Bad II the Bone (14 page)

Watunza mwanga

Over and over
, he ranted on his knees, bowing to three strangers as his colleagues tried to restrain him. Today after looking at this mess, it didn’t seem so funny.

One mind, one weapon.

He went by the numbers, as was expected when he had to take over an investigation from the presiding detective. Most were cool but some, like Jenkins, were a pain in the ass even when he knew this was Shaft’s gig until proven otherwise.

Jenkins was shaking his head in disbelief.

“I’ve got this Detective. Thanks for keeping the ball rolling. Black Book will finish up.”

Jenkin’s scowled.

“You know this is bollocks, right. Nothing about this warrants you fucking witchdoctors being here. This has operation Trident written all over it mate.”

“Remind me to buy you a Blackstone Police Manual on Evidence and Procedure for Christmas.”

“Fuck you McFarlane.”

“In your dreams Detective. In the meantime, keep your hard on to yourself, I’ve a got an investigation to complete, excuse me.”

Jenkins stormed off muttering something about ass lickers but his insults had already been relegated to the back of McFarlane’s mind.

Shaft had other things to worry about.

If ever he developed the stones to be honest with them, he would admit that circumstances like this had him in awe of them. He almost expected the normal flow of events to be altered when these three came together. Like heavenly bodies distorting the normal laws of physics or reason.

He approached the excited girls and hugged them all in turn, stepping back to check for any damage or injury.

What was he talking about; police procedure?

His stare remained on Y longer than normal.

“You three okay?”

“Hell yeah. Ask the other guys that,” Patra said.

“You didn’t have to go through all of this to get my attention ladies. A call would do.” Shaft smirked.

“
The first time was circumstance remember,” said Y.

“Second time was
bad luck,” Suzy added.

“Third time…”,Patra paused. “...is a goddamn charm.”

Shaft laughed and knew he shouldn’t but couldn’t help it. Trying to stay professionally detached from the girls was like dancing the tango with a new partner who knew the steps but wasn’t certain of the new routine through lack of practice. They had danced this dance before and although it was familiar, it was nonetheless uncomfortable.

“So Y,” Shaft began. “Tell me, what happened?” The joviality had departed from his tones and the practiced formality of police procedure slipped into place. The sisters huddled around him. Suzy and Patra looked over to Y who began, re-enacting the inc
ident in her mind, trawling the mess of pictures and jumbled word associations floating behind her eyes and picked the right ones that would be more acceptable for his notes and making sure she downplayed the sense of relief that Shaft had arrived at the scene. Y was almost compelled to reach out and touch his arm but she resisted. Instead she watched him tap into his tablet, his shoulders square and his poise comfortable.

“I tried calling you,” Y said pausing after completing her a
ccount of their recent misadventure.

“You mean
just now?”

“No, six days ago. We had a bit of a situation.”

“I have to apologize for that Y, ladies, the workload was intense. I was waiting for a window to call but you found a way to get my attention anyways. What happened?”

“Another story dat John, for another time.”

“Fair enough, Miss Wong,” Shaft looked over to Y again.

“We were depressed,” she began. ”Mr Patel thought this would be a great idea for us to re-
energize.”

“From what happened six days ago?”

They nodded.

Shaft started tapping the stylus on the touch screen and when he was done looked up as if he was inviting Y to continue.

Suzy continued.

“I saw the man dem first and then the guns.”

“We been doing this a minute now and we know when shit is about to get grimy.” Patra added.

“Did you know the men at all?”

They shook their heads in the negative.

“All we knew shit was going down and we stepped in.”

“You sound apologetic, don’t be. They were obviously in here targeting someone. Whoever it was doesn’t know you just saved them.”

He tapped the stylus on his mini tablet
and lowered his voice.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but the compulsion you girls share to have a go in dangerous situations is amazing or stupid. I haven’t decided yet. I just keep asking myself, especiall
y after that bank episode Five years ago, that you girls attract circumstances like this. And the frightening thing is that you are more than capable of handling the fallout on your own.”

“Just keep having our back,” Patra said.

“I’ll try.”

Shaft motioned over to two female police officers then faced the girls again.

“I’m going to have to get your statements separately. So I’ll continue with Y.”

Patra and Suzy broke into spontaneous laughter.

“Sergeants Peacemaker and Summers will deal with you two troublemakers.”

