Chapter 9: Wilder Clarke
January 31st Tuesday 2023
The night air, damp to the touch, glistened on his smooth dark skin under the numerous street lights. Shuffling with every step, Wilder limped on one leg as he edged through Bidwell Street and towards the bricked rail bridge that passed overhead. Moist particles of rain drifted like mist dusting his twitching lips and agitated shifting eyes as he scoured the area for unwanted gazes. Rain was coming but not anytime soon.
Cuddling his bare arms, shielding them from the occasional brute winters chill. Wilder's black suit sleeves were rolled up and dishevelled. His unspoiled white and neatly tucked in undershirt hung loosely out of his trousers, caked in dirt and blood. It looked like to any other person that Wilder had been living rough for the past few days.
Fidgeting and agitated, Wilder scratched at his skin with his sharp finger nails, breaking the surface as tiny bulbs of blood oozed out. Moving for cover underneath the bridge, he was soon greeted by a small group waiting in the centre of the road. Each was completely oblivious to Wilder's presence until he approached with a noisy cough that brought him close to his knees.
"Who do you think that is?" one guy asked another as he gestured lazily towards Wilder.
"A tweeker from the looks of um" replied the other with a shrug.
Six stood underneath the bridge. Each donned in colourful outfits and odd accessories ready for a banging party. All except for one extra person who stood stoically by a steel door under the bridge.
The bouncer or doorman was dressed in a black sleeveless shirt that showed off his bulging muscles. An act of intimidation despite the occasional obvious shiver of a cold night.
Raising one hand casually, gesturing with a beckoning finger, the bouncer called each waiting partygoer individually to be examined before being let in.
Watching from the side, close to the end of the bridge that he could feel the moist air on the back of his neck, Wilder observed as warm breath hastily vacated from his mouth. A trickle of drool seeped and escaped, dripping down to his chin before rolling under his neck. The bouncer seemed to have noticed him, glancing several times towards his direction but never wanting to acknowledge him.
"You there! Come forward!"
Next to be called up was a man of perhaps twenty-two years of age. He had the young adult look to him. Like a man trying to be the popular kid in school, his outfit screamed "notice me" in bright blues and purples.
"Roll up your sleeve" the bouncer ordered in a tone that sounded rough and course. It was as though he had been speaking all night and his throat started to break in the cold of the evening.
"Fuck yeah!" the young adult replied, grinning like an idiot as he glanced back at his two companions.
Hastily shoving his sleeve full to his elbow, the man gleefully showed off the underside of his arm with great pride.
Barely visible from the street lights that illuminated the ends of the bridge. Wilder could faintly see from underneath their chosen arm was a tattoo inked in crimson red, designed in the shape of three claw marks.
"You can go. Next, you!" the bouncer ordered as he knocked on the steel door with his bare knuckles.
Creaking with the sound of steel against steel, the door echoed from underneath with a light screech.
From within the dark void, sounds of pumping music and euphoric voices leaked out before suddenly being snuffed as the door closed once again.
It did not take long before there were only two bystanders left waiting to be permitted through.
"Next! You!"
Stepping up for her turn was a woman that Wilder could only describe as barely an adult. A child than could pass for eighteen to the untrained eye but clearly a year or two short.
She was nervous. The bouncers intimidating presence caused her to rub her arm relentlessly in an uncomfortable manner.
"Show me your arm!" he demanded.
Glancing briefly to the man before looking far away the girl meekly replied "sure" before pulling onto her sleeve.
Another tattoo baring the three crimson claw marks appeared. It was fresh, the protective plastic and the raw skin still slightly inflamed was visible.
"Your fine. Go!" he knocked on the door
But the girl did not respond. The door opened to the wonders of the other side, a jamming tune thumped and bounced.
"Go! I said" the bouncer repeated, his patience wearing thin as hot breath vapoured from his mouth in rising anger.
But she still did not move. Instead of the bouncer, her attention was fixated on Wilder, the man with a limp and cold drool down his neck. Her eyes widened with a stare of awe and horror mixed to perfection.
Shambling closer with a foot dragging across the wet damp floor. Wilder panted with quivering lips, his blood shot eyes darting left and right with struggling focus.
Within three feet of the young girl, the door behind the bouncer slammed shut. The steel echo bouncing under the bridge snapped the girl seemingly out of a trance as she steadily backed away.
"I'm sorry!" she mumbled so quietly it was like a whisper.
