Bad II the Bone (7 page)

Giles sighed audibly.

The woman’s poise was confident but with her arms folded around her chest it was obvious she was expecting conflict and from that crooked half smile on her lips it was something she would enjoy. Detaching herself from the poker table she was leaning on, the gold stripes on her suit shimmering when she moved, the executive blonde took two strong steps in her black Jimmy Choo, slingback shoes.
    “As I was explaining to Ms Jones before you came in, Mr. Sinton, the last remaining positions have been taken by Jade, Smooth and Topaz. We have her details on our records and as soon as there are any vacancies we will contact her.”
    Patra’s gaze slowly drifted over to the three new recruits and felt the ice cold daggers of contempt directed her way.

Skanky ass bitches don’t even know me, she thought.
    “Did you know that she holds the title for the most gratuities offered to a dancer in my club, Laura?” Giles asked.
    “I didn’t but...”
    “Twenty thousand pounds, that was a damn good night,” his eyes went misty with memory and he grinned in Patra’s direction and she grinned back.
    “Do we have a problem with my decision making Mr. Sinton?” Laura asked. “This is what you employed me to do, right?”
    “Hey, it’s cool,” Patra interjected uncomfortable with where this was leading. ”I’ve got other gigs lined up OG, it’s no biggy.” Patra was reaching over to grab her backpack when Giles looked over to her, eyes sparkling.
    “Don’t go yet Cleo.” He signaled Laura over to him for a powwow and set about outlining some scheme he was hatching.
    Patra was beginning to feel guilty about her insistence that Giles delegate large chunks of his empire to able lieutenants who could replicate his success, so he had more time to enjoy life. From the youthful glow and exuberance he was showing it was working. Now she had to come back into his life to complicate it some more. The trio who had been slinging visual shots her way had shuffled a bit closer to where Patra was lounging, for no other reason than for them to make their ire heard and goad her into reacting.
    Who the fuck does she think she is?

A Yankee bitch, coming in here
demanding work.

No working girls allowed, dike.

Patra felt the adrenaline rush of conflict. That heady chemical reaction that was exploding in her cells generating that endorphin rush of pleasure she had anchored into her psyche when shit got twisted.
    Oh yeah, you beefing with the wrong bitch.
    She let the adrenalin seep into her blood stream savoring its power to make her fearless and competitive. Casually, Patra looked over to the three strippers trying their utmost to psyche her and just thought how ‘those dumb ass bitches’ were playing into her hands without even knowing it.
    Don't test me ladies, I was made for this competitive shit.
    If Patra knew how to do anything it was how to win and she was equipped to do so with talents they could never imagine in their wildest dreams. The smile crept up onto her lips, self assured and with an edge of dark humor to it.
    Bring it on, she thought.
    “Cleo darling, I think we have a solution to our dilemma. Laura...” Giles called over.
    “We...I have decided that the best way to resolve this situation is for you to compete for the positions.”
    The groans from the penny section reverberated in unison and Patra unfurled her fists and grinned.
    “Now that’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout.” Patra mouthed the words to herself and met eyes with Giles who nodded sagely.
    “Just one thing before you ladies start on the pole.” Giles said. “Freddy, play that old track from Ludacris for me. ‘Stand Up’, I think it’s called.”
    The DJ nodded.
    Giles winked at Patra.
    “You like Luda, Giles?” Patra laughed all the way to the changing room. “Time to smoke some lame ass bitches,” she said confidently, making sure everyone heard.
   

