door behind him. John tentatively opened his own door, getting a blast of cold wet air. Compared to the smoky atmosphere in the jeep, it was fresh like morning dew.

‘We gonna leave for a lickle while,
bredda
,’ Dread I then told him. ‘We be back in time to pick y’up.’

‘What?’ John exclaimed. ‘Where you going?’

‘We’re going for a cruise,’ Dread I replied. ‘Now go!’

John reluctantly nodded his head, even though what he just heard made him pissed. Their only means of escape was going away for a
lickle while
. Nice. He stepped out onto the tarmac, slamming the door shut behind him. The jeep then sped away, leaving them both alone. He suddenly felt like a soldier on a recon mission, fresh off the chopper, dumped into the heart of the big bad jungle.

He put his shades on and looked over to Green T, who was already heading for the row of shops. ‘Hey, wait!’ John called out to him, but he wasn’t listening. It was like he was possessed. It meant everything John had been thinking about back in the jeep was now out the window. Green T had the Uzi; John had the pistol. Great. He started running along the pavement, pulling his hood over his head at the same time, his Reeboks splashing through muddy puddles, and a million thoughts racing through his mind.
What was waiting for them inside Golden Massage? How were they going to do this? Should he take the lead, or follow?

He didn’t like not planning,
gamota
! He always wanted a plan. He didn’t like feeling naked, unprepared.

Green T finally slowed down and started looking up at the shop signs. John upped his pace, quickly catching him. Green T stopped in front of a shop with a cracked window. Thick black curtains were drawn behind it, obscuring their view. Anything could be waiting behind them. Above the curtains, the dirty neon sign read
Golden Massage
. It flashed spasmodically, the bulb behind it desperately clinging to life.

John stopped next to Green T, who spoke to him for the very first time. ‘This one,’ he said before heading for the front door.

John threw a hand out. ‘Hold on,’ he said, but Green T was in no mood to listen. He stopped just in front of the entrance, took in a deep breath and then burst into the massage parlour, shouting his head off.

‘Shit!’ John spat.
That’s fucking blown any quiet entrance,
he thought with a strong sense of bitterness. He grabbed his Glock, took a look around, then dived in after the kid, slamming the door shut behind him. Inside, a middle-aged Thai/Filipina receptionist was stationed behind a counter in the far corner. She’d been watching TV, but now she was on her feet, her hands reaching for the ceiling. Her face was a scrawl of outright terror. Green T was poking his Uzi at the air ahead of her and shouting so loud and fast, all that was coming out of his mouth was a load of gibberish.

John looked around.

A fat man with glasses was sitting on a bench that ran down the side of the room, waiting his turn.

John coldly pointed his gun at him.

The man’s arms instantly shot into the air, his flabby cheeks trembling.

‘Get the fuck out!’ John ordered.

The man jumped to his feet in an instant, not needing a second invitation. He hunched down and darted for the door, knocking over a plastic yucca plant on the way. In no time, he was outside, leaving the three of them alone. John turned his attention back to the job in hand.

‘Where the fuck is he!’ Green T screamed in the receptionist’s face.

The woman just shrieked in response.

John jumped over to Green T’s side. He put his hand forcefully down on the Uzi, causing Green T to reluctantly lower it. Something resembling calm then took over.

John seized control. He calmly raised his own gun and pointed it at the receptionist, making her flinch. ‘Dobra,’ John said to her, monotone. ‘Where is he?’

The receptionist just stared at them with tearful eyes.

‘Where is he!’ John repeated snappily, now almost shouting.

The woman pointed a tentative finger towards the door at the end of the room. ‘He in there,’ she said in a weak, trembling voice.

Green T didn’t hesitate. He immediately ran for the door.

John huffed.
Why wouldn’t this little prick wait?

He marched towards the counter. ‘Come with us!’ he ordered, motioning her with his gun.

She remained frozen.

‘
MOVE!
’ John shouted.

She snapped into life, shuffling around the counter and towards the door. John opened it up and held it for her, ushering her inside with his gun. She did as she was told, John following up. They were now in a longish, brightly lit corridor, a series of doors running down both sides. Green T was up ahead. He smashed open a random door with his foot and jumped inside.

John watched him in anger.
Little
malaka’s
gonna fuck this up proper!

He then heard shouting coming from inside the room.
Jesus Christ, does he wanna tell every fucker in the place that we’re here,
gamota
?

The receptionist turned to face John, her eyes brimming with fear.
Why are you doing this?
they screamed at him.

John just remained stone faced, although behind his expression he was asking himself the exact same thing.

A young girl, bollock naked, abruptly jumped out of the room Green T had just busted into. She came running towards them, screaming and waving her arms around, her hair wild. She had no intention of stopping and John was forced to move aside as she stormed past, screaming hysterically as if she were escaping a forest fire.