My Name Is Not Jacob Ramsay (34 page)

"Sinatra, please. This isn't it a joke now. You have to understand how serious this is for you." Michael's voice trembled as he stood near a pillar in the large and impressive chamber.

"Serious for me? Are you mad? It's serious for you, prick."

"What are you planning to do, Sinatra? Jesus! How long are you going to keep him here for? A few days? A week? Are you going to feed the poor man?" Jack called from the chamber's rocky arched entrance.

"Ah yeah. I didn't fink about dat. Are you hungry, Michael? I've only got some gum. D'you want dat?" Sinatra asked, delving into his jean pocket and retrieving a pack of Wrigley's Juicy Fruit.

"Sinatra, chewing gum is not food," Jack stated.

"I'm being kind, man!" Sinatra removed a stick of gum and unwrapped it. He gently peeled off the silver gaffer tape from Michael's mouth.

"Open your mouth, man. Michael, open your mouth."

Michael warily opened his mouth as Sinatra popped the stick of gum between his teeth. He began to chew.

"I'll be back in a minute, man," Sinatra told Michael then joined Jack.

"What the fuck are you doing, Sinatra?" Jack whispered.

"Just scarin' him, man," he replied, casually, pulling the iPhone from his pocket and slotting it inside Michael's workbag. He slung the bag into the darkness and edged Jack out of the chamber.

Michael stood alone, against the pillar, in the dark, deep underground. "Hello?" his voice echoed and his body shivered.

"I dunno where to park, man," moaned one of the Somali men driving the Ford Focus into Greenwich Park.

"We're nearly late. Just park anywhere," responded the Somali in the passenger seat, clutching his Adidas track bags. He looked at his cheap digital wristwatch: 18:55.

The four Nigerian men walked through a chalk tunnel, deep underground.

The twin brothers gripped Maglite torches, while the man carrying a bag of cocaine and another man, with a Beretta pistol, held roadwork lights, casting orange beams ahead of them.

"I always forget the way," noted the man with the Beretta.

"Me too. Every step looks the same," chirped the man with the milky white eye.

Jack and Sinatra sat on the sofa in his small living room. The television was on and the movie Harry Brown was playing on the DVD.

"Dis film is crap, man," commented Sinatra, sighing.

"It's seven o'clock, Sinatra."

"So?" Sinatra replied, scowling and turning the sound up on the TV.

"Turn it down and talk to me," Jack said, placing an arm around Sinatra, with him edging away.

"Get off me, man. Stop being gay."

"Stop being gay? Are you serious? Why are you pretending to be so tough? This isn't you, Sinatra."

"Isn't me? What you saying, isn't me? How do you know what is or isn't me? Fool." Sinatra kissed his teeth and zapped the TV sound up some more.

The orange glow of the roadwork light shone on the pale skin of Michael's face. He must have sensed the bright beam as his head twitched. Perhaps it was the sound of footsteps that echoed into the chamber.

"Whoa! What the fock is this!" gasped the Nigerian with the milky eye.

"Who's there please?" asked Michael, in fear.

"Shit man. Who is he?" said the cocaine carrying man.

"Please. I've been kidnapped. Can you call the police or something? Please. Anyone."

The Nigerian with the cocaine in his sports bag laughed out loud. He formed an intense frown.

"Call the police? I think not. Who are you, and why are you worth kidnapping?"

"I work in a school."

"Shut up!" spouted one of the men. He was the twin without the scar. The one who'd helped Sinatra.

"I've heard your-" Michael was soon interrupted when the five Somali men entered the chamber from another tunnel.

"You are late," said the Nigerian with the cocaine.

"I've been down 'ere once, init. Joo fink I can remember deez caves and da layout anshit?" replied the Somali with the two track bags.

"Who the fuck is he, man?" came one of the men, waving his Glock pistol in Michael's direction.

