Bad II the Bone (2 page)

2.

Present Day

Ealing Broadway, West London

Thursday, July 4th

10.45am

How could Y have known that today she would be thrust headlong into a life changing situation through the most mundane of doorways, that of her local bank.

Why else would she be here, it wasn’t as if this was one of her favorite
places to visit? A usual haunt, somewhere she would hang out with her sisters for drinks. Besides a hospital, a bank would be the most unlikely place she would turn up on a whim or an emergency to think of it. But then it wasn’t everyday she was driven by a weird compulsion to check on their freedom fund. The realm of unexplained whim’s and fancy was Suzy, her sister’s forte. Y had been given the dubious honor of having their combined savings in an account for which she was the main account holder and withdrawal of funds required at least two signatures. Not that in the last four years that ever happened. This account was as tight as Aunt Millie’s purse. It received funds period, and a withdrawal was for the day they, or she more specifically, gave up being a wage slave and took her financial destiny in her own hands. She wondered now how easy it would have been to use her Smartphone to check the account but today she felt strangely different, hands on. It was almost as if something had shifted in the framework of her life. A subtle change in the status quo of things she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

Y entered a gallery of ATVM’s, her poise dented sligh
tly from her aversion for banking institutions and found one of the machines vacant. She cautiously fed her plastic into the slot and punched in her PIN number and waited. A harsh voice at the cashiers desk, made her look around. She fidgeted uncomfortably and looked back at the screen showing her account balance. Y took a step back, smoothing down the front of her uniform as she did then her arms became stiff and straight at her side. Her expression hardened and with what seemed like a concerted effort she approached the ATVM again. This time she did a printout. She lifted it up to her eyes.

A moan escaped her lips.

Under the circumstances Y’s response was ice cool, a testament to the measure of her self control.
   “Closed?” She asked, her voice measured, her emotions sealed in a strongbox of calm.
   “That’s right Miss Sinclair, your account has been closed. In fact the entire sum was withdrawn...today.”
   Magdalene Patten smiled through the reinforced glass, pleased she had answered the query to the customer’s satisfaction and sat eagerly awaiting any other questions like an attentive puppy waiting for its favorite stick to be thrown.
   The stoic look on the face of the young woman in the pristine white uniform spoke of a mind numbed by her customer service rhetoric or so she thought. The teller prattled on unconcerned.
   “Because you are one of our most dedicated customers, I’d like give you the opportunity to obtain our Gold Card. There will be no application forms just a few simple questions and we will be able to process your details from between seven and ten days. The benefits are excellent, so...”
   Y felt the restraints she had mentally lashed around her feelings begin to snap. The hollow droning of the customer service rep’s voice continued and the unraveling continued unabated. She could almost hear the ping of rivets violently snapping apart from her mental construct.
    Y’s eyes blazed.
   “Shut up!” Y snapped.

The customer service rep’s well rehearsed sales speech had rudely been ripped from her mouth, cru
mpled up and thrown into the neat waste paper basket in the corner and flame throwered.
   “Did I hear you right? My account is closed, the balance withdrawn?” Y asked the questions with kind of calm precision that had a sting in its tail.
   The teller shook her head, the shatterproof glass separating both women now not as reassuring as she had first imagined.
   “Check your records again.” The cashier felt the chill from Y’s voice, almost expecting the glass to frost.
   Y was shaken; the emerging sense of fear she was trying to control was taking hold. She gritted her teeth. Yet still she allowed the objective part of her mind to fall into the background concluding nothing, allowing what was taking place here to conclude itself. She forced herself again to look down at the paper that had been spat at her from the ATM outside and scrutinized, the zeros at the column that said account balance. She looked back up slowly and placed her hands on the counter to stop them from shaking and watched her reflection with surprise.
  
