The Survival Game (40 page)

It was a photo on the small cabinet next to Marek’s bed. Of a woman and a small boy. The woman was pointing at the camera; the boy was following her finger with his eyes, a big innocent smile lighting up his face. Haloes were swathed around their heads like golden auras.

John let out a regretful sigh.

It was Marek’s wife and
moro
, no doubt about it. The reason why he was doing all this
skata
in the first place. What he was fighting for. Without what was in the jiffy bag, they were fucked. That’s why he was prepared to kill for them. Prepared to lose his own life, risk his old man’s. Looking at that photo, John couldn’t help but think of Alisha, and suddenly the guilt bombarded his mind to replace the relief. The guilt demon would never allow him relief. Never.

He sealed up the jiffy bag and got to his feet. There was no time for guilt and all the other
skata
’cos he didn’t want to leave Marek alone for too long in case he tried anything. He grabbed the mobile phone he spotted on the floor to his right, and went back out to the corridor. Marek was lying flat on his back, staring at the ceiling, his whole body trembling. The poor bastard was in proper pain. He was going nowhere fast.

‘Hey, Marek! Marek!’ John said, clicking his fingers. ‘Wake up!’

Marek’s head snapped up.

John removed the keys to the cache from his pocket and dangled them on the air. ‘Listen to me—your sister is locked in a garage in Stoke Newington. It’s in an alleyway behind
Lo’s Laundrette
.’ He briefly looked down at the floor, a feeling of shame enveloping him. ‘She’s in a bad way, so you better get to her quickly, she needs a doctor.’

Marek’s teeth clenched and he stared at John with angry eyes, his head starting to darken. John felt that look. It was a look of hate for violating his sister. It was a feeling John would never know. In a bizarre way, he admired Marek for feeling like that ’cos it was the complete opposite of what that piece of shit Green T felt about
his
sister. But that look was also allowing the guilt to rise again. Combined, John and Dread I had done some bad things over the last few days, committed many
armaties
, but while it was Dread I who did most of the proper dark stuff, John had just stood by and watched it all happen.

‘If it’s any consolation,’ John began. ‘She didn’t sell you out. This piece of shit tortured her to get this address. She put up a brave fight, but he got the better of her in the end. And for the record,
I
didn’t kill your dad and cousin.
He did
.’ John looked down at Dread I as he spoke. ‘I don’t know if you believe me or not, but either way, I reckon
you
shooting me a few minutes ago evens the lies I fed you about your dad when I knew he was dead all along.’

John threw the key at Marek. He went to catch it, but his reactions were too slow. Instead, it landed square on his chest and stayed there. He stared at it with bleary eyes like it was some kind of insect that had just crawled onto his body. John turned away and as he did, the image of the photo in Marek’s room popped up in his mind. He saw the little boy smiling, then thought of him hiding from the Polish authorities, locked away in a cupboard while their hideout was raided. The guilt demon breathed some juice into him; he just couldn’t live with it any more. He had to do something.

He turned back to face Marek.

‘I know why you stole these from me,’ John informed him. ‘You need to get your family past the Polish authorities and over here safely. You don’t fancy having ’em smuggled over in the back of a cargo ship like you probably had to. Right?’

Marek’s hot eyes mellowed and he began blinking for what seemed like the first time in ages.

John nodded his head in understanding. He huffed. ‘For fuck’s sake, man, I wish you’d just bought some for yourself and not nicked ’em off me. So many lives could have been saved…’

Marek took in a deep breath. ‘They say… 
Omar is best
,’ he uttered.

‘Oh yes, he
is
the best,’ John replied, nodding his head knowingly. ‘You can’t go wrong with his shit. It’ll get you into Fort fucking Knox…’ He held the jiffy bag up to his face and stared at it, contemplating. He then stared at Marek. He looked so pathetic and helpless, lying there in agony with his mashed up knee. He was completely lost; a broken man. John felt a strong urge to do something. He had to. Had to at least redeem a small piece of his tainted soul.

He sighed as he reached into the jiffy bag. He pulled out a couple of passports, glanced at them briefly, and then threw them in Marek’s direction. Marek watched them fly through the air with wide eyes. They bounced off his chest and landed on the carpet. He instantly looked from them to John, an expression of surprise etched into his mug.