At first with a walk, she back off but that slowly picked pace as she darted in the opposite direction, continuously looking back towards Wilder with sheer panic and tears welling in her eyes.
Disappearing into the night, the girl was gone, leaving Wilder twitching alone with the bouncer with a slight confused look that turned. Looking judgmentally down with his towering frame, Wilder could only hunch and lower himself in return.
"What do you want?" he asked, though Wilder expected the man knew the answer already.
"This is an exclusive club. Special invites only! Now scram!"
"B-Brian D-Denly" Wilder stuttered weakly as he spat saliva onto his chin.
"I-I got t-the m-money for pop P-Poppies. T-told m-me to meet h-him here"
Lightly veiled in the orange glow of a nearby streetlight, the bouncer looked Wilder up and down and cracked an approving smile.
From what the man saw, Wilder was a black man in a thousand-pound suit. Stained and ruined by marks of mud and a red substance that could only be seen as powder.
Patches of this red colour was more noticeable around Wilder's white collar and just underneath his neck. It was like Wilder had planted his face into a bowl of red powder but forgot to wash his clothes.
"Brian aye?" he smirked, his head cocking lightly back and forth as he eyed the puny man before him.
BANG! BANG!
Hard knuckles rattled the door behind him as they opened to his approval.
"Cavan!" he called inside.
"I got a stray for Brian! Take him through and make sure he's had his fill. Go on in, don't keep Brian waiting"
Nodding nervously as his eyes shied away from the bouncers, Wilder limped his way into the dark like a scared helpless dog afraid of the loud music.
Slamming behind him with a clunk, the door cut off all-natural light in the room. Wilder could barely see his hand mere inches away from his face. However, as his eyes begun to focus, a hot glow of a red bulb hung in the ceiling veiled a narrow hall in shades of black and rose.
Eyes stinging as they adjusted, Wilder finally noticed the thinly tall white man dressed in seemingly bright colours next to him.
"You got cash right?" Cavan asked without courtesy as he roughly grabbed Wilder by the shoulder.
Shifting his nervous gaze to the taller man, Wilder instinctively hunched lower as his arms parted to fumble and find his wallet.
"Here! I h-have p-plenty!" he said as drool seeped between his lips like rushing water.
Eyes of disgust soon formed to greed as Cavan snatched the leather wallet from Wilder's hand. Inside was a fat stack of tens and twenties that filled it to the brim.
Even under the strange rose glow of the light, Wilder could see the wide white and yellow smile of Cavan as he handed back his wallet but not before taking one or two notes as payment.
"Right this way" he ushered, guiding a hand further into the hall.
Limping and struggling to inch closer, Wilder listened to the music and cheers that grew louder while the floor seemed to move to a gentle slope.
From the patches of light that hung overhead, the hallway revealed walls of stone and thick cables running alongside them. It appeared to be part of an abandoned service tunnel, perhaps used for the railway above.
The floor continued to descend as the shadow of a beaded curtain came into view. By the time Wilders arm was within reach, he was certain they were now at least six feet underground.
Bright lights of white, red, blue and green rolled into view. Rotating and illuminating on Wilder's dazed and sleepy face like a pin wheel as the music pumped and boomed, thumping into his ears.
Cavan, impatient with Wilder's speed moved ahead and drew back the beads and revealed a large open space with a bustling floor full of ravers and a brightly lit bar off to the side.
Jumping up and down in inconsistent rhythm, Wilder could feel the floor pulse from the beat. He swayed like a lost lamb as the tempo confused and startled his sleepy brain.
"Stay close!" Cavan yelled, his voice carried away by thumping techno as he snatched Wilder by the arm. Dragging him like a lost child through a packed mall.
Their pathway was tight and enclosed by the warm bodies of patrons. Even though they stayed close to the edge of the room, each partygoer they passed bumped and blocked the way as they moved throughout the floor. It was a tiring but short journey to reach the bar.
"Cavan! What brings you my way? Not looking for a quick pick me up per chance, are you?"
Standing without grace behind the starry bright bar was a rather tall and broad woman. Her hair, oaken dark in shade was short and evenly cut. Cheeky was her smile and her eyes beaming with energy even at this late hour. She had a way of speaking that boasted raw energy that would frighten any man.
