The Survival Game (41 page)

‘They used ’em,’ John said straight up and shrugged. ‘Nothing I could do.’

Aziz frowned and his lower jaw jutted out again like back at the hospital. Boiling point was suddenly reached and he almost jumped out of his seat. ‘Nothing you could do? These are all accounted for! What am
I
going to fucking do?’

Even though John did fear for his body parts when it came to pissing off Aziz, he was in no mood to get a bollocking. Not after what he’d been through trying to get the damn things back for him. He held his hands out to his sides. ‘Aziz, a batch of passports is a batch of passports,’ he said.

Aziz pointed his finger at him. ‘Don’t fuck with me! You know very well these aren’t just any old batch of passports. They’re the best. Omar’s the best. That’s why he’s called ‘best.’ He gets them direct from the fucking Home Office itself. You know what that means?’

John huffed. ‘What?’ he asked in a peeved voice.

‘It means they’re authentic,’ Aziz informed him. ‘The official holographic serial numbers are all there and he bypasses the microchip. They’ll fool anyone…’

‘Yeah, I know all that already…’ John replied in a tired tone.

‘And so you know his contact can only smuggle out so many each month…’

John sighed. ‘Look,’ he said sternly. ‘Abdul and Mehmet will just have to hang around Calais a bit longer till the next load are printed and smuggled out to Omar. It’s a miracle I managed to get any of ’em back considering the circumstances. I mean seriously, if you’ve got a problem, have it out with Omar, he started all this shit off in the first place…’

Aziz then became as still as a snapshot and stared at him hard. ‘What does Omar have to do with this?’

‘It was him who put the Poles onto me that night,’ John informed him. ‘They were gonna steal ’em off
him
, so he cut a deal with
them
—told ’em if they mugged
me
off, he’d split what you paid with
them
fifty-fifty. Saved his own arse and put
me
in hospital…’

Aziz stared at the jiffy bag in his hands for a few seconds while he processed in his own mind what he just heard. Once he went through it all, his face pinched. ‘The son of a whore!’ he sneered.

‘Yeah. That’s what I think too. So you need to get on
his
case, man. He owes you what’s missing. Any trouble you get from the Calais end is down to
him
. Now,
I’ve
kept my end of the deal, Aziz. It’s still Friday and the delivery’s in your hands.
So, my money please
.’

Aziz carefully placed the jiffy bag down on the bar and stared hard at John again with his scary eyes. John knew Aziz didn’t like to be ordered around when it came to money. Didn’t like to part with a penny under
any
circumstances. But John held firm, keeping an unblinking stare on the old man. He’d earned that money, risked his life for it, and he intended to get his hands on it no matter what. If the old man wanted a standoff, John was well up for it; he’d been through too much just to let it slide,
so bring it on…

John guessed Aziz got the drift loud and clear ’cos after a few seconds he tore his stare away and looked past him. ‘Ahmed!’ he then called.

Ahmed stood up from an easy shot on the green and obediently came over to the end of the bar.

‘Give John his money,’ Aziz told him once he was close enough to hear. ‘And put these away.’

Ahmed took the jiffy bag and went to get John’s cash. John watched him put the jiffy bag away somewhere below the bar, and then pop the till open and remove an envelope from inside. He came back and handed it to Aziz, who opened it up.

Aziz removed a wad of notes from the envelope and sifted through them. He took a bunch of fifties and twenties and kept them back before handing the bigger wad over to John. ‘Here. I’m taking off a thousand for what’s missing.’

John frowned. ‘
What?
 You don’t know what I’ve been through for those fucking things…’

Aziz met John’s stare again and pointed his finger at him. ‘I pay you to bring me however many passports Omar has. If two are missing, I lose money, which means less money for you.’

John tried to reason. ‘I told you, it was ’cos of Omar there’s two missing…’ he said.

‘And I told you to deliver me all the passports he had!’

John looked away, proper pissed. He was tired, hadn’t slept for what felt like a lifetime and was suffering from some kind of nervous exhaustion. He really didn’t need this
skata
right now. Didn’t need it at all.

‘I’ll speak with Omar to find out what’s going on,’ Aziz then informed him. ‘We can’t have this kind of thing happening in the future. It’s… unprofessional.’

