The Survival Game by Stavro Yianni Page B

Now when he stared at her, he could see the remnants of the face he used to see all those times she was hungry for crack—the black holes for pupils, the rolling eyes, the longing desire for a hit. It was
allll
coming back. Even though she tried to run from it, Dread I knew it would always be there. Her desire and love for the drug he offered was returning, all she needed was a
lickle
memory jog.
    He nodded his head slowly in appreciation of the good work he’d done. Shandy was puffing her cheeks, her eyes rolling wildly; she was out of it, inna outa space and enjoying the ride.
    ‘Aye, Shandy,’ Dread I said in a soothing voice. ‘This be some ultra high-grade killa shit ya smoking here, seen? Just for you.’
    A bizarre smile flittered across her face. Bizarre ’cos in all truth, she had nothing to smile about right then.
    Dread I began shaking her shoulders, trying to get some of her focus back. He needed her to speak. ‘Shandy. Shandy,’ he repeated.
    She swayed and swooned in his hands, but couldn’t register him. He slapped her lightly across the cheek and something in her eyes suddenly came back, her pupils focussing in on him.
    Dread I nodded his head firmly. ‘Now, Shandy. Ya gonna tell I every
ting
, ya hear?’
    Shandy gazed at him through slitted eyes. She slowly nodded her head in understanding. She then reached out for the crack pipe in his hand.
    Dread I looked down at it, before pulling it away. ‘First ya speak, then ya toke, seen?’
    Shandy frowned. ‘
Okay…
’ she said, in almost a whisper.
    ‘Why you and no one else come see me no more?’ Dread I asked again.
    This time, she answered. In a heavily slurred voice, Shandy spent the following hour spilling her guts, telling Dread I everything she knew.
    And when she finished, she was begging him for another hit.
    *****
    John picked up a candle from the pile, and went over to the large sand-filled holder. A few other candles were already standing upright in the sand, burning brightly. He lit his own from the flame of another, and pushed it into the sand to burn with the others. He closed his eyes and muttered a small prayer for Mum and
Yiayia
before crossing himself. He followed up with a deep, juddering breath and a look around. St. Barnabas was empty. Deserted benches and lonely stained glass windows stared back at him, the eerie feeling they injected into him sending a shiver dancing up his spine. He was experiencing a proper bout of déjà vu, transported back to when he was a kid, dragged to this very place every Sunday against his will. At that time, he always wondered why
Yiayia
would put him through it week after week, the way she’d force-feed him her religion as if she were trying her best to knock the evil out of a demon; he could just never get his head around it. But once he learnt the truth about his father, he understood perfectly. Taking him to church and Sunday school was supposed to teach him right from wrong.
    And look how that turned out,
gamota.
    He wiped his clammy face with his hand as he began to walk down the aisle, wanting to get his business done so he could be away from these bad memories and get on the job. All around him, the empty benches watched him with sullen stares, that sense of eyes on him smothering him like noxious gas. When he looked up, he saw them—stained glass images and statues of sorrowful eyes, all beaming down at him. Watching his every move. Watching him come closer.
    He made it near the pulpit before he turned right and headed that way, now amongst the benches. He turned and faced the front, then took a seat on a hard, bony bench. It creaked slightly under the pressure, the sound echoing around and around like he was on some kind of horror film set with Frankenstein and the Mummy. He sighed and tentatively glanced over both shoulders. This place more and more became
Yiayia
’s life the older she got. Probably sitting exactly where he sat right then, praying to Christ, lighting endless amounts