The Survival Game (17 page)

As he drew closer, he spotted a lone figure standing to attention next to the Land Rover, their back facing him. Big; stocky; fat, horned head. Yeah, it was Marek all right. As John approached, the bloke turned round, and he was now faced by his favourite Pole (twin sis being his second favourite). John pulled up about twenty feet from where he stood and got out. As he stepped purposefully towards Marek, he could feel anger rising inside his chest. This
malaka
had hit him with a bat, mugged him, and his sister knocked him out with a tranquilliser dart. Now they were face-to-face for the first time since that little episode. Marek was wearing a bomber jacket and jeans. And with his shaved head he had that NF skinhead look that these Poles seemed to love so much. His eyes were two black dots and his jaw chomped monotonously on gum like a weary piston. John threw his
cigarro
butt to the ground, and stopped a few metres from Marek, making sure to keep an eye on his hands from behind his shades. They were dangling lazily by his side, but John reckoned he was packing a tool under that bomber jacket, and no doubt he’d be reaching for it if he needed to.

For a second, neither said a word as they sized each other up like Komodo dragons about to do battle.

They were toe-to-toe once more. But this time, John felt confident he held all the aces. He put his hands out to the side. ‘Where’s my stuff?’ he asked bluntly.

‘Where is my father?’ Marek retorted in a stern voice.

John shook his head. ‘
You
hand over what you stole.
I
hand over your old man. That’s the deal. I thought I made that clear.’

Marek chuckled to himself. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said before he put his fingers up to his mouth and turned his head to the side. He took in a quick breath and released a loud whistle, the sharp sound cutting through the quiet surroundings like a Samurai sword slicing a sheet of fine silk.

John spun round, wondering what the fuck was going on.
Who is this
malaka
whistling at?

The next thing he knew, the sound of revving engines filled the air. Out from behind the warehouse came mopeds and motorbikes like a swarm of fire ants. Maybe ten, twenty. Riding them were people with horns on their heads and Halloween style masks strapped on their faces, all tooled up with either bats, pistols, or shotguns. John was rooted to the spot, unable to do anything but watch them in bewilderment as they sped towards him. He wasn’t expecting this,
gamota
.

Run! Run!
his instincts screamed, suddenly kicking into gear.
Get the fuck outa there!

He turned to make a dash for his car, but was faced with a scarier sight—a load of cars, 4x4s, and those M.C.S vans were steaming down the cul-de-sac towards him, blocking his escape route. They skidded to a halt near his car. Out jumped more horned people in masks, carrying guns, and other tools. John whirled back round the way he came, the world now spinning like a kaleidoscope. His mind was suddenly transported back to the alleyway; he was outnumbered again, and trapped, fear and adrenaline flooding his system. His instincts were screaming at him to run, but there was nowhere to run ’cos the bikes had by then encircled him. He watched them helplessly as they pointed their guns at him with deadly purpose. All it took was for a bike to go over a bump and a gun to
accidentally
go off and he’d be history. He took off his shades and spun like a top, disorientated, trying to keep an eye on every one of ’em, feeling like a lion surrounded by a bunch of cowardly hyenas.

What the fuck? Where have all these
malakes
come from,
gamota
?

He stopped and stared back at Marek through blurry eyes; he was leaning up against his Land Rover, watching proceedings with a smug look planted on his mug.

‘What the fuck’s going on?’ John snapped. ‘I told you to come alone!’

Marek sprang upright like a released coil and his face flushed dark red, making his whole head look like a giant tomato. His horns turned jet black and as they did, wisps of steam began to shoot out of his ears and nostrils. By then, his face had gone the darkest, deepest red John had ever seen, and he could now tell that this prick was nothing more than a walking volcano, jacked up on some kind of raging hormones. A mountain of rage,
gamota
. Repressed, locked up fury that was ready to explode. A wound up whirlwind that was about to take out whatever was in its path.