"Never mind who he is. Do you have the money?" asked the cocaine-carrying Nigerian to Mister Track Bags, who scoffed and sneered at the question and exchanged a look with each of his fellow Somali friends.

"Of course, man," retorted Mister Track Bags, raising his blue bag.

The four Somali men suddenly pulled their weapons and started firing, rapidly. They darted around the chamber, like springboks, as they blasted bullets into the chalk walls.

The Mac 10 machine pistol sounded like an electric drill as it spat out bullets. The Glocks sounded like loud bursts of air. Each one released a flash of light in the darkness of the cavern.

Michael was illuminated by the gunfire. He pressed tight against the pillar, gritting his teeth, frightened as hell. He lowered himself down to the ground, rubbing his right shoulder to his right eye, peeling off the black electrical tape that covered it. Widening his eye with fright, he wished he had left it on as he witnessed the onslaught that took place around him.

The two gangs were killing each other.

Screams of pain, adrenaline and fear combined were released by all as bullets raced this way and that, embedding into the chalky walls and piercing and puncturing skin and splitting bone.

One Somali fired his gun whilst diving for the sports bag that was packed with cocaine, but he was soon riddled with bullets, forcing him off his feet and backwards over the stone bench.

Jack and Sinatra exchanged a look, frowning at one another.

"Is that drilling going on?" Jack asked.

"I think it's coming from underground, you know," replied Sinatra, muting the television and standing, listening to the faint sound of an echoed popcorn-sounding drum that rumbled underneath the house.

"Has somebody got fireworks?"

"It ain't November yet, man?" Sinatra pointed out as he exited the room and grabbed his flashlight from the side. He set foot outside to the path.

"Wait! Sinatra, I'm scared." Jack suddenly fled after him.

It was darkening outside as Sinatra strode to the plant-covered cavern entrance. "I'm gonna 'ave a look, man," he said to Jack, against the background of short claps of thunder which escaped from within the hole.

"Let me get my coat. It's getting cold. Wait there." Jack turned back into the house.

Sinatra's light beamed along the way as he hot-footed it down the steps into the depths of the cavern. The noise became clearer and more identifiable as gunfire with every step he took. He swallowed, amazed at the sheer sight. A bizarre curiosity ran through him. He blinked every time a shot was fired. A lot of shots were being fired. He heard a muffled yelling, whistling and echoing through the tunnels. It reminded him of when he was younger, much younger, and back in Angola. It both terrified and excited him.

BANG! BANG!

The noise was deafening. Blood spattered the white, uneven chalk walls. Bodies were strewn about the place, twitching. They jerked and oozed blood. Jaws hung loose and limbs dangled like worn out toys. The dead were amongst the dying.

BANG!

A gunshot sounded off and started a three second silence until it ended with the sound of the bullet casing pinging on the ground with a metallic noise.

A shuffling and a groan sounded out.

Michael squinted with his one free eye, searching through the gunsmoke, chalk dust and cocaine particles, which drifted in the air. They caught the light of the orange roadwork lamps. He quaked with fear as he looked at the contorted mass of bloody bodies around him. He caught sight of a silent figure, lurking in the tunnel beyond the entrance.

It was Sinatra. He signaled Michael to be quiet by placing a forefinger to his lips as he crept into the cave, not knowing the sight that would soon shock him.

Michael slowly stood, relaxing just slightly at the sight of a known face, but was still wary of him.

Sinatra was horrified by the dead bodies strewn around the cavern, but was also somewhat in awe of the sight of guns and drugs as he passed Michael. He turned and stood in a darkened arch of another chamber, taking in more of the view of the dead.

"Gangsta. This is gangsta."

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Michael blinked with each gunshot as Sinatra was blasted three times in the chest, sending him back and down into the darkness.

The last bullet shell spun in the air, twisting round and around, reflecting the light in its brass casing. It landed with a ping at Michael's feet and his eyes diverted and fixed upon it. The eyes rolled upwards to meet another pair.

A pair that belonged to the Nigerian who'd first aided Sinatra.

