The Survival Game (28 page)

‘Easy now,
bredrin
,’ Sagat said in a calm voice. ‘The yoot, he nah mean no harm.’

‘Why he talk a mi woman and mi son then,
bredda
,’ Dread I shouted over his shoulder, his dead eyes not leaving Shortbredd. ‘If he mean
no ’arm?
’

‘He nah do it again. Trust,’ Sagat said, attempting to calm him.

A contemptuous smile spread across Dread I’s face. ‘Yeah? Well if he does mi gonna bleed him out like Halal meat.
Ya unnerstand?
’ he asked Shortbredd.

Shortbredd began nodding his head vehemently. ‘Y-y-yeah, boss,’ he stammered. ‘Seen.’

John could see the fear bubbling in his eyes; it even managed to transmit itself into him. He didn’t dare say a word, nor move a muscle. Dread I was definitely one
malaka
you didn’t want to get on the wrong side of. He actually felt sorry for Shortbredd, the little prick.
Rather be on his side, eh?

Dread I then finally pulled his machete away, making Shortbredd collapse into the sofa in relief.

He then turned to John. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘We gotta talk.’ He then headed for the door.

About fucking time,
gamota. There was a plan to hatch, a strategy to plot, and there wasn’t time to waste.
Operation: Neocrema Takedown.
And it was time. John stood up and followed him out to the corridor, taking his beer and
cigarra
with him, leaving Shortbredd behind to stew in his shit-filled pants.

Dread I disappeared behind a bedroom door; John headed for it. On his way, he walked by a dirty mirror hanging on the wall and glanced at his reflection. The second he did, his eyes almost popped out of his skull, his jaw dropping like an anchor.

His halo had disappeared completely, and now sitting neatly on his head were two jet-black horns.

*****

John followed Dread I into a small box room, a low, depressing feeling overwhelming him as if he’d just had his veins filled with lead. He knew what the horns meant. They meant he was now a bad ’un. A demon. A
kakos
. Just like the rest of ’em. He’d committed too many
armaties
in the last few days, gone too far, stepped over the line. He knew it in his heart.

But what other choice did I have? God gave me no other choice, it wasn’t my fault…

He looked around him in disappointment, his eyes locking onto a bleached skull hanging on the wall; it appeared to have been some kind of dog when it was with the living. There was a neat bullet hole in its temple, telling him the story of its demise, whatever the
skata
thing used to be when alive. A pair of bony, ivory coloured horns were protruding out the sides of it; John couldn’t tell if they were real or hallucinations.

A plastic Venetian blind covered the only window, blocking out dawn, making the room gloomy. In the middle of the room was a small glass table. On top of it were some freshly cut lines of coke, a tooter, a wad of fifty pound notes, and an Uzi, maybe the same one Green T used to kill his sister the previous night. John looked at it in disgust; it brought back bad memories from
Golden Massage
.

Dread I went over and sat on the old futon lying next to the table and alongside the far wall. As the room was so small, he looked huge, like he’d just scoffed a fat slice of ‘eat me’ cake.

He looked up at John and ran his hand over the lines of coke on the table like the dealer at a Roulette Wheel, asking him to take a spin. ‘Ya wanna lick,
bredda
?’ he asked.

John shook his head without hesitation. He took a swig of his beer to take his eyes off the cocaine, knowing all too well that staring at cut lines was like staring at a chocolate fountain, or a fat juicy steak, or banoffee pie. Something in the mind clicked, the mouth began salivating, and the cravings were set off. Before you knew it, you were lapping it up like a dog. And if you had a history, it was even worse. Near the end of his Charlie Chan days, the place was awash with coke like it was raining out the fucking smoke machines. It was the main driver in killing his pill trade. He got sucked into it for a while, so was well versed. The buzz, the moreishness. He tried his best to not even look at those lines.

‘I’m all right with this,’ he said, indicating the beer in his hand.

Dread I shrugged. ‘Tek a seat,’ he then said.

There were no seats, so John squatted on the floor on the other side of the table, opposite Dread I.

‘Ya done well last night,
bredda
,’ Dread I said, nodding his head at the same time.

‘Thanks,’ John replied, unsure if he wanted praise for taking someone’s life. He looked away, his eyes locking onto the skull on the wall.
What the hell was that thing when it was alive,
gamota
?
A fucking mountain dog or something?

