Stoker Towers loomed above the city like monstrous aeries of some mythical bird. Only five years since construction had finished, and the last tenant had moved in two weeks ago. Shaka-D, and his Posse, the Camden Bloods rolled in a week later.
He now had six dealers on the estate, bringing him a cool six thousand a week, if you add it to what he made at the Gables nightclub on the edge of the Estate. Yes life was good, he thought as he deposited the latest cash drop off in the hidden safe in his brand new Merc.
He looked at the bling covering his fingers and felt a small degree of satisfaction at the tinkle the gold chains round his neck made when he moved. He was definitely living the dream; he had the cars, the money, the women and most of all respect. Garnered through fear, he knew, but respect was respect, however it was gained.
He lit up a blunt, took a toke before passing it to Little-G, his long-time friend and number two.
“Aye man, we cleaning up in dis town.” He shook his long dreads and stretched his muscular frame.
“Seen brah, we own dis town!” Both their accents were tinged with the Jamaican of their ancestors even though both had grown up in London and the closest they had been to Jamaica was watching Cool Runnings.
Shaka looked out his window, at two oldies shuffling past; the old geezer looked at him and spat on the pavement. He was out of the car and striding across to them before G realised what was happening.
He moved in front to bar their way. They looked at him and he smiled as he saw the fear in their eyes.
“Whatcha mean, dissing me; dead man walking,” Shaka pushed the old man and he fell to the ground.
“Leave him alone, we have done nothing to you,” the old lady said. Shaka turned to her and snatched her handbag from her bony fingers.
“These are my streets Grandma, and you man litter em up with his diseased lugie, so you got to pay the toll.”
He took her purse from her bag. She helped her man stand up. The soulless windows of the tower blocks gazed at the lethal interaction.
“He’s coming for you Shaka, then you’ll be sorry,” the man coughed.
Shaka shoved his face into the old man’s, smelling peppermint and a hint of whiskey on his breath.
“What you are chatting about old men, some rival posse got Knives for me?”
“Shut up ken,” the old woman shot him a warning look.
Shaka grabbed the front of Ken’s Jacket.
“Tell me now, Ken, who gunning for Shaka, tell me, I let you keep your coin, you don’t, I take your soul,” He whispered the last three words. The old woman was crying now but Shaka ignored her.
“I am saying no more, you’re days here are over!”
Shaka growled and whipped out his gun, bringing it down on the side of the old man’s head, once, twice. He dropped him to the ground, drew back his foot and launched a kick which nearly took Ken’s head off his shoulders.
The old lady screamed. Shaka spat on his lifeless, bleeding body.
“Camden Bloods own these streets and now I own you!”
G pulled at his sleeve.
“C’mon man, we got to get out of here.”
On the other side of the estate Bookie Jones completed his tenth sale of the night. He added the twenty quid to the five hundred he had already made. Shaka would be pleased with him, normally he only made around a ton here. Must be some kind of party going down. Well he didn’t care, with his cut of tonight’s take he would buy his baby momma something shiny.
He called over to Youngblood, so called because he was the youngest of their posse at fourteen; Bookie had forgotten what his real name was. He had been keeping an eagle eye at the far end of the garages for five-oh. Now it was time to move and meet Shaka at the Supersaver shop to hand over his take. Normally Little-G did the collections, not tonight, for some reason the big boss man had tagged along. All good as far as he was concerned, Shaka be seeing what a top seller he was.
He watched as Youngblood came towards him, and chuckled as he tried to imitate the pimp stride of his elders. Bookie looked at his watch then back to Youngblood, who was no longer walking towards him. He frowned.
“Youngblood, where you at?” He called. Silence, except for the sound of traffic from the nearby High Street.
He walked along the garages, cursing his homie; this was no time for fucking around. Shaka would blow if he was late. He reached the point where he last saw Youngblood, adjacent the alley which led towards the Sikh temple on Grasmere Drive. He peered into the darkness; there was no sign of him.
Fuck ‘im, Bookie thought, he didn’t have time for this shit. He headed towards the end of the garages when a sound made him stop. It sounded like a cross between a cat meowing and a dark chuckle. Wisps of what looked like smoke, curled out of the alley between the garages. He felt a shiver inside. He turned to run and ran slap bang into a black clad figure. Bookie bounced back and fell on the floor.
“Whoa, goin’ on blood, you blind innit?”
He looked up as the doors of hell opened before him.
Little-G pulled into the kerb outside Supersavers. The lights from the shop created a small oasis in the darkness, all the street lights here had been smashed, and the council long since gave up replacing them because the Bloods would smash the replacements. No mention was made of the incident on the other side of the estate.
Shaka looked at his watch and shook his head.
“Bookie late,” he hated bad time keeping and his paranoia made him think his soldiers were up to no good.
“Give the blood time, Bookies a good soldier, he be here.” G ran a spade like hand over his shaven bullet head; this was going to be a bad night. He loved Shaka like a brother; they had been friends since childhood. He knew all his moods and like something alive he could feel the air of danger flowing from him.
“Who you think coffin dodger Ken mean when he say someone is coming,” Shaka said as he turned to look at G.
“Could be any number of Posses, D, the Hackney Forty Niners been heard dissing us, remember other night at the club, those mugs were Forty Niners.”
Shaka slowly nodded his head.
