Bad II the Bone (15 page)

He had never truly ascribed to his parents beliefs in the po
wers of the old ways but reliable sources, skeptics with greater doubt than himself swore that Enoch was a necromancer of great power who also favored the collection of old valuables, artistic and arcane relics. Stories leaked out about diamond encrusted crosses, chalices made from gold, African masks peppered with precious stones, manuscripts, books and crates filled with oddities, antiquities and hard cash. At that time the Witch Doctor was working his magic with Sandra, an ambitious and beautiful ghetto chick who had converted a part of her flat into a gambling den. Clean, warm and with Sandra acting as a hostess the news spread to all the gambling pros and hustlers that it was a Spot. Reggae artists, gangsters, hustlers would all pass through the doors and Darkman would over see it all from the wings.

At that time Chips was a weekend regular, meeting the notor
ious Darkman only once in his visits - and that was one time too many. You immediately knew there was something about him, something malevolent. Softly spoken, a firm handshake, soulless eyes that knew things no one else did with a whiff of controlled anger that was never expressed but you felt was being restrained from bursting forth Hulk style.

It wasn’t personal and although Chips didn’t like his air of s
uperiority – of course he did not admit to himself that he was frightened of him too - it was his taste for valuables that decided his fate. Chips hatched the plan with this St Lucian kid who had worked closely with Darkman for some years expecting to be given secrets to wealth for his dedication but saw only hard work and promises ahead of him. The operation required resources, they did not have so that’s how the drug lord Deacon got involved – a mistake in hindsight, Chips thought but it was what it was. Together they organized the shake down and the frame up that landed Enoch Lacombe in jail. What they did not expect was to come away from the whole sorry incident with nothing for their troubles, the treasure spirited away as if it never existed.

Enoch was sent down for racketeering, theft and murder – thirty years minimum – and that’s when Chips embryonic
plan required him to show a keen interest in Sandra. He kept a low profile for weeks hedging his bets that maybe, just maybe the Darkman was capable of escaping from prison. Was this an elaborate part of the Darkman’s grand plans? After all he was a gifted obeah man and smart too but for all the hoopla nothing of his notoriety materialized. And with all such things that the street elevated to cult status Darkman’s power and mythology waned.

Chip’s concluded he was a fake and felt even more justified setting him up in the first place. All that unnecessary fear he had
harbored.

What a waste
!

His focus then became Sandra and his plan blossomed to what it was now. She was a beautiful dark skinned woman with an air about her that was more suited to the middle classes than the ghetto classes that frequented her home. Then again some sisters were turned on by the danger and once they set along that path it was a trend that was difficult to break. Armed with all this and
nuff
discreet inquiries later he found out that the posing and the big timer lifestyle pre-Darkman had evaporated and she had fallen on hard times with a young child, living on the ninth floor.

Chips elected himself as her
savior.

He thought of it as standing on the shoulders of giants, some misinformation here and there, namely that Darkman had given his consent for Chips to look after his woman in his absence - a story that could not be confirmed or denied strangely enough. Darkman’s high security prisoner status meant visitors were li
mited to family members, friends - at the discretion of the Warden and his legal team only. Chips had tried the procedure himself and was met with a really weird request. Darkman wanted to have no visitors family, friend or legal.

And that meant peace of mind and that his story was bullet proof. All he had to do now was keep the Spot a hit with the punters and find any clues to Darkman’s treasure from the inside.

Unfortunately that mouth watering prospect came with its burdens.

A four year old juvenile from hell.

The incessant gurgling, screaming and exploratory destruction was bad and nappy changing was the worst. He farted and fired streams of milk-based shit with ballistic velocity in mid change, leaving the cloying stench of digested baby food permeating the air. For the sort of clientele that was attracting to the Spot he couldn’t have that. Trying to transact a deal with a serious player and then wading through a mountain of nappies to get to your merchandise, was not cool.

The problem was Sandra loved the pickney dearly and trying to convince her adoption was the best option was not a good idea. Sandra’s hatred of him plumbed new depths and he slowly sidelined the mother and her infant to the spare room. Any cross
border movement had to be done with his mother in tow or there would be hell to pay.

It seemed to be working because she truly believed he hated the child due to fact it was Darkman’s offspring. Chips wished it was that straight forward.

There was something not quite right about that child, something he could never quite put his finger on. It wasn’t just a pathological dislike either. How could he hold a grudge against a child because of its parents? Not even he wad that callous.

That
was some immature pickney business that he did not ascribe to. After all he was a grown ass man. But he couldn’t ignore how his mood would take precipitous dives around the kid and he, seemed to have the same effect on the infant too. Can you see something of the father in a child so young? Chips was not one for deep inquiring thought but he couldn’t help asking the question. And even now the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.

A gurgling, shit smelling informer, whose sole purpose was to r
emind all suitors the true king to his mothers throne was locked away for life. He appreciated why the kings of yore on the History Channel would not just execute traitors but their whole families.

Little Rowan was evil.

Even the thought made his stomach knot and his knees go weak. Disquiet telegraphed through time and jangled his nervous system, transporting him back to the flat with that demon pickney asleep, passing the room with its crib, the door closed and listening to a child who could barely speak, annunciating words in an unrecognizable language, over and over again like scratched record in guttural inhuman tones that even he knew was impossible from the vocal chords of an infant.