"Nah! Can't drink tonight Carla, J.J's been busting my ass about leaving the door too often. Besides I'm looking for Brian. Got another lost lamb that needs his fill of Poppies"
Casually pulling on Wilder's arm, Cavan showed off his new catch with a sickening grin. He seemed very pleased with himself, like a man revealing the largest fish of the day that outstretched his arms.
"Look at this darkie" he said as he leaned in closer to the bar, shoving aside two standing patrons with their drinks.
"The freaks high off his tits. Poppies have messed up his brain big time"
Wilder could only drool with drooping lips and lazy eyes as Carla stared back. Large rough hands gently rotating a cloth around the rim of a glass mug, she didn't stop her work as she judged the prize before her.
Her brow scrunched a little as her gaze squinted. Carla seemed displeased with what she saw as a light grumble parted her lips.
"Are you sure it's wise to give him to Brian? Poor fucker looks like he's just about had it. Don't think he knows where he is right now from the look of em"
Cavan clicked his tongue, barely audible through the sounds of beating music but his face showed his displeasure.
"Whatever! Darkie's quite a piggy bank, no fucking way I'm letting him go. Just tell me where Brian is and I'll be on me marry way"
Parting with her cloth, laying the fabric onto the counter top in a rough heap. Carla raised her thick arm and thumbed towards the back of the room.
"Out back last I heard of him. Should be attending to a few of his regulars I think"
A glinting smile was Cavan's farewell as he dragged Wilder away from the counter. Carla's concerned eyes only stayed on Wilder for a few seconds before she was distracted.
However, her gaze was not the only one on Wilder. For another, a black patron leaning at the edge of the bar took great care to study the man limping towards them.
Gawking with his mouth wide open, like he recognised Wilder as a man he personally knew. The man uttered something that was hidden away in the beat of the music, but his lips spoke clearly to Wilder's eyes.
"Prince!?" he spoke before planting his mixed drink back onto the bar with a splash.
Glancing over his shoulder as Wilder passed the man and left the bar behind, barely visible in the sea of revellers, the black youth parted from the counter in a hurry. Whether he headed straight for the exit, Wilder did not know for the man disappeared from his sight.
"Keep up! You want some Poppies, right?" Cavan beckoned Wilder closer to the back of the club.
Dolled up in bright neon lights, the DJ stage vibed with electric energy as Wilder's poor ears screamed in pain from the stationed loudspeakers nearby. Cavan, like the partygoers carried on unfazed by the loud sounds as he led Wilder to a back door of the club, the beat never seemed to bother him.
Painted in elegant maroon, the door closed tightly behind Wilder as the thumping music turned to a numb drumming that still pulsed into the floor.
"Brian should be in one of the V.I.P rooms back here. Stay close and don't disturb any of the clients or you're out on your ass, without your shit or cash! Ya feel me?"
Wilder nodded with visible aggressive shakes, his spit sloshed and spilled onto the velvet red carpet.
"Fuckin disgusting!" Cavan uttered under his breath.
The corridor was long and narrow, enough room for Wilder to stretch out his arms if he wanted to, but no longer was the width. On each side, the walls were eloquently decorated in deep red swirls that flowed like flames of a roaring fire. They were beautiful in their dancing forms, intimidating with raw colour and tone.
In-between, standing face to face was a series of doors on each side. Each emblazed the Crimson Claw logo with three diagonal marks. Nestled on the centre gouge was a number that ranged from one to twelve.
Six doors stood undisturbed on each side of the corridor. Each appeared to be occupied. Some held white signs written in red on the door knob, "do not disturb" it displayed for all to see. Others held nothing but the sounds of life behind their doors.
There was muffled tones of laughter behind the first door Wilder passed as Cavan led the way. Screaming could be heard in the third. A begging cry for help choking with every grasp of air. It grew silent as Wilder moved to the next door.
Soon, door number twelve greeted the pair in silence. Wilders hands twitched and fumbled as they struggled to clench onto his arms.
Cavan gave him one last look. A slight glimpse from the corner of his eye, likely thinking about the fat stack hidden in Wilder's wallet.
Knocking thrice onto the door, Cavan called in a somewhat respectful tone to the man behind the door.
"Brian! It's me, Cavan. Got one of yours. Came crawling back he did"
…
No answer came from within as only the beating pulse of the club down the corridor could be heard.
"Brian!" Cavan repeated as he banged louder this time. But still no reply.
Growing frustrated and perhaps feeling disrespected, Cavan ignored the "do not disturb" sign on the door and pushed the door open in an irritated shove.