Stay loose, girl.
   Y ran her fingers through her short styled hair and straightened the body hugging uniform, striking a more appropriate pose for the confident, no-nonsense type of person she was supposed to be. But she could feel pieces of her armor cracking and falling away from its battlements.
   Allow the situation to conclude itself.
   Furtively, she checked the fob watch attached to her pristine white uniform.
   Late for work for the third time in two weeks and she didn’t give a shit. Another day of hauling her ass into work, inwardly miserable but doing what she was paid to do.
   This had been a compulsion. And she told herself it was the kind of thing she needed to lift her spirits, to remind her that there was a way out of this and that she was doing something about it. But that maggot of disquiet was burrowing into her flesh now and regret was a consequence.
   Imagine this was a split second choice to make a detour because she needed a motivational shot in the arm before she ended up at the ‘forced labor camp’, that was the beauty salon. Nothing could make her feel it was all worthwhile except seeing those five figures all neatly laid out on her bank statement.

So why did a sudden urge
to rearrange the cashiers well proportioned face with a training weapon of choice materialize in her thoughts.

The poor girl had nothing to do with this. It
was a serious computer error and that’s all it can be.
   Pure and simple.
   An army of apprehension continued to storm her defenses and she kept them at bay for now. Master Azimoko taught her that everything you think is not necessarily so. Pain is pain only if you consider it to be. A bank account with a questionable statement is only that if you see it as that, right? Absently she used her painted fingernails to draw imaginary circles on the counter then, as if struck by an inspiration, she looked up.
   The bank teller’s eyes had nervously shifted from the articulated screen to check on her customer’s mood and realised it had hardened.
   The embossed smile Magdalene had nurtured over her five year customer service career fell away from her lips like a piece of tissue being flushed down the toilet. She punched nervously at her keyboard and waited. Whatever data appeared on the VDU that instant didn’t please her. Staring at the screen blankly, she pecked away some more and then her hands fell to her sides in defeat. The look on her face did not inspire confidence. Y could see the apology drifting up from the muscles of the teller’s neck to her small mouth.
   “I’m sorry Ms Sinclair, our records still say your account is closed and that you made a cash withdrawal of the entire sum today using our telephone banking service.”
   “A week ago my account had nineteen thousand four hundred and eighty two pounds and sixty two pence. I haven’t made a withdrawal from the account since I set it up, two years ago.”
   Instinctively Y used the mobile phone around her neck to call Tyrone. Nothing unusual about wanting to share your ups and downs with someone you care for, right? Then the strangest thing occurred. It was if that sentiment directed to her boyfriend was abhorrent to her, disgusting even. A rush of awareness contradicting everything she held dear about her boyfriend buffeted her as if she had been unceremoniously dumped into a wind tunnel. Y caught her breath and the realization suddenly stood stark and obvious.
  
Tyrone’s work-pass left slung on the bedroom door that he never returned for, his guitar not leaning in the corner beside the bed, a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue not in its pride of place in the kitchen, a small crate that housed a collection of vintage reggae vinyl’s also not in its usual spot, his toothbrush not in their his and hers cup….
   “He took it.” Y’s words were said with a cold certainty. “The bastard found a way to take our money.”

Her ears popped as if she was unexpectantly losing a
ltitude and the veil that had obscured her vision, lifted. Her heart slowed, her world slowed too as if everything she loved and believed in was about to implode. Y lowered her head trying to deny a reality that was just too much for her to accept at that moment and all she could see was the disappointment in the eyes of her sisters and the empty loss of something they all held dear. Y’s features hardened as she bit into her lips, drawing a stream of blood which she daubed with her tongue, tasting its sharpness. Her whole body, trained as it was to react immediately to a threat, was ready to protect itself from an unknown protagonist.

But Tyrone was gone she knew that.
   Her eyes burned with held back tears that felt like droplets of molten magma behind her eyelids and under the counter her fists flexed. The surge of energy to her clenched fists made her fingers go warm, that weird thing she was able to do, focusing her chi into things when she felt threatened. She spun away from the counter, dissipating the energy with a thought, got a grip on her almost out-of-control anger and turned to face the teller again, her intensity making the young woman shuffle uncomfortably backwards.
   Magdalene diverted her eyes, knowing a storm was coming.
   “Get your fucking manager out here now,” Y growled, the tears finally breaking from her glistening eyes. “And they better have some answers for me!”

