Story 3-5 TROY THE LONELY BOY
image credit of internetTroy stiffened as from behind the big bird’s cage he was cleaning out he saw a man leap over the counter and stick a gun into the pet shop owner’s belly. “Fill the bag unless ya want brains splattered all over the fuckin’ floor,” he roared into the old man’s ashen face.
Slowly Troy straightened. This was it. This was the day he was going to die.
“There is no money in the till. It’s Monday,” he said stepping out from behind the shelves. It was the third time in the three months he had been there that the shop had been robbed.
The hand holding the gun quivered. Troy prayed the gun was a toy replica. The way the robber was shaking Troy knew he was overdue his fix. “Get the fuck outa here,” he ordered in a voice he hoped held authority and a conviction he didn’t feel. The gun hand swung around in his direction. Troy hoped his boss hadn’t the strength of mind to push the alarm button. “Get out of here. The cops are on their way,” he lied. The hand holding the gun vibrated even more. And then unbelievably he did hear the piercing sound of a police siren. The gunman heard it too and made towards the back entrance of the shop.
“There’s no way out that way, “Troy hissed trying to keep panic from paralysing him completely. Alarmed at all the commotion the big bird stuck out its neck and charged. For a moment everything seemed to happen at once and then slow to a crawl as the man faced with the huge bird grasped the gun in both hands fired wildly before fleeing with a yelled promise that he’d ‘sap’ both of them later.
Troy steadied, Mr Abdullah. “I make money so they can steal it for their drugs,” the old man stammered staggering over to where his beloved big bird lay quivering on the floor blood seeping from its powerful neck.
The wailing of the police siren grew louder. There was a flash of blazing’s lights and ear splitting sound as it sped past the end of their street. “Someone else in trouble,” his boss said attempting a weak smile.
“Ring the scum – the cops – report it,” Troy demanded as Mr Abdullah slumped down on a stool. The body of the small swarthy Indian man sagged. “No use in doing that – not even come back last time.” He sighed in despair. “Time for old man to go home,” he quacked. Troy wasn’t sure if he meant they should shut up shop early or that he should go home to his own country.
“We got held up again,” Troy stated addressing Sammy who sat at the end of the kitchen table. “Old Abdullah is thinkin’ of pulling down the shutters and heading back to Pakistan. Soon be nothin’ in the Arcade but boarded up shops and hoodies selling dope,” Troy muttered.
Sammy didn’t respond until he’d finished weighting out the white powder he was spooning into miniature plastic bags. “Get much?” he asked casually leaning back and folding his tattooed forearms across his barrelled chest. Troy could almost read his mind. If the robber was a local lad it would mean his sales would be up.
“It’s a Monday,” Troy repeated for the second time that day.
“True, the social don’t pay out ‘til Thursday,” Sammy said thoughtfully. “The day the Mamas’ spend their money, buyin’ stuff for their mutts and goldfish,” he smirked.
Troy snorted. “From the shake in his hands and the glaze in his eyes, he didn’t know what day of the week it was. There again, maybe he did,” he growled eyeballing Sammy as he swiftly stached the bags away when he heard Elizabeth’s key in the lock.
Troy’s resolve to get rid of Sammy intensified. But he was no nearer to finding a way. He knew he’d get no help from the ‘hard men’ of the Tower who saw Big Sammy as filling a need. Who then, would help him, he mused. The scum? Naw. Touting to the cops could earn you a bashing or worse. “The guys who’d come looking for me wouldn’t be carrying replica’s guns. It would be the real thing,” he muttered.
He let his thought travel back to when he was in the reform school. Divide and conquer had been the policy there. Cause dissention and suspicion amongst the different gangs. Set them at each other’s throats. Yeah, it might work, he mused. The flats in the Tower had been carved up between “Blades’ and the ‘Chains’ Sammy supplied both gangs.
But what if a whispering campaign implied Sammy was undercutting one gang in favour of the other? Good stuff for one; the dregs for the other. Troy had watch Sammy add in ground down prescription medication and anything else Blossom could steal for him. He’d add it in to supplement and stretch his cocaine supply. Troy balled his fists. Then he strutted about like a prize cock, he thought, claiming what he sold was pure – the real deal. Fury bubbled up in him. Maybe he wouldn’t have to get involved at all; somebody else who thought there were being cheated would do Sammy in – save him the bother. Then it would be his mother’s turn.