"Come on you!" he said as he dragged Wilder by his wrist.
Pulling hard, Cavan sauntered into the deep red room. Dim were the lights and a veil of darkness obscured the objects in the room as the pair walked in.
"Brian? You here? Where are- oh for fucks sake MOVE blackie!"
Wilder's arm ached as he was shoved onto the floor, his body fumbling, falling onto himself as Cavan abandoned him to his abysmal state.
Turning his bruised and grazed chin along the floor, Wilder's eyes focused amongst the pitch and red and found something disturbing.
Wriggling and shifting with the occasional spasm, lay men and woman alike. Numbering five they were spread across the velvet carpet, flushed and drooling from their mouths. Their minds no longer their own, eyes blood shot and lost in a field of Poppies.
In-between them, sat an oblong glass table. On top of the once clean and polished glass, scattered remains of red powder that laid like snow drifts. Each and everyone here had taken too much of the bliss and memories offered from the table.
Far back at the end of the room, further away from the red bulb that hung in the centre. A large crescent sofa was barely in view. The light from above was too weak to reach that far and all Wilder and Cavan could see was a set of three legs that lay over the side. Two appeared to be female as their slender curves of the legs were naked for all to see. Sat closely between was a thicker build in dark neat trousers.
"Brian, buddy! So sorry to disturb your playtime… I er have one of yours begging for more Poppies. He's loaded Brian! I don't know how you got this sucker but, fucking hell! J.J is going to freak out when he hears about this!"
Brian did not reply.
"You asleep Brian? Fucked too many bitches eh!?"
Stepping over without much care, Cavan ventured closer into the darkness. From the moment he passed the table in the centre of the room, Wilder's twitching ended.
Firm and focused, his hands smoothly found themselves to each side of his body. Cautiously pressing against the soft, velvet fibres, Wilder pushed himself quietly to his knees and gently to his feet. Planting each foot flat and forward, no longer limping.
Back, firm and straight. Sleeves straightened and neatly dusted to an acceptable degree, Wilder wiped away the wet stream down his lip with the back of his hand and cleaned his chin.
Soft sounds of panic soon bounced from the end of the room as Cavan leaned over to the man in the centre of the sofa.
"Oh shit! Brian!... oh god! What the fuck did you do?"
Shoving the two unconscious and high ladies aside, their bodies slumping to the floor carelessly. Cavan lay the man he knew as Brian onto the soft surface of the sofa cushions.
From the bare minimum light that touched his body, Wilder could see streams of red twinkling from a large gash in the man's throat.
Perhaps unseen by Cavan but overwise noticed by Wilder, a box cutter lay on the table with its blade coated in red.
Tiny quiet steps. Each one careful in their movement, Wilder inched closer to Cavan and the dead man on the sofa.
Stepping over a mumbling and dazed woman carefully, Wilder reached into his suit and pulled a pair of white gloves.
His fingers found their way inside, the firm elastic tight on his skin.
Cavan did not see Wilder approach. His eyes were only on Brian's pale corpse.
He did not hear him draw the steel fountain pen from within his suit. His ears only heard the muffled beating of techno from down the hallway.
But he did feel the jab that pierced inside the side of his neck.
Puncturing through like it was an apple, Cavan's neck made a sickening crunch as the pen impaled him. Gripping tight to the man's forehead, Wilder made sure Cavan struggled and suffered a little before he let go.
"Ah! Guh!"
Legs weak like jelly, Cavan tumbled over one of the ladies next to the sofa and slammed onto the glass table.
It cracked from the force but did not shatter as Cavan fumbled for the pen still inside his neck.
Hand red and sticky from Brian's blood, Cavan grasped the steel pen and pulled foolishly. Once the instrument broke free, high volatile spurts of blood gushed from the small hole splattering the people below and the wall behind them.
Dropping the pen from his loose weak fingers with the sound of a light "tink", it rolled across the glass before shortly stopping at the edge, coated in thick red liquid over its elegant silver.
Reaching out with weakening strength, Cavan struggled to seemingly understand the man looming beside him. He did not seem to recognise Wilder standing there.
Barely a word, only a gargle as he choked on his own blood, Cavan closed his eyes for the last time.
…
Without a thought to the fallen man, Wilder reached down for his pen and pulled out a handkerchief from his breast pocket. Within his grasp, the fibres soon drenched themselves in thick red as Wilder's fingers and thumb rolled the pen clean.