Brixton High Street, McDonald’s 10.45am

“Baby, what’s up?” Suzy asked concerned.
   Y’s voice over the mobile sounded dark and foreboding, an almost alien monotone delivered with uncharacteristic hopelessness that caught Suzy unaware as she listened. Immediately her intuitive nature – that weird sister ESP thing they shared - knew something was disastrously wrong. Suzy tried to maintain her focus on the iPhone stuck to her ear but the cold dread leeching into her core was impossible to ignore. She wasn’t sure whether Y’s immediate trauma had her on edge or the situation that was developing on her side of the phone was causing her sudden dark mood.  

“It’s not good sis,” Y continued, her voice unsteady.
   “What nuh good babe?” Suzy asked.
   “Everything, our plans, our dreams, up in fucking smoke,” Y lamented from a place of despondency Suzy had never before experienced her sister coming from. “I need to see you, we all need to talk.”
   “Who the fuck yuh talking to, chiny gal?” The brash question, interrupting Suzy’s heart to heart, flung from the vocal chords of someone who seemed offended the focus was not on him was annoying. “That’s bad manners.” The Mouth - she had named him in that seconds after they were informally introduced – continued flapping his big lips. “You know I ain’t done dealing wid you yet.”
   Suzy’s thin brows twitched upwards and her eyes narrowed while she watched The Mouth and his cronies bungle into her personal space with the manufactured menace that should have her concerned but didn’t.
   “Everything okay?” Y asked at the other end.
   “Mi cool baby. Let me call yuh back. I’m on deh clock an’ have a pressing situation I need to resolve. I’ll call Patra when mi deal wid dis.”
   “You’re sure things okay?”
   “Tings criss sis. Relax, we will talk later.”
  

If Suzy had worn a short sleeve shirt to work today ma
ybe she could have defused the animosity she sensed immediately directed to her as she walked into the restaurant. If they could see the dragon shaped burn that stretched from her shoulder to her wrist that she’d had a master tattoo artist render to resemble the glorious colors and viciousness of T'eng-she – the Chinese flying dragon – maybe she could have deflected their intention.

Bad gal, don’t test.

But that wasn’t going to happen. The Mouth and his crew were the focus of this bad vibe maelstrom that not just colored her psychic senses but her pedestrian perception had to put up with it as well. And if that wasn’t bad enough, her mind interpreted their radiating malcontent as a smell of vegetation rot, a chlorophyll tinged stink issuing from the boys only she could smell. Suzy slid the housing on her mobile shut and tucked it into her belt holster, her intense brown eyes sweeping over the boys.

That’s right bwoys, you now have my attention.

The Mouth was in his early twenties maybe, quite good looking, a solid physique with an attitude that had been nurtured without a reality check by friends, film and music for much too long. He wore an Averix leather jacket with a white T-shirt underneath. His black jeans were loosely slung low under his ass held in place by a prayer and an appreciation for belt tension. Suzy knew his type well, whether they were in Kingston or London their life spans were short and sometimes as gloriously self destructive as meteorite burning on entry into the Earth’s atmosphere.
   Suzy Wong shook her head and thought of ways to diffuse this – practice some of what she preached. Maybe now was the ideal time to stop allowing her outdated sense of justice to be more of a hindrance than a virtue but that was just not how she rolled.

She could take what they issued and walk away
. The problem was Suzy would not stand by while an innocent was being mistreated.