‘YOU KILL MY COUSIN!’ Marek shouted, so loud it effortlessly drowned out the sound of the engines. He pointed a fat finger accusingly at John. ‘YOU DON’T KNOW WHO YOU FUCK WITH,
KURVA
!
THIS
IS WHAT YOU FUCK WITH!’ He opened up his hands and slowly spun round, basking in his numerical supremacy. John turned his head to the side to see more people than he could count closing in on him. In no time, guns were aggressively shoved in his face, holding them were Freddy Krueger, Michael Myers, Pinhead and co, staring back at him with their waxy visages. Now he was seriously worried. This wasn’t good. No one could see them or hear them, and all he had was a fucking Glock against what looked like an army squadron’s worth of toys. He knew he could take out one or two, but he’d never make it out alive. No way. He didn’t stand a black cat’s chance in fucking Hell.

‘Now. You die here, man,’ Marek then told him, just as his head began to mellow down into a neutral shade of dark pink. ‘Right here,’ he echoed, spitting on the ground ahead of him.

His words sparked off a reaction in John as if a little man living inside his head had just flicked an emergency switch.

He instantly stuck his hand in his pocket, pulled out his mobile phone, and held it high in the air like it was the World Cup. ‘Anything happens to me and your dad dies!’ he exclaimed. ‘I’ve given my boys orders—if I call, kill him!’

Marek’s eyes became slits.

‘All I have to do is push the ‘call’ button and he’s dead, Marek!’ John said. He stared at him hard for a second, trying to get into the
malaka’s
head, trying to psyche him. ‘You think you can shoot me before then?’ He turned to face the nearest goon, who was aiming his shotgun at him. ‘Huh?’ he asked him, sticking his face into his. The bloke slowly took off his Leatherface mask and glanced over at Marek for orders, suddenly not knowing what the fuck to do. John stared at Marek as well. ‘Tell ’em to back off, Marek!’ he ordered.

Marek stared back at him with pure hatred, his mug going maroon.

‘Listen. If I don’t report back to ’em in half an hour, he dies,’ blagged John, realising the need to step it up. ‘So, it doesn’t matter if you kill
me
, ’cos they’ll kill
him
anyway.’

John kept his stare on Marek as he awaited a response.

Marek held the stare too, his head now shaking with rage and turning beetroot.

John’s stomach was doing somersaults.
Hold on,
re
! Hold it together, he’s trying to psyche you out! He don’t know shit! Hold on! Don’t crack!

John clenched his teeth, determined to hold his nerve. If Marek got even a sniff that he was bullshitting him, he’d be brown bread in a heartbeat. Beneath his jeans, his legs were shaking, but only he knew it. He clenched his free hand into a fist, feeling his nails digging into his palm, but he made sure to hold his stare. He held onto it for dear fucking life.

Marek’s lower jaw then suddenly jutted out in frustration and a stream of steam shot from his nostrils like an old skool kettle finally reaching boiling point. At the same time, his face went from purple down to red.

To John’s relief, he seemed to take the bait.

‘
Cofac
,’ he shouted, and indicated for his boys to back off. But they were reluctant. ‘
Cofac
!’ Marek repeated with more force.

This time they listened to their leader.

John’s chest released as he looked around him to see weapons lowering and people stepping back, giving him breathing space. He held out the phone in front of him, his thumb resting on the ‘call’ button, using it to ward ’em off like brandishing a crucifix to keep hungry vampires at bay.

‘That’s it,’ John said to ’em as they backed away, clearing some space for him to manoeuvre. ‘That’s good.’

Marek then stepped cautiously towards him.

The moment John noticed him, he shoved the phone out in his direction. ‘I’ll fucking do it, Marek, believe me!’ John snapped. ‘You see your cousin? That’ll be your dad.’

Marek stopped dead in his tracks. ‘You cannot get away,
kurva
,’ he informed John. ‘Look what you up against, you fucking dog. Too much
us
; not enough
you
. We find you
and
my father.’

John made it to the sanctity of his car as Marek gave him his spiel. He opened the door. ‘No you won’t,’ he replied. ‘And if any of you try and follow me, or even if I
think
you’re following me, I ring my boys and tell ’em to kill him.
Understand?
’ He asked the question whilst spinning his head left and right, aiming it at every single person surrounding him. Marek patted his hands on the air, indicating for everyone to cool it, not to do anything rash.