‘You know… the gun Green T had was jammed, or the safety catch was left on or something?’ John informed Dread I, still staring at the skull. He then turned his head back to face Dread I, wanting to see his reaction.

Dread I stared back at him with an expression on his mug that made him look both interested and surprised at the same time. But deep down, John could tell it was put on.

‘
Really?
’ Dread I asked. ‘Dere’s a ting,
bredda
. Mi didn’t know that…’

John shrugged. He didn’t wanna accuse Dread I of stitching him up ’cos he might switch, then that would trigger off a race to the death for the Uzi on the table. ‘I had to step in,’ John informed him. ‘Take control.’

‘Yeah, mi heard that,
bredda
. Ya done well. Some a da yoot dem need a more
experienced
hand to guide ’em. That’s why I aksed you to go
widdim
.’

John nodded his head and smiled ruefully.
Yeah, like I thought…

Dread I then began cackling, and his dread snakes began dancing to some
riddim
only they could hear. As he did, he began scratching his chest just above his belly as if something was troubling him; he started wincing. Even after he stopped cackling, he kept on scratching, harder like it was really bothering him. In the end, he lifted up his camouflage vest to get to the thing that was making him itch so badly. John stared at his exposed body open-mouthed. His skin was a sickly browny/grey colour; a thin layer of fat covered thick-set muscles; healed bullet holes riddled his chest and stomach making his body look like a complex constellation.
Thirty-six times, blood,
he heard Shortbredd say.
Thirty-six.

It IS true,
gamota
…

Dread I began scratching at one of the bullet holes and John could see blood oozing out of it. When he looked closer, he could see the same thing happening on a couple more of the wounds.

He’s bleeding… He’s dying…
John found himself staring at Dread I’s body with a bizarre fascination, not knowing exactly what he was seeing. He then shut his eyes tight and rubbed them. When he opened them again, Dread I was sat how he was before, his vest pulled back down.

Did I just see that? Or was it another fucking hallucination?

A lack of sleep was taking its toll. If he wasn’t careful, he might soon not know the difference between dreams and reality at all.

‘We talk business now,
bredda
,’ Dread I then said. ‘Where the factory and how we gonna kill off Marek’s crew?’

John gulped the last of his warm beer, crushed the can, and put it down on the floor next to him. ‘It’s in Tottenham,’ he replied, getting back with it. ‘An old clothes factory, converted into an ice cream factory, now Marek’s using it as an amber factory. They’re fronting as some kind of medical courier service. I suppose Old Bill won’t bother ’em much if they think they’re delivering vital medicines to sick people. I’m guessing they deliver the amber in the back of those vans in bulk to the dealers, people like Dobra, who then distribute it at street level. It’s a pretty slick operation.’

Dread I stared at John with his grey, dead fish eyes, but taking in everything he was hearing. ‘Ya done ya homework,’ he said, nodding his head in appreciation.

‘You gotta,’ John replied.

‘So, about this factory…’

‘You got a pen?’ John asked.

Dread I looked around him before getting to his feet and rummaging through a cabinet drawer in the corner of the room. With Dread I’s back turned to him, John—against his better judgement—took the opportunity to glance down at those white lines again. The booze was already working his brain and now those white lines were going through his mind. Calling him in like a chocolate river.
Dive in and taste us,
they said to him.

Tek a lick…

He snapped back into life once Dread I stuck a biro in his face. John took it and looked around for something to write on. There was nothing at hand, so he took a fifty pound note from the fat wad on the table and laid it out flat.

From memory, he began drawing a map of the factory over the Queen’s mug. ‘The front entrance is a big, wide garage door that leads into the parking bay where the delivery vans are kept,’ he said pointing to the diagram he’d just sketched. ‘Next to the garage door is a normal door that leads to a foyer and offices beyond that. That’s boarded up at the moment so is out of use. Round the back is a fire exit—’

‘Good,’ Dread I interjected. ‘We break it down.’

John shook his head. ‘It’s solid steel and shut tight. There’s no way you’re gonna break it down. We have to get in from the front, but there’s no way we can break the front garage door down either. Besides, there’s at least two bodyguards on the front door at any time, plus probably more inside. A lot more.’

‘How many?’