“Anything you say, Detective, sir,” Patra teased parodying some silver screen actress from a nineteen forties B movie, lea
ving Shaft to shake his head in amusement.

“Just go before I cuff you both.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Detective,” Patra crooned, still in character.

8.

South Kensington Dojo

Saturday, July 13th

9.35am

Y
heard the swish of the blade as it sliced the air to her midsection and only at the last minute did she block the stroke with her katana, spinning away from the parry and blocking the thrusting wakizashi from the nimble old man that seemed hell bent on piercing her carotid artery with the lethal dagger.

You tend to forget that Master Azimoko was seventy five years old especially when he was in combat mode. His movements were nimble and fluid. Like a chess master, each step, each strike of his katana constituted a pattern of katas that would lead to the d
efeat of his opponent. His expertise was hardwired into his diminutive frame from decades of practice, racial memory from ancestors who were also samurai and if Japanese mythology was to be believed the spirits of long dead masters inhabited the worthy.

None of this was on Y’s mind as she deflected his thrust with her wakazashi and gracefully spun away from him, knowin
g as she came around that the two blades would kiss and they did. Then she struck low expecting the force of impact and seeing the flash of surprise in the masters eyes as his reaction to the movement faltered. Y pulled back just enough for him to see she had incapacitated him.

That had never happened before.

They froze in position for seconds, their dazzling martial arts ballet ending after five minutes of intensity.

Y bowed to the old Japanese master, who reciprocated. She stepped back into a yaku stance and gripped the handle of her samurai sword sheathing it.

Grand Master Azimoko eyed the strong set of her legs, the measured deep breath and the controlled power with which she replaced the Masammune sword. He nodded as a way of ending the session and showing his pleasure at her progress.

From the penny section Suzy and Patra stood up and applauded loudly.

Y smiled over at them, cheeks flushed embarrassingly at their enthusiasm and bowed deeply in the direction of the graying, diminutive sometimes irascible master Azimoko. Having the opportunity to practice with him was not just about the honor of improving her kendo technique with a veritable legend but after many years of working with him she looked forward to his visits.

His lack of pretension and his eager quest to understand the ‘unenlightened’ westerners was ripe with comedic potential. And the grandmaster played it straight. Even finding time to comment on Y’s funky
colored nails before they began a kata session.

“A talented hawk hides its claws”, he commented in passing leaving Y scratching her head at the meaning. Usually he was a straight talking little man who had a natural way of encouraging you to higher achievement while pointing out your weaknesses as steps or hindrances to achieving the ultimate goal of perfection.

The old man travelled to the UK from Seki province once a year to show his support to his satellite schools teaching his Kendo styles to the west while fulfilling his passion for Earl Grey tea, British history, Oprah and Judge Judy. Master Azimoko also had a similar relationship with five other students throughout the country who, through recommendations and other unusual circumstances over the years, he would personally meet with them and test their mettle against his expertise in a real competition.

Y‘s claim to fame wasn‘t just her natural prowess with a ka
tana or improving on her technique but the katana itself. Pops, on his many jaunts to Japan and the Far East when he was younger, was bequeathed with a treasure; he immediately gave to his daughter. The katana was forged by the legendary master sword smith Masamune in 1302 in Japan, it was one of his finest works using a metallurgy technique he tried seven times and because of the inordinate complications in its process he decided never to try that method again. Legend says from it he created seven swords with Y’s katana included. The ill fated process created a blade that was balanced, sharp, strong and very light. So it was one of seven masterpieces that were priceless, and in master Azimoko’s estimation needed tempering with regular bouts of conflict. And so did the wielder of the blade. Y could expect a written report from him on traditional paper and ink in Japanese with a translated print out. Tucked away within its folds would be an invitation to au revoir lunch before the master left for home.

That she would not miss.

The teacher-student formalities out of the way Y walked over to the girls, her traditional samurai suki looking stiff and unyielding but worn by the right wearer allowing enough give and take for battle.

Patra arrived first to hug her, laughing.

“Damn girl you getting real good with that thing. I gotta be careful how I fuck with you now. Shit.”

Suzy hugged them both, all three rocking together and smiling.

“Yuh did brilliant sis, We gonna need to practise with the Chinese wushu swords together sometime. See if yuh can tek me.”

“That would be cool.”

