Bad II the Bone (20 page)

Stockwell Locks

Housing Estate

23.40

It happened so quickly.

One moment Sandra had walked into her bedroom and had stood watching Chips so totally engrossed in rummaging through a
personal shoes box overflowing with papers that he had not realised she was standing behind him. Then next she was staggering backwards from the savageness of his slap. It was the kind of attack that was fuelled more by surprise than by genuine vehemence.

Surprise that she had just caught him rifling through her private stuff and knowing there was nothing he could say to explain
it away. She dabbed at a trickle of blood that had pooled at the corner of her mouth and glared at him for a moment. The welts on her cheeks from Chips’ coarse fingers raised and with them her reflexive rationalization of his crass behavior.

“What the fuck are you doing, going through my things?” Sandra snapped.

She surprised herself on how controlled she was.

Chips brushed past her with no remorse.

“None a yuh pussyclaat business.”

Sandra followed him out into the hallway, her fingers ru
bbing against the indented wallpaper as if it was helping to slow her down. This situation would not end at Chips’ request, not this time. All his lip service about moving his operation elsewhere so Sandra could regain some normalcy in her life was a lie. He was still using her and the convenience of the setup that had been Enoch’s idea to make a small fortune at her expense. Under Enoch’s protection she had little to do and the poker games that were played Friday and Saturday nights produced an income that covered her monthly expenses easily.

Not so with Chips.

She was literally a slave in her own home from Monday to Sunday and if she protested he beat her. His obsession with Enoch and his lost valuables was like a dark cloud that hung over everything they did. Chips was becoming obsessive and she was watching the transformation before her eyes. How could a sane man believe that she knew the whereabouts of Enoch’s collection and yet remained in this shithole with him and the others like him?

But he did.

She had warned him that it was a fool’s preoccupation that could cost him his life.

Warned him to have nothing to do with it, forget it because although Enoch was in prison he had ways of hurting people that were not myth but fact. Ways he had directed at his en
emies with devastating effect in the past.

But the lure of a possible fortune hidden away in Enoch’s things was too much for Chips to control. He had conspired against the man she loved under the pretence of being a ga
mbler, helped to plan the failed robbery against him and with his cohorts fabricated evidence against her baby father that sent him away for twenty five years. 

His gambling and ‘drugs juggling’ was not sufficient an
ymore, the lure of Enoch’s treasure was just too much to ignore.

The television had been turned on and the baby was asleep on the sofa. Chips was staring intensely at a football match with his feet on the coffee table and was tapping away at the r
emote control, raising the volume at each jab.

Sandra came in, whisked the baby away to her bedroom, closing the door behind her. She then headed for the kitchen, opened a few draws and then walked back into the lounge. The grating clamor of TV speakers not used to high volume, was annoying but filling the gaps of uncomfortable silence to Chips’ satisfaction. Sandra walked purposefully up to the television set and stood in front of it, blocking Chips’ view completely. From her position she switched the set off and glared at him, maybe awaiting a reaction.

The dread did nothing.

“I want you to go. Pack up your shit and just leave us alone. How long has it been since you destroyed my life? I’m a pri
soner here amongst the worst of the worst London has to offer. You’ve taken everything from me and I don’t care anymore. I’m tired. Tired of you, tired of your friends and I want my life back.” Sandra looked around nervously as if she had just realised the power of her own words.

Expecting no response, no smart qualification of the facts, he would normally ignore anything she said
anyway. Sandra, on the other hand, was surprised by how she had expressed herself. Chips was taken aback too at what would usually result in him ignoring her completely, he raised his head off his chest and turned in the deliberate and dramatic way of his.

“What
’s got into yuh today, gal? You losing yuh fucking mind? I don‘t answer to anything yuh say. Leave?” His laugh was throaty, Ganja soaked. “You will learn dat there is no knight in shining armor coming to rescue you. That bwoy from Croydon, the one with the hot’s for you, he can’t save you. And that batty bwoy Roland who can dress but not much else. Forget him. I am your salvation and when you come to realize that you will unwrap that pussy from its velvet box an’ let it off.”