‘Yeah, well…’ John began as he snatched the envelope from Aziz’s hand and put it in the inner pocket of his battered leather jacket. ‘There’s not gonna be a next time for me, Aziz.’

Aziz’s eyes narrowed. He took a long drag on his cigar, scrutinising John for a few seconds as he digested what he just heard. ‘What do you mean?’ he finally asked.

John sighed. ‘I quit.’

Aziz chuckled. ‘You quit?’

John nodded. ‘Yeah. I don’t need this shit in my life, Aziz. I really don’t. I don’t even wanna see Omar again for as long as I live, so I’m not gonna go down there any more.’

Aziz’s back bristled. ‘So you’re just going to leave me like this? With no delivery driver? Huh?’

John shrugged. ‘Sorry, Aziz. I got a family. I can’t risk my life. Can’t be doing any of this dodgy shit no more.’

Aziz blew out a mouthful of smoke. ‘I told you before, John. We live—’

‘
In an unpleasant world
, yeah, yeah. I know. But maybe I wanna start living in a pleasant world, Aziz.’

Aziz chuckled again and it seemed to John as if he was giving the old man pure comedy gold right about then. Maybe he should have charged him for it. About a grand would do…

‘And what are you going to do? Huh?’ Aziz asked snappily. ‘Tell me. I want to laugh. Let me hear your master plan.’

‘I’m gonna spend some time with my wife and kid, Aziz. Christ, they deserve it after all the shit I’ve put ’em through.’

Aziz waved his finger across the air. ‘You won’t last five minutes, John. Society doesn’t care for people like you. You’ll be back on the streets before you can blink.’

‘And then I might come back with a wooden bowl in my hands, kissing your arse, and asking for my old job back. But until then…’ John shook his head. ‘
I just don’t need this.
’ He removed his shades from his pocket and put them on. The bloodhound was now obscured in shadows.

‘I’ve come to realise just how much I love my wife and kid, Aziz,’ John continued, ‘and I’ve seen what type of person I’ll become if I lose ’em. I saw him out there. And he scared me shitless.’

Aziz took another drag on his cigar. He sat like that for a little while, his brain ticking over. He was most probably—hopefully—working out life after John, having realised there was no way he was gonna change his mind.

He then stubbed his cigar out in the ashtray and began nodding his head. ‘Okay. Go…’ he said. And that was all.

John gave his former boss a smile and zipped up his jacket. It looked like there
was
understanding in the old man after all, and he appreciated it. He half-jokingly saluted him, turned his back on him, and headed for the exit. On the way, he stopped by the bar.

Ahmed was standing behind it, watching what was going on. ‘Everything all right, John?’ he asked.

‘Everything’s cool, Ahmed,’ John replied. ‘Listen, I ain’t doing the delivery job any more.’

‘No? How come, mate?’

‘I just don’t need the grief, man. I don’t need it.’

‘You’re still gonna come down here though, aren’t you?’

John sighed. ‘Dunno, Ahmed. Dunno. Maybe. I gotta think of my wife. And that’s where I’m going now.’

Ahmed put out his hand. ‘I’ll see you around then, John.’

John took Ahmed’s hand and shook it. ‘Yeah, I’ll see you, Ahmed.’

John turned and left the hall behind, stepping back onto the grey streets of London.

Leaving the hall on that particular occasion had a strange liberating quality about it. It was as if he’d just drawn a line. On one side was the future; on the other side was the hall, all the other
skata
, the past. He took in a deep breath of polluted city air and it felt good. Invigorating. He lifted his face towards the sky. The drizzle had started up again. It felt nice. Cool, refreshing. Now, he felt good about facing Alisha, especially after being away all night, and this time he had some
lires
to show her.

He went back to his car, sparked up a
cigarro
, and headed home to his wife.

*****

He stepped into the caravan, expecting to find Alisha either sitting around or lying on their bed with a Sudoku book open in front of her. But she wasn’t. Instead, the place was empty.

He looked around, confused. ‘Alisha?’ he called out.

