The Survival Game by Stavro Yianni

Author:Stavro Yianni
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Crime, North London, Thriller, Drugs, Ethnic, Greek Cypriot, Guns, Drama, Yardies, Gangs

CHAPTER ELEVEN

To keep up the lie he fed Alisha about working in Aziz’s shop, John had to be well away from the caravan during the day. He also didn’t want Aziz grilling him about the delivery, so hanging around the hall was out of the question. So he found himself in St. Barnabas again, sitting on a bench near the pulpit, his fingers interlocked into one big fist, his nose resting upon them. It was now Thursday. Aziz’s deadline was tomorrow and he was still waiting for Ishmael to call.

High above him, the Panayia stared down at him with her sorrowful painted eyes. He could feel all the eyes on him—not of people ’cos the church was empty, but of the painted apostles (John the Baptist, Saint Christopher carrying Christ as a moro on his shoulder, Saint George slaying a dragon), the Panayia, and Christos. He could feel them scrutinising him the same way he was scrutinising himself. Guilt had reared its ugly head again. All ’cos of that malaka Ishmael. He knew it was a bad idea to go and see him, and that he’d regret it afterwards. There was bad blood between them that only his relationship with Alisha stopped from becoming spilt blood. But at this point, he was so desperate, he’d do almost anything to get out of the skata he was in. Anything. He tried all night with no success to get Ishmael’s words out of his head—she feels sorry for you. She saw a part of him in you and pitied you, felt like she had to help you through your pathetic life.

What was the prick on about, gamota? Feels sorry for me? She loves me. Why else would she have married me? Carry my baby? Stick by me through all this crap?

No, no, no, he was talking proper amounts of skata, re. Alisha loved him, he was one hundred percent sure of that. Not ninety-nine percent, but one hundred, gamota. He tutted loudly and it echoed around the church. What did he know, anyway? He’s just pissed that his cousin married a Greek instead of a black Muslim. Stick to your own ’n all that rubbish. Malaka will say anything just to cuss me down, make me feel bad ’cos he doesn’t want me, doesn’t want me ’cos of Yousif.

It’s all ’cos of Yousif.

He sighed heavily. It was the very mention of Yousif’s death that had sent the guilt flying around inside him the previous night and all day today. He sat in his car for most of last night, smoking cigarra and drinking beer, much to the displeasure of Alisha. But he couldn’t do anything else, he was waiting anxiously for Ishmael to come through like a crack fiend waiting for a hit, thinking about Marek, about Aziz, about that Yardie, about the delivery, about Yousif… Damn Yousif. It wasn’t my fault, gamota. I’m not a murderer! You can blame me all you like!

The real problem though, was that the Yousif situation walked hand in hand with Yiayia’s death in terms of the guilt.

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