It was her time to laugh.

“If you haven’t figured out, I’m nothing like your other women, then you are stupider than I thought. The chance you had with us if you had handled yourself differently has gone. You fucking squandered that opportunity, long ago. Too bad for you, though.” She paused as if to rally her thoughts then said abruptly. “I want you out.”

Sandra’s words seemed to be issuing from someone else’s mouth. She was listening in on herself with a sort of detac
hment a professional observer would make as they paid attention to the psych evaluation of a client. Her voice and the content of her dialogue seemed strange to her, prophetic even. Neither was her surprise confined to herself; Chips sat with his mouth partially open, his eyebrows had formed a gnarly ‘V’ and he too was struggling with the transformation that had come over her.

Sandra’s collapse outside her door and the unexplained reason that had overwhelmed her senses that night must have altered her perspective.

Since then, since thinking she had sensed someone who should be in prison with a playing card as the only evidence that this supposed duppy existed, everything had become plainer. Her GP had said it was a mental episode caused from stress and depression but it had left her with a gift. Enoch was reaching out to her.

Scary and improbable it may be but such words were more than fitting for the enigma that was Enoch Lacombe.

Chips’s voice forced its way into her thoughts and it was only when it reached a crescendo of anger that she focused on his ranting.

“...You are mine an’ if I have to beat yuh bloodclaat ever
yday to put some sense into yuh head, I will. You are not going anywhere, until I am good and ready to release you. You an’ yuh ugly face yout are my security if deh witchdoctor show himself before him time an’ want to tek tings personal. Me an him.”

From her stance and that determined look that was stamped onto her features, Sandra could see the shift in his opinion of her, a glimmer of fear that a day previously did not exist. She was no longer the compliant and docile woman he
could push around. But she did not forget for a moment that his ego was being challenged and men like him would fight to the bitter end to maintain their credibility.

Stalemate sat uncomfortably with him.

As he stood up from the sofa, the persona she had become so comfortable with sloughed away with his faint shadow like a disused jacket and the real man, the real conniving, vile opportunist that he always was, stood up with him.

“I shoulda
realize that a bomboclaat country gal like you could never play amongst toppa-top. Yuh a guh rot away in this council estate, wid yuh bang belly pickney, dependant on the government for sustenance, for the rest of your worthless life. Yuh think you can get me to leave. I’m here to stay gal an’ the sooner you come to realize that, the better it will be for both of us.”

He kissed his teeth sweetly.

“Yuh know what the story is out a street? Let me tell you; I have been appointed by the witchdoctor himself to look after you while him rub him time in jail. Which pussy will test that theory? You are tainted. Better the devil yuh know than the devil yuh don’t, nuh true?”

Sandra shook her head in disgust and walked to the door, leaning
on it weakly. She hesitated then turned to face him again.

“Enoch told me that I would get pregnant on the 14th of January and you know what, I did. He told
me I’d have a baby boy on the 19th of October. And guess what he was right. But what worried me the most about Enoch was he insisted he had to take Rowan away from me, teach him in the ways of his destiny, and return him when he was older. What that meant I don’t know but you learn to respect what he said whether you agree with him or not. We argued but he insisted my baby had a destiny to fulfill. I had many sleepless nights wondering when Enoch would leave me and take Rowan and I was almost relieved he went to jail, I’m not proud to say. But now I find myself wishing he would come back for little Rowan, give him what I can’t.”

“Him welcome to try,” Chips spat. “But you Sandra, you are on yuh own.”

Her lips blossomed into a confident smile, its rich almost overpowering everything Chips had just said.

“Will you pack your shit or should I?”

“Who will mek me, you?”

Sandra’s eyes shone like glistening twin pools in moonlight and then her lips parted.

“Enoch will make you.” She said simply.

Chips snorted his nose flaring, as he swallowed and his Adam’s apple bobbed along his long neck like an erratic elevator. Chips opened his mouth to speak and as his rebuttal formed behind his teeth he decided on saying nothing.

The witchdoctor was in prison. That much he knew.