Wormwood Scrubs Prison

West London

Three weeks ago

It was a rainy London day and Senior Prison Officer Wilson was looking forward to an uneventful evening on the blocks. That was until the HMS Prison Service iPad reminded him t
oday was cell search for the prisoner they nicknamed Damian. Like an enema administered up the ass he had the whole day to look forward to that mouth watering prospect. His reluctance did not stop the event from happening much to his dismay.
    Enoch Lacombe folded the flannel neatly and placed it on top of the other folded towels on his bunk in the spartan confines of his cell housed in the maximum security D Wing facility. With his head lowered he placed the Holy Bible with meticulous care on top of his fabric constructed tower of Babel, lifted it from the bed he had lain his head on for the last four years and turned to face three of D Wing’s elite Prison Officers watching his casual ceremony.
    “Take one step forward prisoner 699, remain stationary and keep your eyes to the ground,” the Senior Prison Officer’s voice boomed in the confined space, its power trailing away suddenly as if it did not have the same supremacy in this place. Looking as if he would prefer to be anywhere else but here, he motioned to his colleague.
    The younger man took a deep breath and was surprised at how clean the cell smelt. Not fragranced to conceal the smell of shit and piss but an almost antiseptic reek, a morgue pong. He shivered involuntarily, his short stocky frame concealing the tremors breaking through his genitals and neck as he tentatively used his metal detector to skim the personal atmosphere around the prisoner, taking more care than was normal, making sure the detector did not have any contact with the Darkman’s skin. The officer was sweating, a cold perspiration gathering around his lips and trickling down his back although the confines of the cell were cool. Hurriedly he shuffled his big frame backwards, his metal detector unresponsive and made as much space between prisoner and Prison Officer as possible. The senior Prison Officer, Wilson, followed him out of the confines of the small cell just as careful not to have even casual contact with the inmate. They congregated on the landing, shoulders showing a wave of relief they would not admit to anyone and stood with two K9 officers and their dogs.
    Enoch Lacombe had not moved.
    “Sniff him out, boys.” He signaled the men to let the dogs do their job but their hesitant whines spoke of distress..
    “Come on girl, come on.” Officer Jacobs coaxed his bitch into the cell to do her job but she was whimpering, her intelligent Alsatian eyes almost begging for a reprieve. Her colleague was even more perturbed by the prospect of going into the cell to sniff out prisoner 699. The Labrador stiffened, whimpered and started making some pitiful cries. And no amount of tugging on his lead would get him any closer to the prisoner. Then they both started a chorus of whimpering and there was nothing their masters could do to control their panic.
    “I don’t know what’s up with them, Sarge.”
    “Jesus Christ. Okay, just take them back to the compound and we’ll finish up without it. I came prepared anyway.”
    “Poxy fucking mongrels,” he grumbled and opened up a reinforced plastic case that was leaning on the bars at his feet. He unpacked the E-Nose and let the Home Office’s new toy do the job the canines refused to. In moments he was satisfied that he had not been in contact with contraband and led Enoch Lacombe by a wave of his hands on to the landing so they could clean up and return him to his cell. Darkman stood patiently between two physically imposing prison guards this time his head held high, words floated up from his upturned lips.
    A silence fell over the landings. Darkman paused his former words resonating in the confines of D-Wing then his lips parted again and a final word exited. No one standing beside him understood what he was muttering; they only knew it had an Arabic brogue to it and that it almost crackled with a power they could all feel but could never understand.

How could they?
    The force of the final piece of the incantation rippled from Darkman at its epi-centre and spread throughout the prison block. Everyone in the entire wing froze in position for a second, a subtle shift in perception as if something had switched off, held them in place, making the dogs who were obviously unaffected start whining nervously. Then as if nothing had happened the world resumed functioning and the warders closed the cell door, leading him along the landing away from his cell.
    Obediently, inmate 699 revolved his neck, cracking the bones of his vertebrae and walked with the casual sway of the Caribbean sun and cricket as his warders silently lead him out of the secure wing without a thought as to why they were doing it.
    Eyes in the depth of the cells that lined his path peered out. Desperate men who had not had yard time for 36 hours and others whose stint in solitary was just beginning, all followed his progress with mute relief or palpable fear. Murderers, armed robbers and gang members with nothing to lose, respecters of nothing, afraid of no one in heaven or on earth, remained dumb as inmate 699 made his way past them. For anyone bold enough to peer too closely through the shutters, just the merest flinch of Enoch Lacombe sent them scurrying away from his attention.
    The prison population even as desensitized as they were to a world beyond their five senses felt that prisoner 699 was not someone to be trifled with. Three men overstepped the mark and died inexplicably, horribly. Unbeknownst to the rumor mill that created the Frankenstein monster of Enoch Lacombe, the reality of his awesome capabilities was far, far worse than their limited imagination could ever create.
  