As long as that child stayed the fuck away from him he was good.

More important to him right now was making sure the dollars kept flowing and as he eyed suspiciously the assorted clientele of gamblers, thieves and druggists, he snuggled into his comfort corner and made sure his old forty five was on his table, greased and ready to transact business if anyone felt the need to test him.

Sandra brushed away a strand of hair from her eyes and tested the warmth of the baby’s feed by dotting some of the mixture on the back of her hand. The temperature of the contents was okay for Rowan’s delicate palette and so she screwed the teat on and made for the sitting room.

It was if she was trapped in a bubble of
tranquility that would burst if she opened the door from the kitchen.

She hesitated for a moment and listened.

The sounds of the crisp cards being flicked by professional fingers like the harsh flight of cockroaches filtered in from the adjoining room.

Strange the places she felt comfortable in within her own home.

She looked at her surroundings with a detached almost otherworldly familiarity. As if all this time her essence had been elsewhere and she experienced everything through the eyes of this body that she was not familiar with.

Unwashed plates in the sink, glasses and greasy pots, cooking oil sprayed from a frying pan in constant use formed a sticky res
idue on the wall nearest the stove. The bin was full and smelling of spoilt food and ripe nappies.

Sighing, she gazed at the spectacle with eyes like a tired mou
ntaineer who was wondering if she had taken on one insurmountable peak too many.

Another chore to complete.

She rested the bottle on the draining board and leaned back.

All of this was the sum total of the challenges life threw at her outside of raising her son, a therapeutic escape comprising of Fairy washing up liquid, soggy sponges and greasy plates, a doo
rway into herself, away from the frustration, the constant demands, sexual advances and worthless promises.

The pit was closing in on her but the response wasn’t one of a desperate struggle to get out, instead it was making herself co
mfortable, in a state of complete acceptance. Succumbing to what felt like to her an overpowering force of apathy that held her fast while simultaneously sapping her of all impetus.

That was one way of explaining her eroding standards to herself. In another life almost, another place in time the kitchen would have been sparkling.

She bent down, tying the mouth of the black garbage bag filling the kitchen with its filthy bouquet. A face looked back at her from the polished metal surface of the toaster that she didn’t recognize.

Look at me, she kept muttering to herself. Look at me.

Sandra was never plain looking even with the most conservative descriptions. Crude oil black skin, silky long eye lashes shading eyes like glistening dark pools, and her subtly strong features making her remember what Enoch used to call her, his Queen of Spades. Other than the changes in her body from pregnancy and the frown marks around her mouth she had not changed much physically. It was that aura of hopelessness that branded her, a stark statement of decline all could see that shuffled around with her like a colostomy bag. What she knew for sure was that her strength of will was dying and she did not seem to care.

The door bell began to ring and Sandra straightened herself and wiped her eyes.

Suddenly she zoned out for a moment, standing still as a tombstone as if expecting something else besides Rowan’s frustrated wail.

“Sandra baby,” Chips gruff voice grated on her nerves. “A
nswer deh door nuh. And on your way jus see to deh yout.”

As she expected.

“You rang mi lord,” she whispered to herself, cringing at his inability to call her son by name.

If only she had choices.

She grabbed the bottle and headed into the lounge, allowing her eyes to make no contact with anybody within the bull pen - the area where they sat, gambled and dealt drugs - and walked briskly down the corridor. Placing her palms on the cold metal of the reinforced doors, she peered through the peephole. Other than being exceptionally dark beyond, a small umbra of light leeching from under her door could not penetrate outwards very far - she guessed the feral kids had busted the corridor lights.

She could see no one.

Frowning, Sandra turned back to Rowan’s screams that had scaled up a few decibels but five paces away and the bell rang again. She stopped, turned shaking her head and approached the entrance with less urgency. A foot away, she stretched on her tip toes, placing both her palms on either side and peered through the peep hole. Seeing nothing, her eyes came closer to the concave lens.

Giant eyes blinked back at her, making Sandra flinch, her breath caught in her throat. The magnified eyes receded and she sighed with relief.

It could only be one of those mysterious high rollers who brightened up the shit hole she called home with the smooth exploits and stories of life as a hustler. She undid the latches and bolts and swung open the door.

No one stood there.

She glanced both ways.

As she suspected, the line of fluorescent lights that stretched along the landing had all been smashed open like insect pupae and the contents of its illumination sucked dry.

Some fool playing stupid games with her.

She couldn’t see any further than the light from inside the flat would permit. It had cut a section into a slab of darkness that for all intents and purposes was a solid thing.

Sandra was held there for some reason.

Listening, soft breathing from the darkness.

Smelling, a subtle aftershave that permeated the landing.

Her breath held.

There was someone there watching her, she could feel it. Someone nestled in the folds of darkness, comfortably unseen and completely at home.

She waited, foolishly expectant of something to come to her. Knowing on the periphery of her thoughts that she could dash back inside and slam the door shut leaving the presence where it was.

Instead Sandra stood her ground, the darkness inching closer to where she stood. What should have been terror that rooted her to the spot was a profound, longing.

“A who dat at deh door?” Chips’ voice startled her. The spell broken she quickly looked away not noticing a playing card spin out of the darkness and flutter to the floor near the doorway. Looking back she saw it face down.

Shaking she bent to take it up.

Rowan screamed in the background.