“Yeah we showed them fools for shu, skin one up Brah, then we take a ride over to collect from T-Bone.”
He rolled down his window and spat outside.
“We deal with Booboo Bookie later.”
G rolled a toke and passed it to Shaka then putting the Merc into gear, he pulled away from the kerb. They headed back into the estate, both noticing how quiet it had gone. Normally a few youths would be hanging out.
They headed for T-Bones spot, behind block three by the bins. Pulling up just shy of the bins, they found no one in sight.
“Wha’ fuck up with these fools tonight,” Shaka spat.
G pointed to the far end of the line of big steel drum bins. Shaka followed his finger to see a pair of feet sticking out. Shaka jumped out of the car followed by G, who pulled out his Glock.
Slowly they approached. The sound of wind whistled through the balconies above them. No other sound could be heard, except their breathing.
Shaka hung back, his weapon in his hand now, G moved forward to the end of the bins. He stopped and looked down.
“Bookie dead?”
G looked over at him.
“Then some, come, check ‘im.”
Shaka walked over to G and looked down. T-Bone was sprawled on his back, arms out to his side like a starfish. His right hand lay under the bin. His skin was grey and the look on his face spoke of the fear in his last moments. A large dark stain covered his abdomen and groin area.
“What you think happen?”
“Nothing good Shaka, that’s for sure,” G’s voice had slipped out of his Jamaican and into the London of his birth.
They both looked all around but could see no signs of life.
“Forty Niners are gonna pay for this!” Shaka growled.
“You think they did for Bookie too?”
Shaka looked up at the flats surrounding them.
“If you want a fuckin’ war, you got a fuckin’ war, I own you all,” Shaka screamed up at the silent lightless flats. It hit him then, he had not noticed before. Not one single flat had a light on.
“Something not right here, D.”
“Niners, trying’ to fuck with us is all.”
Light suddenly bathed them from behind. D turned and shielded his eyes. Some fucker had turned the Mercs headlights on full beam. He aimed his weapon, gangster style at the Car.
“You want some of dis,” D emptied the clip at the car, the sound bouncing off the tower blocks. Luck more than a good aim, popped the lights out and once more they were bathed in darkness.
G ran over to the car and checked inside, it was empty. A little flame of fear ignited within him. The whole estate was strange tonight, now T-Bone was dead and Bookie was missing.
“Shaka, brah, I think we better get out of here.”
“Don’t be a butoo, you let one dead body spook you, c’mon we check yard clean.” D slammed another clip home and headed towards the centre of the estate. G locked up the car and headed after him.
“Feel no way, dready, Shaka-D gonna hunt down dis fish and stomp him den all be Irie in the grounds.”
G wished he had the same confidence as his brother from another mother, strange juju was about tonight, and you could almost taste it in the air. The central area was a series of walkways and circular areas of greenery with benches to sit and take in the view. Here too there was no sign of life or any lights from any of the flats. Normally you could hear the traffic from the nearby High Street but now all you could hear was wind whistling round the tower blocks. Shaka-D jumped onto one of the benches.
“Shaka-D be here, come ketch-up with me, I will beat you like a maga-dog, COME!”
A whispering sound came from all around them. G felt his skin prickle.
Behind them, they heard a low growl. Turning, they saw two black furred dogs at the end of the path they were on. A grey mist swirled behind them between the tower blocks. Through this a figure appeared. Out of the mist walked the old man’s wife. She stopped behind the dogs.
“What you want old lady?”
She said nothing, just smiled. The dogs made a low growling sound, baring their teeth. She patted their heads and told them to sit.
G and D looked at each other, both thinking the same; the woman was crazy.
D raised his weapon and pointed it at her.
“Leave old woman or you will taste Shaka-D’s righteous anger.”
“Oh I am not going anywhere,” she said, “Your days here are over Mr Shaka-D, you should not have killed Ken. . . He has . . . Friends.”
Shaka-D threw back his head and laughed, a crazy look coming to his eyes. G had seen this look before and knew the old lady was in serious trouble.
“You should have stayed out a Shaka-D’s business, now you gonna join your bloodclaut husband.”
He shot the two dogs who slumped to the ground with a yelp. The gun slowly rose to point at the old lady, D, head on one side, smiled crazily.
The sound of the wind picked up, a can rolling across the nearby concrete made G jump. He turned as a leather clad fist slammed into the side of his head. He was knocked to the ground: stunned.
Shaka-D turned at the sound of the commotion behind him; he felt a strong hand knock the gun from his hand and a blur of movement as he joined G on the ground, his head throbbing from the blow. He looked towards the woman and his eyes grew wide with shock, the dogs, once again stood in front of her.
“Meet one of Ken’s friends, he was a clairvoyant, and the dead loved him.”
Shaka-D looked up at the black clad figure towering above him.
“Call me Jack, boss, all the ladies of the night do. . . But seeing as we are going to get to know each other very well; you can call me. . . The Ripper!”
Silver flashed as his blades went to work. The screams turned to a wet gurgling, followed by silence. The old lady and the dogs walked away, she had a small smile on her face.
by 
Andy Scorah
Links to my books:
Homecoming Blues Daltons
Eastern Fury Other Tales
Action Pulse Pounding Volume
Latest posts by Andy Scorah (see all)
- Shadows & Light – A Ballard Tale - July 9, 2014
- Shaka’s Fall - July 30, 2012
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