    Away from the inquisitive electronic eyes of the Prison Service surveillance system, Prison Guard Pete Jackson kissed the fingers of his master’s hand while he genuflected. The ingredients for the spell had taken almost a year to gather while his acolyte had to do his part by replenishing the choice ingredients in the Totems scattered around Worm Wood Scrubs’ structure. But the mind haze - a lingering hypnotic trance - would allow him to do what he needed to without the undue attention of the authorities and affected anyone who entered the institution. His ‘prentis’ would keep the efficacy of the spell until he was away from this place and back ‘a yard’ for good. Laying his hands on the Prison Officer as if giving him a blessing because his aid wouldn’t be forgotten, Enoch Lacombe turned away and stepped casually through the reinforced door within the reinforced siege gates into the moisture laden atmosphere, pregnant with ozone and carbon monoxide, filling his lungs immediately with air free of the taint of guilty men.

The tall black man freed himself of the shadows flung from the building with an unhurried stride, almost scoffing with his casualness at the institution that had tried to hold him for a life sentence but succumbed, as most things did, to an Obeah man of his vast power. He stood on the edge of light and darkness and turned to face his home for four years, what was left of his worldly possessions stuffed into two black leather
bags held by hard hands. He wore a dark striped suit and white shirt with no tie.
    The black trilby on top of his head shielded a face whose skin was pulled tight over the contours of his skull but he wasn’t repellent to look at by any means, his body was conservative, requiring him to be lean, shedding all fat in his frame leaving only the necessary reserves. His eyes were dark and deep set with eyebrows ridging them like bony canopies shielding a cunning mind. If you were sensitive enough you could discern the stink of corruption that enveloped him like the atmosphere of a dead star. Maybe even sense how he siphoned off the dark energies flowing in abundance from the brutality, corruption and depravity of the city, storing it in his wiry frame like a gross capacitor bending it to his will and intention as he saw fit.
    His gift.
    As the dark clouds swirled overhead eagerly preparing for a downpour, their innards lit by forks of lightning, the sounds of thunder reverberated through the heavens with the violence of what was to come.
    The tall man looked down to the end of the road with certainty borne of expectation. His deep set eyes glazed for a moment and a grey tinted Volvo materialized from around the corner and drove up to the prison gates. Aware but unconcerned about the droplets of rain spearing into the forecourt and the car pulling up beside him, his focus was firmly set on three days hence. He had an errand to attend to back-a-yard in Jamaica. Then, and only then, would he be fully equipped to punish the ones who had betrayed him, recoup the trinkets he had acquired and reacquaint himself with the most important person in his life; his son. Until then, until he cut out their gallbladders and reduced them to dust under his feet, he had things to do.

But nuh fret, soon every knee shall bow an every tongue confess...

5.

Metal Works Gym

Sunday, July 7th

20.35

T
he downstairs bar at Metal Works Gym, Uxbridge Road was charged with the excitement of its clientele anticipating the evening ahead but you would be forgiven if you thought the bar-tender had just slipped some rum or whiskey into fruit juices such was the exuberance. The regulars dotted around the modern floor plan, the professionals flexing biceps every opportunity they had in front of admirers and the other cliques in pensive or boisterous discussion.

Of course it was a Friday evening and the relief that they had left the drudgery
of work and had completed reps, jogs, lifts and tans was self evident.
    As they gulped and slurped down the healthy living concoctions and live foods, they gave no thought to how soon they would be immersed in alcohol and nicotine at some night spot reversing all the good they had done for the week.
    So who gives a shit?