“Okay, now when you bitches have finished getting hot and sticky over your sword fetish, can we go get some breakfast or something? I’m hungry.”

“I’m way ahead of you and I invited a guest to eat with us too.”

“If she have big titties or a tight ass I’m cool wid it,” Patra chirped.

“Not just a tight ass but a good heart.”

“DI MacFarlane,” Suzy concluded.

“None other.”

“Isn’t there some Brit law against a police officer making booty calls to suspects of a crime.”

“I suppose.”

“He doesn’t seem to mind.” Y said sharply.

“I’m just saying.” Jokingly, Patra puts up her arms in a defe
nsive posture. “Anyway we didn’t do shit. We ain’t suspects but concerned citizens who happened to put the beat down on two punk ass motherfuckers.”

“Not sure if that makes a difference, in the eyes of the law.”

“Fuck the law. If his fine ass wants to spend some time with us, who in the British judicial system can tell me we can’t.”

“Amen.” Suzy grinned. “But don’t get too hot under deh collar gal, you are not deh main attraction.”

“So you keep reminding me.” Patra muttered.

Suzy continued unaffected.

“Nuh get mi wrong sis, I’m glad to see him again, even after the other night but is this business or pleasure.”

Y shrugged.

“A bit of both I guess. You know he worries about us.”

“You
‘specially.” Suzy said.

“And he’ll be even more worried if my sexy ass dies of starv
ation. Let’s bounce, man. Where we headed anyway?” Patra inquired.

“Don’t you worry your pretty little head about that, just bring your appetite and your sharp wit.”

Six steps ahead of them in the direction of the exit Patra calls back.

“Two thing I never leave home without, sugahh.”

Parkhurst Industrial Park

South East London

The silver Audi A6 trundled into the condemned industrial park with its inhabitants silent. Deacon sat back in the plush seats with his index fingers touching at the tips and placed contempl
atively under his lower lip. He was wearing a black Ozwald Boateng suit, white shirt and black tie.

Minty’s funeral was well attended by allies and enemies alike and as much as Deacon had demanded it to be a celebration he had come away from it with a dull ache of loss in his chest. His right hand man had been murdered by a ghost that walked amongst men. A duppy, which was decimating his numbers and laying waste to everything he had bled to achieve. There would be causalities, he knew but not his brethren, not Minty. Especially not after finally knowing how he could fight back and win.

Deacon sighed and leaned back into the seat, eyes closed. The soldier that sat beside him looked uncomfortable because this was not a  routine assignment of protection as was usual and his nervousness was showing by the set of his thick lips and the no-nonsense ridges formed by eyebrows preparing for conflict. He looked straight ahead at the white upholstery which was the only calming visual cue he had to put his mind at ease, the smell of fine leather prepared him for nothing more sinister than a good, cussing.

The sedan pulled up into the shadows of a dilapidated war
ehouse and stopped. Mounds of disused equipment, concrete chunks, shredded metal, all caste off’s from architecture that had been crushed beyond recognition, lay on both sides. Old bridge and jib cranes stood rusting, twisted and worn, looking like Decepticons who had battled for Earth dominance and lost spectacularly. Troy the driver switched off the engine.

Deacon sighed and leaned back into his seat. He loved the ba
ttle of wills with whoever was willing to compete with him. Silence was one of the most effective tools at his disposal and he was wielding it particularly effectively against this fuck up.

What this pussy didn’t understand
, although all the signs were pointing in that direction, was his tolerance for excuses was at an all time low today. If the soldier who sat beside him had two brain cells to rub together he would know that a dark psychotic temperament could foreshadow his boss’s actions in periods of stress, resulting in explosive outbursts of violence. It had to be done to keep healthy, Deacon told himself. Release the gases of frustration, anger, betrayal and disappointment steadily so as not to fall into sudden meltdown like a volcano erupting.

This was how he balanced the murderous currents that bu
ffeted him inside. He was practicing that now.

He had just buried his childhood friend, sole confidante and par
tner in crime. Deacon had thought long and hard, made plans, good plans, that would unerringly lead to Enoch Lacombe making a costly mistake, a mistake he would be witness to and one he would make sure he paid dearly for. But how was he to achieve this outcome, if his soldiers could not follow instructions.