He watched her surreptitiously as she fussed over Sammy. She had to know what he was at. Where did she think the money came from for all the gold chains Sammy wore and the fancy rings he bought for her? And the foreign holidays twice a year?
He allowed himself a moment of doubt. Getting rid of his-step father would be dangerous and would take time. He shrugged. All he had to do was keep his head down, do his community service and get the probation bitch off his back
He fingered the little bag of mouse droppings and pet faeces mixed with seed he had in his pocket. He would start adding it bit by bit to Sammy’s drug stash and get the word out Sammy was scamming the punters.
The “For Sale” sign in Mr Abdullah’s pet shop had been up for months. The old man had lost heart and was leaving Troy to take over more and more of the running of the shop. He sat by the till waiting to be robbed again. Troy’s community service order had ended but he couldn’t leave the old shop owner to the mercy of the hoods that prowled the Arcade like a pack of hungry wolves. They were there again today looking out from under hooded eyes waiting for a moment when Blossom was not guarding the shop. Reluctantly, Troy used her as part of the old shop keeper’s protection. The hoods dare not cross her for fear of being cut off from their supply of cocaine.
Troy felt the ever present familiar stab of terror. His gut told him, one day, one night in desperation for a fix the shooter would be back to fulfil his promise to shoot him and the old man dead. The police had fitted a new emergency button to one of the keys on the cash register. He knew as soon as the alarm went off the robber would open fire.
He didn’t want to die.
Mr Abdullah felt Troy’s eyes on him..” You think I am foolish old black man. I am not. They have robbed me of my customers. People will not come now. They are too afraid of the shooter. But I am no longer afraid,” he said straightening.” I have plan – and also gun,” he smiled grimly.
Troy startled.” Give them the fuckin’ money. If you press that button… or pull out that…that old relic, you’ll be dead before you can get him in its sights,” Troy exploded.
Mr Abdullah eyes crinkled in a wry smile. “This is not…what you say…an old relic… It saved my life when I fight in India. It will do so again,” he stated firmly resting the antiquated shotgun across his knees.
Troy shrugged pretending a nonchalance he didn’t feel. Worry gnawed at the pit of his stomach like the rats that fed off the baby mice for sale in the pet shop. He had his own plan; the demise of Big Sammy.
His plan had brought him in contact with the gang members on the estate. He was slowly planting the seed of suspicion about Sammy in their minds. They weren’t fully convinced yet. He needed the rat poison and animal faeces from the pet shop to mix with Sammy’s dope. He couldn’t afford to let the old man’s pride get in the way. He had to find a way disable the emergency security alert and disable the old man’s gun.
“One of these days a buyer will come along and you can go home to your own country,” he told the old man. The shop owner drew back his shoulders and straightened his rounded back. For a moment Troy caught a glimpse of the man he must have been when he was a young soldier. “You are good boy. I know that first day I saw you.” He nodded. “Yes, good boy – I tell big boss from the prison that.”
“Reforms school – St Pascal’s.”
The old man made a guttural sound deep in his throat. “Bad place; learn many bad things.” he muttered. He fiddled with the security button on the till. “He think I stupid black man too. He told me you would slit throats of my pets in shop.” He paused. “You should get away from here – from Big Samuel…And your mother.” he added. He looked beyond Troy, his face wreathed in smiles. “Ah, a customer to buy food for her little parrot,” he smiled hurrying around to the other side of the counter.
Blossom was waiting for Troy on the corner of their building when he got home. She gave him a curt nod and began walking up the alley behind the flats.
“Why are we going to your granny’s house this early,” he asked.
“Always the one for the questions, ya are.”
Troy sensed her uneasiness. Something was wrong, very wrong. As they pushed their way in through the back garden smothered in a tangle of thigh high weeds, he pushed Blossom against the coalhouse wall. “What’s going down?”
Blossom wrenched free. “You’ll know soon enough,” she hissed jamming the big key in the lock.
Gemma Hill 2020©
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