Every table was high spirited...except this one.
Just behind the large central column, furthest from the entrance and cut off from the view of the main area was The Corner. This portion of the ground floor was lavishly roped with silk, set with plush seats, ornate carpets and equipped with state of the art electronic entertainment. Simply walking past the sign that read ‘For VIP Use Only’ meant the handsome - depending on your sexual persuasion - Georgio would be catering for your every need, making you soon believe trekking over to the bar for anything was a preoccupation for commoners. 
    Why then was the gloom around this table so thick and all consuming that it could be scooped up with a spoon and served with a side order of self pity?
    Y, Patra and Suzy sat in the shadow, their fruit juices in front of them sweating profusely with a mixture of expressions on their faces that ranged from disgust to anger.
    The lights were dimmed and Mary J Blige was in uncompromising vocal form. On the walls were pictures of Lady Saw in gangster mode, Lil Kim letting it all hang out, Pam Grier as Cleopatra Jones and the mouth watering abs and sundry assets of Tyson Beckford and LL Cool J, honorees in their fit body Rogues gallery.

Moment
s before they had been ‘bussing a sweat’ as Suzy would fondly say – in their preferred martial arts disciplines.
    The sessions had been savage affairs, which forced the kickboxing instructor to make the decision that punching bags would be preferable to real life sparring partners for fear of injury. He even stayed on the sidelines to watch them take out their foul mood on the punching bags and he was a third Degree black belt. It was only after two hours of grueling work that the instructor insisted they take a break and the posse ended up downstairs.
    Patra shuffled her Reebok-clad feet that had been well and truly planted on the table since they had gathered there. Her chair was on its two back legs rocking gently to and fro as she nonchalantly broke the no smoking regulations, puffing contemplatively on an aromatic cigarillo.
    Suzy crossed her legs and slouched back, her blue Adidas track suit making crisp ruffling sounds of newness with her hands behind her neck while Y sat painfully upright as if she was about to announce that something rather uncomfortable was sticking up under her ass.
    No need to speak if the situation didn’t warrant speech, right? The girls had to simply caste their minds back and the emptiness of loss reminded them.
    In one day they had their lives upturned and Y, feeling left out, rashly gave her boss the abridged version of why she despised her and the nail technician job she had been doing for the last two years with two choice words.
Suzy attempted to lift the morose vibe.
    “I drove by deh property, today,” Suzy said, trying not to show how painful it had been seeing the unfulfilled aspirations wrapped up in the guise of bricks and mortar.
    Y and Patra responded with nods and grunts; they too were obviously still raw with hurt and Suzy was beginning to regret mentioning it. What Suzy had failed to mention was that she had pulled up to 123 Destiny Street - the name was an omen in itself - parked her old Peugeot 307 and sat staring at a dream that to all but her was dead. This is where it was all supposed to begin, where the magic would happen. Ground floor was supposed to be Y's and solely dedicated to Nails and Beauty. Y had plans of starting off with the basics offering them acrylic nails and nail art, manicure, pedicure, then upgrading her services to the more flashy skin treatments.

The first floor would be her baby of health and fitness and the second floor would be Patra’s focus of fashion.
    “We had that bitch worked out,” Patra’s words derailing Suzy's memories.