Suzy had only come through the Golden Arches for a cold drink and burger, a treat while the boys were in the
armored Securicor van on double yellow’s arguing about the Arsenal loss the night before.
   The Mouth and his posse had entered moments after, joined the queue beside her and on reaching the cash till began a tirade of abuse on an unsuspecting cashier. The ugly duckling with corrective glasses, braces, acne and a clumsy demeanor seemed to have developed a thick skin to callous predators like these. But Suzy knew the truth. You never truly got used to the jibes, your feelings were so deeply buried that even you had no access to them after a while. The cashier emanated the vibrations of pink, milk chocolate, cuddly teddy bears and chalk. Suzy smiled as she absorbed a snapshot of her with the empathetic talents and let the accompanying feelings of hurt and the fear wash over her too. Suzy just could not bring herself to watch the injustice play out against a good soul.
   Anger balled up in her chest in a volatile concoction that the trio seemed gleefully willing to ignite.
   The three stood scowling at her interpreting her silence as submission.
   What more could it be?
   Hair knotted into a pony tail, a face of smooth flowing contours and a lithe body hidden by her neat uniform.
   As was usual the male ego immediately disregarded her as a threat.
   Beauty equated with being soft and compliant in their world.
   “You ain’t got nuthin’ to say all of a sudden, chiny gal.” He turned to his boys. “She was running off her lip a moment ago blood. I think she’s scared.” He mocked.
Suzy breathed deeply trying to calm herself and said.
   “Why don’t yuh just take yuh food and leave while yuh can?”
   The threat mixed with the grating patios of Kingston, Jamaica, took them by surprise especially as it was coming from a petite oriental girl with an assured poise and no hint of fear. It should have set their alarm bells clanging but bravado and peer dynamics had them spiraling blindly on a rollercoaster ride that should be exhilarating but would end with broken bones and blood. Instead the images formed behind their eyes played out a pantomime of the fun they were having. Suzy slowly placed the helmet she had under her arm on the counter and brazenly matched their glares with equal ferocity.
   “Deh girl have some fight in her, blood.” The Mouth laughed. “But people get hurt by poking dem nose into tings that don’t concern them. Get messed up, yuh si me?” He took a sip from his Coke, twirling the contents in his mouth as if he was testing it for body and bouquet. “Now mind yuh fucking business.”
   He threw the ice cold contents of his cup into Suzy’s chest and backed away from the spray, laughing.
   “Oops………!” He said.
   Suzy gasped.
   The stream of soda hit her square in the chest and seemed to explode in every direction, soaking her from neck to mid section. The Coke left a dirty brown stain on her navy blue shirt and dripped onto her trousers. The material stuck to her breasts showing her lace bra, ice cubes lodged in her cleavage, melting against her skin and she felt the hundreds of carbonated bubbles bursting on her stomach as the liquid evaporated.
  
Calm gal!
She told herself.  

The words of cool reason slowly sunk under a bubbling geyser of hot vengeance. Suzy felt nothing, reasoned not
hing. This was all instinct. She walked into the midst of boisterous laughter and congratulations as if the battle was a foregone conclusion and placed a slender but firm hand on The Mouth’s shoulder.
   Turning, he saw the Chiny Gal gracefully leap into the air as if gravity had reversed itself, à la Matrix, heard the rustle of her clothes, felt the air part as her right leg hurtled towards his jaw in a perfect flying roundhouse kick.
   His recollections ended abruptly.
   The force of the blow lifted him off his feet, twisting his body in mid-air and deposited him head first between a cash register and Perspex charity box. His tense arms tangled around the leads of the monitor, tearing it out of its housing and bringing it down with him to the ground with paper napkins and straws.
   Suzy watched him slide limply out of sight and turned to look at his friends-in-arms her Wusu stance loose but no less effective. They backed away ever so slowly only giving a fleeting look of concern over to The Mouth bleeding and battered on the other side of the counter before they scuttled away.
   “Yuh bitch, yuh!” was one outspoken sentiment from an old lady who sat watching her grandson eating. Some swore incredulously; a small smattering of hesitant applause spread around the restaurant and voices of support for her actions grew.
   Contrary to what you would expect, the adulation did not improve Suzy’s frame of mind. She lowered her head and cursed herself.
     Turning away amidst the confusion she collected her helmet and her Fillet-o-Fish and disappeared.

Gridlock, Tottenham Court Road

10.45am

Ramona
Cleopatra
Jones, Patra to her sisters gave the Kawasaki Ninja some revs and punched the warm fuel tank between her legs with a gloved fist. The Bluetooth wireless rig in her ear blinked as she spat the words with venom.