John then noticed the bods loitering behind his car and his head snapped round. ‘Get round the front here!’ he ordered, wanting them where he could see ’em all.

They reluctantly did as he said. Now that they were all in his sight, he could do a quick rudimentary headcount. There must’ve been between thirty and forty of ’em. Tooled up with all kinds of shit. All ready for battle. All under the control of Marek.

John didn’t hang around any longer. He got back in his car and closed the door. He instantly wound the window down and stuck the mobile phone out for them all to see, just in case they’d forgotten the power it possessed.

Marek was standing a few metres away, arms folded, chin in air, his crew gathering around him like he was Mussolini or some other
skata
. He stared down at John with black eyes. Black, hate filled eyes.

John got the car started up, put it in reverse and began crawling backwards, his eyes never leaving the horned army squadron in front of him. When he was a good distance away, he checked his rear view to see the lane was empty. There was a slight concern that another wave of Marek’s boys would be waiting to jump him from outside, but so far so good. By then, Marek and his crew were becoming further and further away. When he was satisfied there was enough distance between them, he threw the phone down on the passenger seat before he pulled off the fastest three point turn in his life, and wheel-spun away. He watched the rear view OCD style, checking if any of ’em were following. The lane was clear in front and to the rear. He made it to the end and spun out onto the High Road as fast as he could. He checked his rear view again.

It was gloriously empty.

He zipped through the High Road, constantly glancing in his rear view, hot and paranoid. When he flew through a few more streets, his tight chest finally released, and a wave of relief hit him so strong, it almost caused him to collapse back in his seat.

He just about held on and carried on driving.
That was so fucking intense,
his mind screamed.
I think I’m gonna have a fucking heart attack!

But, soon after, he was smashing his steering wheel in anger. He was back to square one. No exchange. No delivery. No nothing. And now Marek knew he was on his case, which would make things even harder. All in all, the last couple of hours were nothing but a complete waste of time and energy.

He put his foot down in anger and sped out of the area as fast as he could. Soon, he was back on the North Circ, smoking
cigarra
, and heading back to his wife and home.

Alisha sat down at the table with a pen and her Sudoku book. She opened up a fresh puzzle around ten pages from the end. Another book was almost down, she’d already worked her way through nine since she went on maternity leave. The damn things were so addictive and when you had nothing else to do, they were the perfect remedy. She took a sip of the peppermint tea she’d just brewed and got to work.

There was an easy start, which they always gave you to get you rolling. She wrote a 2 in the empty box. That opened up the possibility of the next empty box being a 4,
but then again, it could also be a 6.

As she mulled it over she thought how awesome this little puzzle game was in giving the brain a good work out. She’d probably be braindead from boredom without it.
And whoever thought that counting to nine could be so much fun?
She wished she’d first come up with the idea. Then she wouldn’t have any financial problems. Well, more to the point, if she wasn’t married to John, she wouldn’t have any of the economic problems she faced right then.

Isn’t that right, girl?
She put her pen down and bit her bottom lip. It wasn’t fair to think about him like that.
He was trying.
He
really
had been making an effort recently. She didn’t like him being involved with that dodgy Turk and he knew that, but at least he was doing
something.

Yeah, and look how that turned out!

Delivering untaxed goods and ending up in hospital in a coma!

But was that really his fault? It was true what he said in the car on the way back from the hospital. If people were prepared to shoot other people up with darts that knocked them unconscious, wasn’t it
those
people that were at fault? When she thought about it, she realised how it was just another grim example of how much the standards of the country in which she was born and raised had deteriorated. Crime ruled the streets. Law and order were no longer respected. It wasn’t so long ago they were reporting daily on a crack epidemic sweeping London, and that there weren’t enough police to deal with the explosion in related crime. Yeah, that one might have gone quiet recently, and now they just went on about lowering crime rates after the epidemic subsided, but had things
really
changed? She heard only the other day about a local OAP’s home being broken into, the culprits then beating her to death just for her pension money. And not to mention the kids all shooting each other at playtime…