Suzy shook her head as if it was with some effort she could convi
nce them that their ambitions weren’t crumbling before their eyes.
    "Yuh know I still can't shake deh feeling that this place was meant for us."
    "I'm glad at least one of us is still holding on to the possibility because where I'm sitting from our situation looks hopeless." Y ran her fingers through her short cropped hair.
    "No shit!” Patra added for emphasis. “We were supposed to give the landlady a deposit."
    "And the lease agreement was to be signed next week."
    "Suh there yuh go then sis. We still have two weeks to manifest something feh redeem us, after we explain tings to Mrs Benjamin, she will understand."
    “That is so cute,” Y smiled falsely.
    “Mrs Benjamin, a hardnosed Jewish business woman, won’t have the need or time to sit down and commiserate with us on our financial loss. There is no four month extension Sue and even if there were, where would we get thirty thousand pounds from?”
    Suzy glided off her stool and made two steps towards Y shaking her head.
    “Yuh just can’t see it, can yuh? Do you really believe that Mrs Benjamin or even Tyrone can stand in the way of what will be? I can’t explain it and I know your nature is asking for proof. Even after everyting you’ve seen and experienced yuh still unsure.” Suzy considered a thought for a moment. “If we sit dung and gain clarity together, are my feelings ever wrong?”
    “No.” said Y.
Suzy sat down with an air of justification.
    “Okay, so what do we do now then?” Y asked.
    “We guh about our business, of course. Still making plans but not worrying about Destiny Street. Who knows, something bigger and better could be waiting in the wings for us.”
    Y let the sarcasm slide from her tone recalling the many mysteries that surrounded them together and as individuals. Ordinary was not a word you used to describe them.  

“I’m just feeling like the control of my l
ife is being wrestled from me.”

With an unusual burst of the profound Patra said:
    “We not losing control baby, we just going with the flow.” She took a puff of her slim-line cigar and blew rings into the vents. “We ain’t fighting the surf just letting it take us out to sea.”
    “Amen.” Suzy said changing the subject. “I was reasoning wid Mas P when I arrived earlier today,” Suzy said her manicured fingers touching her chin.
    “How’s he doing?” Patra asked.
    “Him safe,” Suzy said.” We got to talking an’ one ting led to another and he decided to help cheer us up.”
    “You told him then?” Y asked with a snarl.
    “Of course mi tell him,” Suzy matched her pitch, her eyes narrowing. “Deh man is almost like family. I know wi save him life but him guh above an’ beyond feh wi many times in the past, just to say how much him appreciate what we did. Don’t forget dat.”
    Y folded her arms and nodded with a contrite purse of her lips.
    “Anyway, Mas P gracefully hook we up with three VIP tickets to the MOBO’s this coming Friday night with limousine to and from deh location.”
    Y’s eyes bulged.
    Patra whistled.
    “Damn! For an Indian playa he’s got game, man.”
    “An’ he’s looking after his girls dem from him heart. Yuh have to love him feh dat?” Suzy was looking over to Y, whose facial muscles twitched, struggling to translate the messages indicating excitement and joy to her face.
    “Sue, I’m sorry,” Y said finally, “I’m just not handling this well. I can’t get that calculating, spiteful shit out of my mind.”
    Y breathed out sharply.
    Patra rolled the cigarillo in her mouth and licked at the tip lovingly. Y and Suzy smiled at each other as Patra went through her ritual. For someone who was about to break the no smoking in an enclosed building laws she looked suspiciously as if she was performing oral sex.
    She lit up and blew smoke circles, again.
    Y paced over to the smooth central column and leaned against it keeping their deliberations unseen from the rest of the gym.
    “He’s messing up every meditation session I have.”
    Y drifted, her shoulders and arms tensing on the concrete as if she was about to topple the temple of Dagon on the heathen.
    Slowly she coaxed her focus away from some point in space, wiped her eyes and stared back at them.

“I can’t help thinking I could have done more.”
    Patra shot a stream of smoke to the ceiling extractors.
    “You taking this shit waaay too personal sugahh,” she said coolly. “Motherfucker was a con artist pure and simple. Blaming yourself now ain’t going to remedy shit. Focus on payback baby.”
    “That a deh truth,” Suzy agreed. “I suppose yuh haven’t talked to John bout this yet? Maybe dat will give you some closure.”
    “True dat, girlfriend,” Patra laughed. “And you know closure ain’t the only thing he wants to give to you.”
    Y kissed her teeth and made a face. 

“I called and left a message and he hasn’t got back to me yet. He must be really busy,” said Y. “But I’m still not
sure I should tell him though.”

