Reckoning From Beyond - Chapter 3

I'm sitting between the two 'white boys', while Jamal drives and Dreadlocks sits in the front passenger seat. I feel no warmth or cold. I'm neither hungry nor thirsty. It seems anger is the only feeling I have left.

  'Who could go for a kebab? I'm starvin',' says Scar.

  'Ya sick, man,' says Jamal, his eyes forward. 'We jus' 'ack a man to bits and ya 'ungry?'

  'Come off it, Jamal, it's not the first time,' replies Scar. 'Anyway, I didn't have time for dinner earlier.'

  'A drop ya off. A 'ave someting to discuss wit Jerome anyway,' says Jamal. 'Where ya want droppin'?'

  Scar looks through me at Mikey.

  'Main high street in Soho, mate,' he says with a nod to Mikey.

  Being invisible has its bonuses.

  I now know we're not far from London, but I have no idea where we were or where my body is. The only thing I need to know is who paid these sick bastards to murder me. I can feel myself growing stronger; I'm not as weak as I was not even ten minutes ago.

  We pull up outside a nightclub in Soho fifteen minutes later. The dashboard clock says eleven thirty six. I left my office at half seven. That's four hours ago. It only took half an hour to get here from where they left me; the math doesn't add up. I shake away the thought.

  ''ere's five tousand each,' says Jamal,handing Scar and Mikey an envelope each. 'Ya boys did well.'

  As Scar goes to leave I reach out and touch his earlobe.

  Scar brushes his hand against his ear. 'What the fu..'

  'What it, man? What up?'

  'I just felt something touch my ear,' replies Scar, clearly shaken.

  'What? What ya feel?'

  Scar's chest rises and falls and his hair is standing up on the back of his neck.

  'Ya fuckin' wit us?'

  'No,' he says, 'it felt like a finger.'

  Dreadlocks, Jerome, turns to Scar. 'Maybe it dat white boy come back to haunt ya.'

  Jamal, Jerome and Mikey all belly laugh.

  'Fuck you guys,' complains Scar. 'Honestly, I felt it.'

  I grin; this could be more fun than I thought. And Scar could be highly entertaining. I think of getting out with him, but decide to stay in the car with Jamal and Jerome. They'll know more about who hired them than the other two. From what I can make out, Jamal is the leader. I'll have my fun with Scar later.

  Scar and Mikey take their envelopes, put them inside their jacket pockets and leave. Both doors slam and Jamal starts driving again. I'm in the back seat.

  'What on your mind, Jamal?'

  Straight to business is Jerome; there's no messing about.

  'We need to calm it, man,' says Jamal, concentrating on the road.

  'What ya talkin' 'boot, man,' asks Jerome. 'I been tinkin' 'boot expandin'.'

  I listen, not quite getting it.

  'Ya fuckin' crazy, man, it too risky. We been too busy.'

  Jerome turns and stares at Jamal without looking away, while Jamal refuses to look at him. 'We need to be busy, man. I been talkin' to a couple contacts. Dey can trow business a way, man.'

  Jamal mulls it over. I sit listening.

  'We don't need dis kinda business,' replies Jamal. 'Da club doin' well, man. We bringin' in loada cash.'

  'Not da kinda cash we need. Dis is da business we need; it bring in a mint. Look what we make tonight, fity tousand for a hour.' 

  'Ya, but look at risk involved.'

  'Don't be such coward, man. No one touch us.'

  'Not yet, man, not yet.'

  I can't believe what I'm hearing. I considered Jamal the ring leader, but not now. It appears Jerome, the quiet one, calls the shots.

  'Ya know we oota a depth, Jerome,' says Jamal, as he turns the car left at a junction.

  'What ya talkin' 'boot? We cool, man.'

  'Ya know we treadin' on Marvin's toes, man. He not gonna be 'appy wit us.'

  I'm shocked when Jerome shouts, 'Fuck Marvin! Fuck dem Yardies, man! Dey got nutin' on us.'

  'A don't tink you be sayin' dat to Marvin face, man.'

  'Ya know what, Jamal, fuck ya too! A not scared of Marvin or 'is mob.'

  'Hey, a jus' sayin',' replies Jamal in a who me? fashion.

  'Don't forget who got ya in dis, man! Don't fuck wit me!'

  There is silence while Jamal drives through Chelsea.

  I thought these two would live in the East End, or in some cave somewhere, but apparently not. We drive past nice looking detached and semi-detached houses in the suburbs. The club they mentioned must have been doing well; that or the murder business was going good. It's probably the latter, as there are so many clubs in London it's a wonder any of them make money.

  Jamal pulls up outside a detached house.

  'Jus' remember what a said, Jamal,' says Jerome as he opens his door. 'A brought ya inta dis, a can take ya oot.'

  Jamal nods. Jerome slams the door and the car shakes slightly.

  'Fuck ya, Jerome,' mutters Jamal under his breath. 'A not dyin' for no one.'