The Nigerian man winced with pain and was bleeding heavily from a gunshot wound to his thigh and left side. He looked at Michael. "You're coming with me," he said to Michael, limping forward and pressing the black electrical tape down over his right eye to fix it in place again. He turned and staggered to the Adidas track bag, unzipped it and saw bundles of fifty and twenty pound notes. Hundreds of thousands of pounds in tight bundles, secured with red elastic bands. The type a postman would use. He grabbed the bag, slung it over one shoulder, then scooped up Michael's beige canvas bag. He glanced to the darkness where Sinatra lay dead.

"Fuck. Stoopid. Arrow boy," he said to himself, limping round, having done a full circle. He struggled to reach for the bag of cocaine. Some of the kilo bags had split from the gunfire, but he managed to take six bags that he placed into his own. He moaned with pain.

Michael seized the opportunity. He sensed he wasn't being watched so closely and lowered himself to pick up the bullet shell by the ends between his finger and thumb, not actually touching the rounded outer casing at all. Despite his wrists being bound, he removed his chewing gum and stuck it to the pillar. He then stuck the bullet shell to the gum, just as the Nigerian straightened and turned to him.

"Time to go."

"Where are you taking me?" asked Michael, as he was shoved by the man into the cavern and toward the steps. His head turned as he walked. His eyes weren't taped up securely enough. He could see Jack, standing still as a rock, trembling with absolute fear, in a darkened corner by the steps.

"Move," barked the Nigerian, prodding him up the rocky stairwell and out of sight.

Having listened to Jack, Edward closed his eyes. He reopened and sighed, looking around at the dead Nigerians and Somali men who littered the cave. He saw Sinatra being cradled by Jack and then a sparkle of brass caught his eye in the orange glisten of a roadwork light. A single bullet casing, fixed to the pillar with gum. Edward frowned. He covered his mouth as to not to breathe on it and pulled an evidence bag from his fleece pocket, gently easing the gum off the rock with the bag so it fell into it, along with the bullet shell. His eyes then fixed upon a Beretta handgun on the ground near him.

Jason looked ahead as his father approached the vehicle and opened the boot.

Mr Ahmed was almost falling asleep in the backseat. He turned around with a jolt to see Edward rummage in the back of the boot.

Jason exited the car and joined his father.

Edward had a peculiar wooden box with wires and a clamp of some sort. It was the size of a shoebox, but a little taller. He had already prised the bullet shell from the gum and was coating it with some kind of carbon powder, clamping it into the middle of the box. He reached deeper into the boot for two car batteries that were joined together. He attached them to the box via a set of wires. It was like he was about to jump-start the box in a weird kind of way.

"Stand back," he said to Jason, who did so, just as Edward clamped the metal pincer to the battery.

BANG! A short, sudden burst of a thousand or so volts was sent to the bullet shell casing.

"What the bloody hell!" cried Mr Ahmed.

Edward blew the shell and formed a satisfied look.

"I think Mike just helped us out," Edward murmured.

"How - how d'you mean?" asked Jason, exhaling his warm breath into the cold night air.

"There was a shoot-out in a cave underground. Ssh - don't say anything. I'll tell you more later. The boy I just found said Mikey was taken away by a Nigerian bloke. I'll get a fingerprint off this shell and it'll lead us to him, I'm sure of it," Edward said with pure conviction.

"I thought you couldn't get prints off bullet casings," frowned Jason.

"Not usually, but this way you can. A forensic chap called Dr John Bond found a way. Thought I'd try it myself, and he was right. You can. Even years after the bullet was fired," Edward continued as he located a print and took it off the casing, backing it on a plain white postcard. "Take a picture of that on your phone, would you please?"

"Bloody heck. Are you a real life spy?" asked Mr Ahmed, no longer feeling scared, but somewhat excited to be in Edward's presence.

"Not anymore," Edward replied, looking at Mr Ahmed.