‘Get ’em out of trouble,’ John ordered.

Marek’s eyes narrowed.

‘But you and the rest of your boys are gonna have to make other arrangements…’ John added in a neutral tone.

Marek just stared dumbly. It was almost as if he didn’t believe what he was seeing or hearing. And yeah, John agreed it was fucking strange behaviour all right, but he understood this
malaka
’s pain, understood how losing the only things you loved would kill you. If the last few days had taught him anything it was that you had to stay loyal to them, fight for them, and when carrots were dangled in front of your nose, no matter how much they glittered gold, you had to resist and turn ’em down. For them. All for them. And not helping Marek out right then would just make the guilt demon even stronger, give it more fire to breathe into him. He knew down the road he’d have to pay the price with Aziz, and with a clear head, he might’ve thought differently. But Marek got lucky ’cos right about then, John’s head was completely fucked up.

‘But you gotta do something for me now, Marek,’ John then said, a grave expression on his face. ‘You gotta tell your sister to get the police off my case. I got a family too, and like you I can’t afford to back to prison. I think we both know how important that is… Get ’em off my back and I won’t say a word about you being here to anyone. Deal?’

Marek took in a long juddering breath, which lasted a few painful seconds. When he finished, he began nodding his head.

‘Good,’ John said and stared at his Reeboks. ‘Not such a bad guy after all, am I?’ he asked with an air of irony to his voice, a rueful smile on his face at the same time.

Marek closed his eyes and looked away, his lips pursing bitterly.

John nodded to himself.
Yeah, we’re all scum. All of us…

‘Don’t forget your sister.
Lo’s Laundrette
, Stoke Newington. I hope she’s all right…’

Marek’s eyes opened. He gave John a brief nod before closing them again.

John decided it was time to part ways before more of Marek’s boys came or worse,
astinomia
. He held Marek’s mobile phone up in the air, and whistled. Marek’s eyes flicked open. John waved the phone from side-to-side for him to see, before placing it down on the carpet by the stairs. By the time Marek reached it to call for help, John would be long gone. He turned and darted down the stairs, leaving Marek behind. He replaced his gun in his belt, zipped up his jacket, and jumped out of the front door.

He looked around. The coast was clear, hopefully no one heard anything, ’cos if
astinomia
were on the way and they found Marek all messed up and Dread I’s dead body…

Well, that’s his fucking problem, not yours,
re
, you gotta watch out for ’em yourself
.

It was true. The fire at Neocrema would have ’em out crawling all over north London. He realised he better make an escape sharpish.

He hit the pavement, a sudden good feeling coursing through his veins, all stemming from the jiffy bag in his grip. A feeling of excitement and relief. Like backing a long shot and winning a ton of money. Not that he was too acquainted with that particular circumstance ’cos usually he backed it and lost…

He reached his car. Before he got in, he stopped and took a second to stare at the jiffy bag. It was like a rare diamond; the pot of gold at the end of a rainbow. He put it up to his lips and planted a big fat kiss on it.

A minute later, he was back on the road, smoking
cigarra
, and banging out DnB; his next stop—Aziz’s snooker hall.

John pulled into the alleyway behind the snooker hall, parked up, and killed the engine. At one point during the last week he’d been sure this moment would never arrive—going to the snooker hall to hand that motherfucking delivery back to Aziz before the week was out. But somehow, he did it. Pulled the proverbial rabbit out of the hat. But it had come at a price. Now he was all horny. Just like Marek/Dread I and the rest of ’em. He suddenly remembered what Aziz said to him back at the hospital—
We live in a very, very unpleasant world you and I, John. You already knew that. We do whatever it takes to survive and to come out on top.

Whatever it takes…

And he was right. The old bastard was right. Sitting there at the end of the bar like Tony fucking Soprano, smoking cigar after cigar. He was
so
right.

But, on the other hand, maybe the world is unpleasant because we SEE it like that,
re
Aziz. Maybe if we took off these fucking grimy specs we wear constantly, we might see a pleasant world underneath, and things would appear differently to us. Just maybe we could change shit for the better instead of propping up the worst of it…

Just maybe….