No answer.
Was she in the toilet?
He went and checked. Empty. He stuck his head in the shower. Again empty, and as there was no other place she could be.
Where the hell has she gone,
gamota
?
Suddenly worry was rising up inside him. The thought of her walking around the streets alone was something he didn’t like. Didn’t like at all. He had to find her, he couldn’t just leave her to roam around alone in her condition.

Maybe, she’s gone looking for you…

Or maybe she shacked up with someone else while you were away,
re.

He told himself to shut the fuck up with
skata
like that. She wouldn’t do that to him.

Well, she ain’t here,
re
. So what you gonna do?

‘I have to find her,’ he said to the empty caravan. He rubbed his face. He was exhausted, just wanted sleep and rest. This was all he needed after the last day—more stress and worry.

He was just about to head back to his car when something caught his eye—a folded piece of paper on the table with ‘JOHN’ written across it. The beer can holding the completely wilted tulip he gave to Alisha a few days before was serving as a paperweight to hold it down.

Next to the beer can was Alisha’s wedding ring. John stared at it in confusion, but at the same time with dread. At first he wondered why her wedding ring would be on the table, then when he quickly found possible answers to that question, he started to panic.

He snatched up the piece of paper, unfolded it, and read the note inside.

John.

I don’t know how else to say this, so I will be blunt. I am leaving you. I cannot cope any longer with the lies and deceit. The other day when you came in all angry, I knew then that you are using again. I stuck by you and believed everything you said to me, but I promised myself I wouldn’t hang around if you ever did that to me again.

I now know what happened to my brother as well and that you were the one who sold him that shit in the first place AND when he died, even though you promised me so many times that it wasn’t you. How could you do that?

You’ve made me feel cheated and betrayed and I cannot live with you any longer.

Please don’t try to find me.

Alisha.

John just stared at the letter and the ring in his hand trancelike, as if they’d put him under some kind of spell. The words in the letter had numbed him like a massive hit of morphine. She was gone.
And
she knew about Yousif.
How? How the fuck did she find out, man?
Then it suddenly hit him—Ishmael. He began nodding his head in total understanding. He scrunched up the letter in his fist. Anger was brewing. And he wanted to get angry, to get mad at the
malaka
for stitching him up like this, but somehow he couldn’t ’cos in all truth, his anger wasn’t directed at Ishmael. Something deep down told him it was pointless to be angry at him.
Was it really Ishmael’s fault?
That prick was just looking out for his cousin. Can’t blame him. Nah, the fault laid solely at Yiannaki Evangelou’s door and no one else’s. It was Yiannaki who’d fucked up, who’d caused all this
skata
. It was him, all his fault.

Why get angry with Ishmael when the person you should be angry with is a lot closer to home,
re
boy…

He closed his eyes and sighed. It was true. It was all his doing. And he’d reap what he’d sowed.

He stepped over to their bed—just as his legs virtually buckled beneath him—and he collapsed onto it. Tiredness and drug burnout were taking their toll on him.
This
just made it worse. He wanted to sleep, to shut down. Forget the past week, the past month, year, ten years, lifetime, and just fall into a deep sleep. A nice, peaceful, deep sleep.

‘It’s all my fucking fault,’ he said to the empty caravan. ‘
All my fault I’ve lost everything…
’

He was just about to go catatonic when he remembered he had an almost full bottle of Jim Beam stashed under the sink for the times when Alisha went to sleep early. And right then, it was calling. He immediately went and retrieved it. He unscrewed the cap and took a long deep swig from it. He winced as it burnt its way down his throat. He knew it wasn’t doing him any good, but the guilt, the regret were just too much and needed to be blotted out. Needed blotting right now.

He stared out of the window at the grey world outside. A woman with a halo wrapped around her head was walking by with a haloed child at her side. They reminded him of Alisha—mother and child. Sorrow dropped into his stomach like lead, so he took another swig of whisky to join it. He then went and sat at the table. His wilted tulip stared back at him, sad and pathetic. He went to touch it and it fell apart in his hand.

He gave it a rueful smile and shook his head. ‘Everything I fucking touch falls apart,’ he said to the empty caravan just as a tear slipped out of his eye.

He took another long swig of whisky, and then picked up Alisha’s wedding ring. He turned it over and over in his hand, wondering where in his life it all went wrong. At what point did he fuck it all up? Where was the exact moment?