‘Anything up to fifty I reckon. So, what we need to do is get both doors open. Then we can get our numbers inside and attack ’em from the front
and
the back. They won’t expect an ambush like that. The back door fire exit we can open once we’re inside, and the front garage door is operated by a switch just inside the factory floor. We can open both no problem once we’re inside, but—’

‘How we gonna get inside?’

‘Exactly.’ John chewed the end of the biro while he contemplated. Then he realised what they had to do and it became so obvious, he couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of it before.

He began nodding his head. ‘We need one of those vans. One of those M.C.S vans they use to deliver the amber. If we can get one of those, we’re in.’

Dread I turned his mouth downwards and began nodding his head in appreciation of what he just heard. ‘
Seen.
I’ll get mi men onto it…’

‘We gotta get this done today. I need Marek today,’ John anxiously stated.

Dread I squinted. ‘Why?’

John smiled wryly. ‘My boss gave me a deadline. I have to get back what Marek stole today or I’m in it.’

Dread I grinned, his gold tooth shining. ‘Ya boss, huh?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Ya like
ya boss
?’

John shrugged. ‘He’s all right. Moans a lot, but he’s okay…’

‘He pay good?’

John was getting proper confused by this line of questioning. ‘What’s this got to do with Marek?’ he asked.

Dread I shook his head. ‘Nuthin’.’

‘Then what—’

‘Mi got a lickle proposal for ya,
bredda
,’ Dread I interrupted. ‘Mi lieutenant on the north side got heself arrested a month ago. He now doing fifteen year. So mi looking fi someone new in mi family. Someone who mi can rely ’pon, who mi can trust, who got the
know how
…’ Dread I smiled and began nodding his head knowingly, even though his eyes stayed as dead as doornails. ‘Yeah, I know you. Ya wonder how, but mi do. Ya expertise is on the street. Ya feel me,
bredda
?’

John stared at him, totally nonplussed.
Is this
malaka
saying he wants me to start dealing crack for him?

‘That’s right,
bredda
,’ Dread I said as if he just read his mind. ‘I’ll give you ya own army. Dem out there. All yours to control. They’ll work the streets for you. You get the cream; everything ya want—money, power, women, gold…
You’ll be king a da hill!
You proved ya worth, ya got the brains dem. Ya know the game from long time.’

John looked away for a second, then began shaking his head. ‘I-I can’t…’

Dread I kissed his teeth. ‘Why ya gonna fock around with monkey work, huh? Your boss nah good for ya. He just gets you to do the shit he don’t wanna do heself.
Fock him!
After we bring down Marek, we go over there today and tek him down.’

John waved his hands on the air. ‘Nah-nah, don’t do that!’

‘Why not?’

‘Complicated. I-I owe him. I fucked up and I gotta put it right. I can’t show disloyalty, it’s not me.’

Dread I leant back and smiled. ‘And that’s why I like you,
bredda
. Trust me, you an asset to any organisation. That’s why I wanna make ya part a mi crew. And I don’t make offers like that easy, ya unnerstand?’

John nodded his head. He understood. He was also gobsmacked by what he was hearing. He was
actually
being offered a job. And when he thought about it, thought about it really hard, he matched the job spec perfectly—

Mature, experienced drug dealer needed. Knowledge of pistols, submachine guns and rifles required. Criminal record (goes down well with the yoot), and a complete lack of empathy and remorse a must. The ability to kill another to further career desirable. Please forward all CVs with covering letter to Mr. I at [email protected]

He had both the perfect CV and all the right credentials for the job. And now he had just passed the interview with flying colours. He smiled wryly. He must have sent out a thousand fucking CVs to different companies in his life and received no replies. Zero. One look at his work and Dread I was offering him a job on the spot. Yeah, ’cos this was the only job he was fit for, the field he had experience in, this was the only job he’d ever get… A lowlife drug dealer. Maybe he just had to accept that’s what he was and get on with it…

He glanced down at the table and it summed it all up perfectly—lines of coke, a submachine gun, and more fifty pound notes than he could count. Jesus, how much he wanted to grab that money and just stick it in his pocket,
gamota
. And he could, if he took the job. If he did that, his pockets would be lined with gold. In no time, he could get his wife and
moro
a new flat. Fuck it, he could be feeding them caviar, and quaffing champagne for himself.