“
Can you believe this bullshit?”
     It was Suzy on the other end of the line and she sounded excited and concerned but not as excited and concerned as Patra was at this very moment. She stood helplessly on her kick stand and surveyed the gridlocked traffic of Oxford Street, the fallout from a 24 hour Tube Strike. In front of her was a winding construct of multi-colored steel made from vans, buses, cars and trucks, undulating their way along like a sun drunk sidewinder, its multiple exhaust haze distorting the buildings in the West End’s commercial centre as it went along.
   “You did what? That nigga deserved every bruise his ass got,” Patra nodded her head and belted out her signature laugh. “I’d loved to have seen that beat down. Y’s trippin you say, whaddup?”
   The earpiece that hugged her earlobe blinked with the comment and a flurry of high pitched mobilespeak that made sense only close up, made her shrug leather clad shoulders and nod in agreement, her focus firmly engaged in the traffic madness of the West End.
   “Okay, okay I’ll be there but her ass better be on fire ‘cos I’m bringing the water, yuh heard me.”
     Patra looked behind her and realised every degree of a three hundred and sixty rotation was tight, the sun was reflecting off bonnets and obscuring her view but the blaring horns and the shimmering heat curtain being flung into the sky said it all.
   Motherfucking gridlock.
   “Gotta go Suzy but I’ll be there, I promise sugahh.”
    Pulling the helmet onto her head, Patra glanced at her carrier unit and knew this delivery was going to be tight, if not impossible but savored the odds.
    As fate would have it though, the outcome of this particular ride would decide the future of all female dispatch riders who joined the chicken shit outfit of Pathos Couriers.
   By 1.45 she should have been regretting her outburst of indignant wrath but the snide comments, the disrespect and the downright sexism had gone beyond male banter to victimization. By accident, Patra had walked into the midday drivers’ coven. Their little fantasy session was in full swing, describing her as a horny bitch best suited to be riding cock instead of a motorbike. In a fist fight she could take these pansy ass faggots without breaking a sweat but she had to learn to approach challenges without resorting to physical conflict. She was a woman after all and she was blessed with a brain and the guile to use it. So in the heat of the moment, her mouth getting in the way of her brain or so she would have them think, she threw down an unusual gauntlet.
   “So you niggas think you can handle this?” She twirled and grabbed a butt cheek, her anger simmering. Wild agreement from the cave men was spontaneous and enthusiastic.
   “Okay, okay. Let’s put your money where your motherfucking mouth is.”
   Just at that minute a priority request was made by one of their corporate clients that a record contract had to be collected from its headquarters in the sticks of Middlesex and delivered to a promotion company in the heart of Soho in a ridiculous time frame.
    Patra didn’t think and neither did that hollow yearning in her chest, that tingle at the base of her skull that flexed the laws of coincidence in her favor in many a tight scrape.

That was her gift and it was grinning from ear to ear.

“If any of you cocksuckers wants to take it, that’s fine by me.” She had proclaimed. “But I know I can collect and drop off the package in forty-five minutes. And I’ll stake my ass literally on that shit.”
   It was a done deal as the words left her mouth and after the laughter died down she was dashing out the door with the clock ticking and the possibility of five salaries in her back pocket if she won. Losing on the other hand was not worth considering.
   That’s how she was brought up, to be a competitor.

Her memories of growing up with three brothers in Georgia, Alabama, fighting with them to gain every ounce of respect by doing what they could do
and doing it better was what made her. Competition and adventure flowed through her veins and molded her character. Telling her she couldn’t do something was an invitation to conflict, something she reveled in. And with her talent of confounding probability - an above average lucky break quotient some would say - nothing much scared her.
   The fact that they were chauvinistic morons whose centre of intelligence was in their gonads was a foregone conclusion. Her duty, and one that any woman from the Jones family in Alabama all upheld, was their pride of self and an unhealthy belief that whatever any man could do - biological restraints not withstanding – they were not just their equal but their betters.
   Not the most endearing character trait, especially with prospective partners, but it was the truth.