Deacon loosened the black tie around his neck, glanced at the gold
leafed funeral programme for Leroy ‘Minty’ Thelwell – he had spared no expense in sending off his friend in fine style and rested it on his lap. He looked down at his friends smiling face and grimaced that the funeral was a closed casket affair. Darkman had treated him brutal.

Next he took off his black fedora and placed it on top of that. Feeling more comfortable he leaned back into the seat.

Deacon wouldn’t utter a word until the other man spoke, no matter how long it took. The award for duration went to a female; fifteen minutes of silence before she broke and then he broke her. He savored the peace and waited.

Troy the driver seemed to sense it could be a long wait, so he stepped outside
fishing in his breast pocket for a cigarette walking an inordinately long distance to light up. Troy needn’t have worried, because the cockroach in the dock broke his silence soon after.

Deacon checked his watch in disgust; Four minutes.
Pussy.

“The oper
ation didn’t go to plan, Deacon, as I live and breathe. Three women step in as if they knew the program. They destroyed Chuck and Dave as if they were nothing. After that the whole operation went pear shaped.”

“You don’t say.” Deacon spat. “You were told to bring this bwoy Spokes finger with the ring on it to me. You had two trigga man wit
h you to accomplish the task and here you are giving me excuses about three women.”

“Deacon, look I...”

Deacon’s index finger snapped up to his lips and Prentiss went mute immediately.

“No ring, two of my best trigga man pan lock dung and you waltz in, smelling like a rose
with excuses. That have me worried and you know what, I’m the distrusting sort from morning.”

De
acon opened the door his elbow rested on and stepped out of the car as if he needed fresh air to continue talking.

He suddenly peered back in at him.

“You should have asked deh Babylon for witness protection.”

He slammed the door shut and walked two paces away.

Prentiss did not move but instead stared straight ahead bug eyed, the muscles of his neck taut.

The time it took Deacon to reach into his jacket for his pre-rolled spliff and slip it into his parted lips, a silent shadow floated out of the industrial detritus on the other side of the Audi. A gloved hand gently touched the passenger side glass and Prentiss looked up from inside sensing he was being watched.  Three s
ilenced rounds punctured the glass in rapid succession, exploding the interior in a crimson shower. The assassin stood beside the car with the gun smoking in the chill morning, almost reverently looking at his handiwork.

Deacon lit the spliff took a draw and glanced over to the pa
ssenger seat and then at Troy.

“Clean up dat piece a shit and bring me my replace
ment ride.”

Troy spoke into his mobile and the
massive shutter doors to his right clattered open and the roar of the V8 engined Silver Mercedes 400SL made its presence felt by idling up beside the blood spattered Audi and stopping. The driver opened up the door and literally jumped out in greasy overalls and a tool pan. The man had long shoulder length auburn hair, pale complexion, Ozzy Osbourne type dark shades and a brilliant smile that bellied his profession as a gangland fixer.

“I thought yuh were busy?” Deacon asked, taking an intake of smoke.

“I was but as one of my best customers I made the effort,” he walked over to the Audi and opened the door.

“Nice bouquet. Can’t accuse you Jamaican’s of being boring. I think your man shit himself
though Mr Deacon.

“I wouldn’t expect anyting less from a pussy like him. When will I get my car back with all traces of his sorry rass gone?”

Ozzy scratched his head.

“No body work required, window repair, bullet retrieval, u
pholstery repair and cleaning. I’ll bring it over tomorrow.”

Deacon had already slipped into the Mercedes and his driver was pulling away as he recounted events in his head and weaved in new strategies into the tapestry of his ever evolving plans. Messr. Remy his Haitan Vodun had warned them about the powerful guard ring
Spokes wore – he had pinpointed it from a set of surveillance photograph’s they had taken of him. Only then had Deacon started to understand why all of their attempts to capture him had failed. No torture sessions to extract what Spokes knew would be possible if they could not get close to him. It would take magic to give them a window of opportunity so they could render his charmed jewellery inert. The shottas had been rendered non-threatening to Spokes guard ring for literally one hundred heart beats by an elaborate spell Remy had conjured - time enough to relieve deh country bwoy of his finger. Instead the reports from a watcher he had planted in the club made it clear, that this would not be as straightforward as he had hoped because now there were three more roadblocks to having this situation resolved. Deacon swore again on his nine month old baby’s life, that Minty’s murder would be avenged and no manner of fuck ups or incompetence would be excused from today onward.