Her sense of certainty had shaken him,
that much she knew.

He bit down on his lips and pointed at her threateningly, his dark face flushed by a growing sense of uncertainty. Sandra stood with her hands in front of her, she exuded not a glimmer of doubt and her unwavering confidence in what she was d
oing, disarmed him even further. The picture he saw in front of him contrasted so starkly with the weak and helpless victim he strived to create.

“Yuh know what? Mek me leave you to think about the cr
aziness you talking before I do something stupid.”

He stormed out of the room and slammed the door behind him.

Almost immediately the world seemed to take a breath and hold it.

Mere seconds later, a sense of accomplishment shot through Sandra like adrenaline pumped into her system. Head lulled forward, chin resting on her chest, the world of the si
tting room became less corporeal and swam before her eyes. She lost control of her legs and fell backwards, her back slamming against the door and almost comically she slid down to the floor, mentally and physically exhausted.

Funnily
, Sandra welcomed it because with it came a sense of certainty that her situation had dramatically changed. And she would not swop that all over glow of achievement she felt for anything.

South London

Thursday 19th July

14.25

The reinforced black Bentley GT slid down Streatham High Road effortlessly; its occupants far from relaxed but comfortable.
Unknown to the girls a protective spell sparkled briefly around the car as errant starlight broke through the light pollution. The promoters ride was protected corporeally – bulletproof glass - and mystically but he was still restless. Spokes was getting used to being driven around in his favorite ride by a chauffeur. He loved the idea of having the girls around but his loner sensibilities, made him strangely resistant to instructions from them.

It had nothing to do with how capable they were either. For all intents and purposes, this was the safest he had felt for many months and his snakes head ring could attest to that. The bach
elor life had molded him into expecting his freedom could only be compromised on his say so and in tolerable doses. But these were extraordinary times and yet still the conditioning was strong even with the insistence from the snake head ring on how important they were to his survival. He just wasn’t completely open to the idea of sharing his plans with strangers. But for all that conditioned recalcitrance, he would do what he must.

The girls were pros - at least that’s what it felt like to him - and they insisted on delving into aspects of his life he had only shared with a handful of people. First he had to divulge his itinerary - something that was more of a mental intention than something he wrote down. They became familiar with his yard too - the amount of rooms, hidey holes, attics, basements that his house possessed. The security and surveillance arrangements for the place were of interest to them also. Even his girlfriends and ass
ociates were scrutinized, so Bad II the Bone weren’t playing.

Wrapped in that aura of safety they provided and with the gui
dance of his ring, Spokes still couldn’t disclose everything he was up to. They knew what they had to do and if the powers that be were looking down on them favorably they would come out of this alive. And no one needed to be the wiser.

The statuesque American chick who he clicked with immed
iately handled the Bentley with a familiarity that was almost scary and cut short his musings with a question.

“So who did you say we gonna meet at this pirate station?”

“I didn’t baby,” Spokes said his expression obviously needing coaxing.

“No secrets,” Y said.

“No secrets, sista. He’s a good spar of mine, the director of the radio station.”

“Didn’t realise pirate stations had directors.”

“Well let me just say that Flex FM is no ordinary pirate radio station. Let’s jus’ say that Flex has used his ill gotten gains an’ a head feh technology and done very well for himself. If you want your promotion talked ‘bout on the street den Flex is deh place to do it.”

“How is he involved in your dance, outside of his promotion work I mean?”
Y asked.

“Him have so many fingers in so many pies you would think he was a sea puss. He’s helped me out from street teams, flyers to internet promotion and a dedicated website.”

“So you up for the technology then?” Y asked.

“Isn’t dat the only way to go forward in deh future, sista?”

Y nodded.

“Anyway, today’s visit is a more down to earth running’s. We’re just finalising the security arrangements. Making sure his street teams and security units know what is expected of dem.”

“You seem worried?”

“Flex runs a tight ship. His street teams are all marketing gra
duates and sales people head hunted from stiff Fortune Five Hundred companies. His security unit are all ex-military. An some Yard shootas, to spice tings up a bit.”