  We park on an inclined driveway. The house is detached with a red double garage door and trellices lined with flowers on the walls surrounding the front French windows next to the garage. The front door is white with a lion's head on it; the mouth holds the knocker. It looks like a middle class residence, but I know it is the home of a killer, my killer.

  Jamal remains in the car.

  He sighs heavily before opening the car door. He seems like a man with a lot on his shoulders. I can't help but smile at the thought. He's going to have more on his plate soon enough. I relish the thought.

  I follow him inside his house. Stepping inside another man's house is a bit like visiting another country; it's a real culture shock and eye opener. The house has a really feminine touch and has been lovingly decorated; it's nothing like I expected a man like Jamal to live in. The hallway is bright and the walls are a light green pastel colour. If I could smell I'd expect it to smell floral, or of home baked bread or something. It has a cosyness to it. The kitchen is new and obviously expensive with a tiled wooden floor and modern appliances.     

  Jamal walks through to the lounge, switches the huge TV on and checks the football results. He takes an envelope out of his jacket pocket and sits down on the sofa. He bends over the coffee table and flicks through the notes in the envelope. The notes are in bundles of five thousand and I count three. Fifteen thousand he got for tonight by the looks of it. My anger quickens again.

  A lightbulb pops above Jamal's head, casting him in darkness.

  'Shit, not again, man! Fuckin' bulbs,' he says as he stands and walks into the kitchen.

  I hear a sweet voice from upstairs.

  'Jamal, be quiet doon der,' whispers the voice. 'Da kids asleep, man.'

  In spite of the accent, her voice is inviting.

  Before I know it, Jamal's girlfriend or wife is standing in the hallway watching Jamal look for a replacement lightbulb. Even in a white dressing gown she is hot. She has long shiny dark hair and is not as black as Jamal. She has an ample bosom and an hour glass figure to die for. Her teeth are straight and white, perfect. Her high cheek bones are what make her beautiful, and not just pretty. She is stunning.

  'You ok? You look stressed, man,' she says as Jamal turns with a bulb in his hands.

  'O' course a am,' he replies with a smile revealing shiny white teeth. 'A just need change da bulb. Dese tings go all da time, man.'

  Jamal's woman steps up to him and puts her arms around him.

  Jealousy stabs me as I think of Sammy. Her image flashes in my mind.

  'It not often ya 'ere dis early, man,' she whispers in his ear.

  I see the look of desire in his eyes as he looks down at her.

  Rage is building up inside as I watch them kiss. It's almost uncontrollable.

  Jamal puts the lightbulb on the kitchen sideboard and walks his woman upstairs, leaving me downstairs.

  I wait for all the lights to go off. My mind is loaded with violent thoughts; it's not surprising since I've just been murdered and I'm now pacing inside my murderer's house, listening to him make love to his girlfriend or wife, or whatever the hell she is to him.

  I'm pacing from the lounge to the dining room. My thoughts are tormenting me; I'm thinking of Tom and Sammy. Mainly Sammy at this point, of her gorgeous smile and silky legs, her curves and sense of humour. From inside I can feel a burning sensation building. If I were alive I'd be hyperventilating right now, but I'm not alive.

  I stare at the glass cupboard in the dining room. It contains wine glasses and ornaments that have obviously taken years to buy and display.

  I fall to my knees finally, the pressure in my chest too much to absorb any longer.

  I let out a yell.

  Every glass object inside the cupboard, and the glass doors explode and splinter into a million shards. The noise is immense.

  The cry I let out is not mine; it's an unearthly high pitched screech, the likes of which I've never heard.

  Upstairs I hear movement.

  'Who down der, man?'

  Jamal's voice is shaking, but it's obvious he's trying to sound tough.

  'A got gun, man,' he adds, 'ya better leave before a get angry. Ya don't wan' see me angry.'

  I watch him walking slowly down the stairs in a pair of boxers with a pistol in his hand. Jamal is huge, with a toned six pack stomach and taut chest muscles. I notice how bad his skin is; his cheeks are littered with pock marks, but they're largely hidden by how black he is. He's taking one stair at a time. His breathing is shallow, and I can see his hand trembling. I walk closer to him, yearning to kill him.

  'Ya fools if ya still 'ere,' he says as he steps into the hallway.

  I'm right behind him. My face is an inch away from his neck.

  Jamal starts shivering. He breathes out heavily and I can see the condensation in the air from his breath. 

  'What da fuck, man!' He rubs his right arm with his free left hand.

  He walks forwards and I stay where I am. The further away I am from him the less he shivers.

  Jamal walks into his dining room to find glass all over the light brown carpet.

  'Jamal, who der, man?' His woman whispers loudly, ironically.

  'No one, Terri, take da kids in a room. Don't come down 'ere, man.'

  I walk up behind him just as he turns around.

  He walks right through me.

  Jamal freezes. He shivers heavily and the hand carrying the pistol shakes violently.

  I can hear his heart beating so fast I can bearly make out the pauses. If I didn't know better, I'd swear he was about to have a heart attack.

  He suddenly bolts into the hallway and up the stairs, flying up two at a time.

  'This is going to be fun,' I say, the realisation dawning on me of just what I can do.