The women who had intervened were obviously working for Spokes. How they knew this was about to happen and how they so easily got the better of some seasoned hard men, were que
stions to be left unanswered for now. In another time, under other circumstances he would examine these three bitches in more detail. But unfortunately for them they had become just three more victims. Three more hindrances amongst the throng of informers and wanksters but what did his old lady say?
Deh hotter deh battle, deh sweeter deh victory.

“Amen, to dat, mama.
” He murmured.”Amen to dat.”

Stockwell Locks, Housing Estate

23.35

The lone figure of Enoch Lacombe stood with his hands in his pockets, back against a street lamp that was flickering uncontrollably above him. In no hurry, he leaned up and moved away from his point of rest, immediately absorbed by darkness that cloaked him as the street lamp died with his departure. Enoch Lacombe was as much a part of the shadows as the shadows themselves. His favored long black coat trailed behind him as if the darkness pulled on him like a dying star whose gravity held fast to everything in its vicinity. He cast his eyes over the concrete jungle that was Stockwell Locks Housing Estate, welcoming the onslaught of memories that ambushed him.

This was one of his ends, a bank of goodwill,
favors and retribution had been deposited in the past and he had every intention of making a withdrawal sometime soon. But first he wanted to feel what the situation was, absorb the present circumstances into himself and then decide his course of actions.

Stepping onto the grass verge his broad black trilby concealing his features, his long coat moving with him as if it were alive, he let the sensations emanating from the drab grey buildings engulf him as he moved steadily amongst them. The flow of evil that he was more sensitive to than most was what excited him about this city. Like a potter, his clay was the ebb and flow of depravity that
the city’s inhabitants deposited like a sewer and which made his incantations so much easier to manifest.

“INFORMER MUS’ DEAD!”

The shout from one of the flats held a note of menace. Some warning to a neighbour or a statement of relief after a murder committed. Noises came from all corners as if the concrete itself was joining in.

Laughter.

Manic and shrill.

A joke told to the madman’s schizophrenic self that could have been shared, but the punch-line could only be understood if you were capable of entering the warped psyche.

“He-he-he-he-he-he-he-he-he-he!”

And so he continued annoying and persistent. His cackling needling its way into deep sleep or keeping the dreary eyed awake.

“SHUT THE FUCK UP YOU WANKER!” came the hoarse cry of desperation from a neighboring block.

You were given the impression that it was just a matter of time before laughing boy would be found by a group of sleep deprived vigilantes and flung from the fourteenth floor.

“He-he-he-he-he-he-he-he!”

Splaaaat!

The man adjusted the coat around his shoulders and directed his piercing eyes to new sounds.

His heightened senses could feel the high rise buildings radia
ting tremors of Grime and Dancehall music along the building’s framework. Four hundred watt speakers that were over equipped for an auditorium were throwing out seismic waves of sound in a ten-by-five bedsit.

Cats squealed, dogs barked and the sounds of faked orgasms - which to his ears may well have been fed through amplifiers - added to the mix.

This vibrancy would continue until exhaustion brought peace in the hours of dawn.

And then the cycle would begin again.

He appreciated the chaos, the confusion making his skin tingle and focused on what he had to do.

Darkman finally stopped and looked up at the lighted squares on a dark rectangular tableau that was Columbus House. He took the trilby off his head, and inhaled the spores of degeneracy and co
rruption like a wolf, tracking his prey.

He smiled hungrily.

Stockwell Locks, Housing Estate

Columbus House, Flat 915

“A wha wrong wid dis bloodclaat baby, man?” Chips pulled the bedroom door shut stifling the sounds of the child’s sobs and continued to put crack crystals in small self seal bags.

Taking up a woman with another man’s yo
ut was not a habit he endorsed or wanted circulated around town but these were extraordinary circumstances at play here. And if he had to say so himself, this move was inspired genius. What was the best way to circumvent the arduous graft and considerable risk to life of establishing a notorious rep in the drugs business?

To be vouched for, of course, or by circulating the story that he was the care
taker of the child of Enoch Lacombe the most feared man residing in London at the time - even if that awe was based on not just gangster exploits but his supposed mastery of all things otherworldly and unexplained. The very same man Chips had a hand in sending to prison for a very long time indeed.