He looked around him. Aziz’s pristine Merc was sitting over there in its usual spot, Ahmed’s Beemer parked up behind it. He looked from the cars down at his hands. They were dirty, cut, and bleeding. They were also full-on shaking as if he’d developed Parkinson’s or something in the last twenty-four. The adrenaline and cocaine rush was long gone, now he was just a burnt out shell, all types of aches and twinges now making their presence known, weaving their way into every limb. He shook his head, exhausted. If he ever had to go through the
skata
of the last week again, he
would
end up with all kinds of disorders. Trauma. Paranoid schizophrenia. Brain Haemorrhages from acute stress.
How could he do that to his wife and
moro
?

Well he couldn’t, simple as that. He just couldn’t any more.

But, what about money,
re
? Cash?
Lires
?

He sighed. Money was the anchor weighing him down in the sea of shit for sure. The thing that was the stumbling block in his quest to do the right thing. The one major fucking evil in the world. He had to have it, had to get it, but the only way he knew how to fish always led to trouble. And this week was a close call. Next time, he might not be so lucky…

So, what are you gonna do about it,
re
?

‘
I don’t know what I’m gonna do,
’ he said to his reflection in the rear view, putting a
cigarro
up to his lips soon after. Those horns still sat on his head, loud and proud, probably never to leave, which made him feel even worse about himself.

First things first though before thinking about the future and what I’ve become
; give Aziz his shit and collect two hundred for passing GO.

A faint smile flittered across his face. He lit up his
cigarro
and stepped out of the car, the jiffy bag still firmly in his grip as if he could somehow still lose it from here to the snooker hall entrance, paranoia and bitter experience controlling both his actions and state of mind. The skies were grey and overcast, the threat of more rain on the way. He lifted up his collar, put his head down and walked with a tired, edgy stride out of the alleyway and round to the front of the snooker hall. When he reached the entrance, he threw his
cigarro
down on the ground and removed his shades.

He stepped inside; Ahmed was bent over the table nearest the bar, lining up a black in the middle right pocket. He spotted John in his line of vision and immediately stood up from his shot. ‘John!’ he exclaimed. ‘Where you been? The old man’s been doing his nut!’

John patted his hands on the air ahead of him. ‘S’all right, Ahmed.’ He raised the jiffy bag in the air. ‘I got ’em.’

Ahmed grabbed his chest and breathed a massive sigh of relief. ‘Thank fuck for that, John,’ he said, stepping towards him. ‘He was getting a bit scary for a minute there, mate.’

John could imagine.

Ahmed’s face then screwed up. ‘Mate, you smell like a fucking barbeque! What you been up to?’

John sighed. ‘I’ll tell you another time,’ he replied before cocking his thumb behind him. ‘Is he in?’

Ahmed nodded and pointed to the end of the bar. ‘He’s waiting…’

John spun round. He was now faced with the bloodhound in all his glory. He was sitting in his usual space at the end of the bar, a cigar stuck between his fingers. He was glaring at John with those nasty bloodshot eyes, a suppressed anger brewing just beneath the mean expression planted on his mug. He was in a bad mood all right; John could almost feel the dark energy emanating from the end of the bar. But what the bloodhound didn’t know was that John was about to cheer him up.

He made his way over. Aziz just watched him, his face like thunder.

When John was close enough for him to hear, he spoke. ‘Where the fuck have you been?’ he snapped.

‘On the job,’ John replied.

‘
And
…?’

John threw the jiffy bag down in front of the old man. ‘Business is up and running again,’ he said with a smug grin.

Aziz threw his cigar in the ashtray, grabbed the jiffy bag, and opened it up. While he did, John had an inconspicuous look around. The TV on the far wall was showing horseracing. The favourite just fell at the last, meaning right about then, a whole load of punters up and down the country were cursing their luck.

‘There’s some missing!’

John rolled his eyes.
Trust him to fucking notice…

He looked back at Aziz, who was now glaring up at him with his angry, crimson eyes. They were wide and reaching boiling point. ‘Where are they?’