Strangely the innocent question had the effect of injecting this whole unfortunate situation with a ray of light for Y a
t least.
    Detective Sergeant Winston
Shaft
McFarlane was the type of man a healthy chunk of the female population would not think twice about suppressing any morals or shame they had and try by any means at their disposal to make him theirs, wholly.
    As in body and soul.
    He was in his mid thirties, one of the youngest Detective’s in the country, handsome, intelligent and with an ass you dreamed of taking a long leisurely nibble off - not that she had but the thought had crossed her mind too many times not to mention it.
    Winston was like the unofficial fourth part of the posse. He had been the investigating officer at the bank robbery which had created this friendship.

It was one of those memorable scenes that just stuck with you. Wearing shades and an expression that said ’stay cool, goddamn it’ he walked onto the fresh crime scene. The e
mployees frantic, the customers relieved and still trying to understand the incredible events that had taken place. The players were still in place when the cavalry had arrived. One of the robbers was unconscious at Suzy’s feet, Patra nervously pointing a gun to one of the men’s head swearing and Y holding another in a headlock, The Rock would have been proud of.
    There was no expression of amazement, no sexist remarks just a caring concern for their well being after such a traumatic situation.
    On that day a great deal of respect developed between them and they continued to see him outside of his professional sphere as a detective, Y more than anybody else.
    “If anybody can give us some pointers on this cat, John can,” Patra said. “Just make sure you hook up with him. And Y? Remember business first and the butt naked sex comes later, yeah.”
    “We’re good friends,” Y protested weakly.
    “Whatever,” Patra grinned.

They realised Suzy had gone mystic on them after they h
ad finished teasing each other.

Waiting as they always did for her to rejoin them, Suzy opened her eyes slowly. Meditation was her way of keeping herself and the world in check.
    “Someting will turn up for us, it won’t end like this,” Suzy looked at Y, her voice losing its cold edge.
    “If we keep talking about this motherfucker, he would have won. And there’s no way his raggedy ass is going to have shit over me.” Patra smiled cunningly, her hi-lighted corn rows glowing under the lights. “If anybody can pull us out of this shit with a plan you can sugahh. We’ve done this before?”
    “We have, haven’t we,” Y said smiling.
    Y’s posture noticeably changed, a wave of determination snapping her into her former shape. The dejected slump in her shoulders corrected itself and a spark of optimism shone in her eyes. She walked back over to Suzy and Patra, hugging them in turn then making herself comfortable in her chair.
    “So where do we go from here?” Patra asked.
    Her legs crossed, Y made semi-circular movements with her toes.
    The girls needed hope and what could she offer them?
    The nervous twist of Suzy’s lips and the frustrated shake of her head, Patra fought the turmoil inside by being cool, her hand unsteady as she brought the cigarillo to her lips, Y felt as if she was carrying a hollow burden of despair, like a chunk of rock had been forced into her chest.
    What in God’s name could she say to them?
    It was clear how much she owed the girls. How much they believed that together they could make a difference. This calamity was her fault and her responsibility and she wouldn’t allow herself to forget it.
    The rest of the posse looked on.
    “The facts are straight-forward,” Y said. “We’re broke. Any ideas we had of leasing the property for our little business venture is dead. No deposit, no two months in advance, no cash for refurbishment, nuthin’. Even if there was more time, which there isn’t, we still couldn’t come up with the cash to save the deal. I have a feeling that how things are going just now, even the bank would gazump our ass, just for the hell of it. Bad II the Bone will not be a reality any time soon.”
    “Tell me something I don’t know,” Patra mumbled.
    “Wha bout Mr Patel?” Suzy asked. “Money is no object for a Don like dat. Him would lend us cash without a murmur but I‘m not sure how mi would feel about dat.”
    “After we helped to solve the problem he had with those Punjabi boys, he knows we have his back. He went out of his way to repay us, though. Free lifetime membership at the club, he virtually built the corner for our convenience. I just couldn’t find it in my heart to borrow money from him, as well.”  
    “I could.” Patra quipped.
    Y patted her on the shoulder.
    “One of these days girlfriend, we’ll have a long talk about having principles.”