Spokes laughed.

“Nigga sounds like an OG?” Patra said.

“He’s a
reformed street soldier, sista.”

“Do you know any law abiding citizens?” Y asked. Patra took her eyes off the road for a second to give Y the glare.

“A few but those are my circles. But don’t judge me yet, there is much more to me than what you see.”

It was Patra’s time
to laugh as she slowed the luxury marquee to a crawl.

“You still haven’t ans
wered my question though,” Y persisted.

Spokes paused, rewinding the conversation in his head, then said.

“Am I worried?” His thoughts seemed to trail off. “If me nevah worried sistah Y, I would not have hired you to protect me. I’m just being careful.” His focus shifted to Patra immediately after answering Y’s queries.

“Laugh agen for mi Cleopatra, you brighten up deh place wid it.”

Y shook her head at the blatant flirting and could swear she saw the black woman in the driving seat blush.

Patra’s cheeks turned rose and she said.

“Satnav says we here, D.”

“Irie, irie. Just pull over here and turn up that radio deh. I love dis tune.”

Dennis Brown was crooning the Reggae classic, ‘Money in my pocket’ from which Spokes croaked out a few bars before the song ended.

“Dis is one of the things that makes this radio station so pop
ular. Deh play list is second to none and the DJ’s are nuh bathroom disc jockeys but artists. And DJ Justine is one of the best.”

DJ Justine’s silky voice reminded her captive audience how good these classics make you feel.
Bungling you up in a time pod and transporting you to your childhood or just cloaking you in the warm embrace of ageless reggae music. But what came next had no warmth to it at all. No quaint memories of the good old days.

DJ Justine screamed on air.

Justine just couldn’t contain her?

She screamed again
and it was a parody joy, a song of panic from primal depths where darkness and terror were real and it echoed out of the speakers. A silence that was more tangible and cold than an arctic gust followed. Everything in the car seemed to have stopped, frozen in place only the panic in the studio broke the spell. Spokes shot up in his seat as if the temperature had risen sharply under his ass, forgetting where he was, a surge of nervous energy galvanizing him. He sprung towards the dashboard his flight impeded by the sturdy headrest in the front seat. Patra and Y just stared at the Blaupunkt in-car system with mouths open. The screams shrank to the background and there was this uproarious laughter, guttural, obscene and outrageous, rising to a crescendo as if it had been recorded in the depth of a dank pit. The voice - deep, booming and unintelligible at first like the words were being spoken backwards and slowed up at the same time, began making sense to their ears. The world around them wasn’t following suit. Spokes peered outside, his eyes wide. No traffic, no pedestrians and an almost cold, cloying silence that had substance enough to envelope them. Spokes reached for the door handle then hesitated, his fingers fluttering at the prospect of escape but the Bentley had other plans and engaged its central locking. The promoter decided against even touching the polished walnut veneer or the silver coated door release. He just let his panic rise like bile in his stomach looking for release.

Patra was almost stooped on the driver’s seat, staring intens
ely at the digital player trying to be as far from it as was possible. Y had wedged her back into a juncture between the seat and door her eyes still wide with disbelief, a heart beat away from panic. Spokes reaction was far less subtle and his usual cool demeanor had given way to ill fated attempts at smashing his way out of the car.

“Mas Spokes?”

The voice was so alien, so otherworldly sounding you got the impression it was an unfamiliar way of communicating for this
ting
but still its bass range was that of the vocal chords of a tyrannosaurus, carrying with it rumbling power, an unearthly chill and an auditory psychic rankness that smeared your mind and made you shiver uncontrollably. Everyone in the car reeled back from the mental halitosis as it stank up your thoughts.

“My sponsor wants to send yuh a little message, partner.” The God awful voice taunted.

Y shrank further into her seat shaking her head to clear it of the corrupted static making the crown of her head hurt.

“DJ Justine is yuh favourite, dat right?” The hell thing asked.

“Tasty bitch I must agree. What do you want me to send you?

Her head or her guts? Maybe send her to you as kibbles. Niiiicccceee and sweet she is! You choose Mas Spokes one or deh other.”

“Goddamn yuh rass to hell. Leave her alone,” Spokes spat.

“Hell is my home partner. Chose one or the other.”
It demanded.

“Why don’t yuh come for me, instead?” The promoter beat his chest. “Yuh tink yuh bad. Come test me face to face.”

The words dripped from the Blaupunkt speakers like raw sewage.

“Take the snake head ring off, cancel the hex around your car
and separate yourself from the three protectors an’ we can arrange feh dat. But as yuh are charmed amongst the charmed and as old time people seh, if yuh can’t ketch Kwaku, ketch him shirt. The good will have to suffer for deh bad.”

Spokes was shouting at the top of his voice. Droplets of sal
iva vacated his mouth with white deposits gathering at the corners of his mouth.

“Send deh rassclaat bwoy Darkman come then. Mek him deal with me, man to man. No demons, no coolie duppy, no Obeah just me an him.”

“But that is why my sponsor sent for me. You are protected from him but my kind is not so easily dissuaded. And which one of us could turn down the opportunity to acquire a tasty hu-Man soul.”

“Justine is an innocent.”

“Isn’t that the sweetest kind?”

“Yuh a guh suffer feh dis
, God know.”

“Him,” the hell thing kissed it teeth, like it was sucking the i
nnards of a poor living thing guts, bone and all. “His hands are tied, pardy. A little something them call free will.”

It chortle
d grossly like it was having trouble adapting to human speech.

“Time up pardy.” It announced. “Me and Justine will just have to surprise you.”

The gales of laughter began and the screams continued with it. A throaty gurgle, a wet tearing sound, more uncontrollable screaming, splashes of life giving blood maybe and the thump of a body falling to the floor, pieces at a time.

The screaming stopped and so did the Flex 91.1 FM horror show.

When Deacon summoned you from his ivory tower, you i
mmediately began to retrace your actions in your head and what you could have done inadvertently or blatantly wrong. If you had the slightest doubt, change your identity and leave the British Isles. Chile was good this time of year. If on the other hand you were confident your actions were honorable then don’t just finish what you were doing and leisurely make your way to the meeting place with a savoir fare attitude. No, that wasn’t the type of man that he was even for a bonafide operator like Chips.

Deacon demanded strict attention to his demands if you were under his protection or in business with him. He had a fearsome reputation amongst his peers and a more than healthy respect from his enemies. But from his snitches you were next to nothing, a cockroach at the bottom of his special edition Nikes, a necessary inconvenience that could be replaced by a throng of other unne
cessary inconveniences at a snap of his fingers. Being one step up on the evolutionary ladder did not make Chips any more secure in Deacon’s presence and for a grown ass man that was very disconcerting.

Why make life even more difficult for himself? When he got the call on a Friday evening - one of
the busiest times at the Spot - he had to leave Tricky to look after Sandra and keep things level while he made his way to Green Park. Traffic had been a bitch coming into central London but as he pulled into the private parking bay underneath the illustrious Imperial Fitness Centre it was not a good idea to carry his seething annoyance in with him. Instead he checked his ego in the parking bay. He wouldn’t want Deacon to think his bad mood was directed at him. That would not be a good idea, and although Chips was two rungs up from the bottom of the food chain as classified by Deacon - street zoologist, he had moments. They were infrequent flashes of inspiration that catapulted him into heady realms of Boss but they did not last long enough for him to get comfortable or get noticed. He had to keep his aspirations for power close to his chest - for now anyway.

Chips slammed the door of his Range Rover, taking a cursory look around his well lit surroundings. The smell of motor oil pe
rmeated the air with the smell of new metal and freshly vulcanized rubber. Admiring some of the tasty motors, he saw a cadre of Deacon’s soldiers hanging around the entrance to the elevator in the distance. He made his way over to them. As soon as he cleared the obstruction of the massive concrete support pillars that spread across the floor plan, they spotted his approach. The shottas didn’t show their weapons but Chips knew they were strapped and from the fluttering fingers like western gunslingers they were ready to use them at a moment’s notice.