Sheafing his weapon back inside his suit, Wilder eyed the men and woman on the floor with a hint of concern.
His mouth curved to a slight frown as he knelt to the closest warm body. A man near his thirties, black African American. Bloodshot eyes wide open and staring at complete nothingness, they twitched and moved erratically as though he was seeing something that wasn't there.
Nose, bloody and sore. Patches of the powder from the table still clung to each nostril.
Lips cracked and dry. A white stream of frothy saliva seeped in the corner of his mouth.
The man was dying and he doesn't even realise it.
"Samui" Wilder called in soft tones. His voice cracked with a hint of sorrow.
The darkness that formed his shadow on the wall started to take form. Bubbling out like a black puddle, a mass of pitch grew into the being known as Samui.
With words like air from a mouth that didn't exist, the Shinigami spoke to the call of Wilder.
"What troubles you Wilder?"
Eyes still searching, Wilder caught a glimpse of the man's bare arm and reached for it slowly. Turning over the wrist to see the underside of the forearm, the jagged marks of the Crimson Claw met his eye.
"How many humans in this room will die before the weeks end?" he asked as he felt ashamed to see the three red marks on a brother's arm.
Cocking her head, Samui seemed confused by the question as she answered in turn.
"I cannot tell you when a human will die Wilder. There are rules that-"
"I KNOW THE RULES" Wilder immediately snapped back. His fingers tightened in their grip, digging into the dying man's skin.
"I know the rules…"
Gently placing the arm back to the man's side, Wilder rose to his feet and looked at every poor man and woman in the room with watered eyes. Each and every one he recognised as a resident of Peckham, even the those who were white. All shared the same tattoo under their arm.
Exhaling with smooth controlled breaths, Wilder turned to face Samui with cold stern eyes of Precision.
"By the rules you follow. You. Samui, cannot inform me. Wilder. Any and all information about a person. Be it their name. location. Or time of death. That rule however does not state for a vague answer. I asked you. How many humans in this room will die by the weeks end. You can give me a number. A single number that only answers to that question alone. I will not know when one person will die. Or who. I will just know that someone. Anyone. May or may not die"
Cold and empty was the expression on Samui's dark and mysterious face. Wilder could not tell if she was angry, frightened or just simply unconcerned. Her answer displayed no hint of emotion.
"Two" she replied.
"Two?" Wilder repeated. The answer made his hand clench softly. He was annoyed and ashamed to hear a number so low and yet feel too high.
Taking one last look at his people of Peckham, Wilder closed his eyes for a moment.
"Sigh… lets go. There is nothing more we can do right now. Time is of the essence"
Closing the door behind him softly as he exited room number twelve, Wilder stopped and glanced towards the far end of the corridor and noted that no one heard the disturbance inside. The other eleven rooms remained occupied and unaware that a murder had occurred. Even the dancefloor on the other side persisted in its activity. Its tempo unabated in its rhythm.
Turning his attention to his left, Wilder glared at one final door that stood in solitary in the hallway. It was not one of the twelve doors to the V.I.P lounges, nor was it the exit to the dancefloor. This door made of steel displayed no colour apart from the bronze rust that was forming around the edges. Fixed onto the centre of the old rustic door was a no entry sign. Just like the door, the sign was old and decaying. Peeling all across its once flat surface.
If what Damian said was true… he should be down there.
Hand firm to the shiny handle. The door, to Wilder's surprise was unlocked and rather easy to open.
Within was a completely new world to the nightclub. No bright colours, lush red carpet or pleasing atmosphere. Instead, was a descending staircase made of stone, cold and unwelcoming like the bricks of grey that lined the walls on each side. There was a noticeable draft of bitter air blowing up and into Wilder's face.
Taking one step down shortly followed by another, he ventured cautiously into the unknown.
Narrow was the walls, made smaller still as lines of thick cables ran down with the stairs. Wilder's arms barely scrapped against the rubber surface as he descended.
Three separated and far lights hung loosely above. Their dim and flickering glow hindered Wilder's movement. Though he could see the steps underneath their guiding light, it was the steps hidden in-between them that made each movement a gamble.
By the time he reached the second light he had almost tumbled or slipped twice. Past the third, Wilder was forced to cling onto one of the cables for support as darkness consumed him until the end.
At the base of the stairs, alone in the black and cold. Four squares of light shone onto Wilder's fixed face. It was another door of lifeless steel, greeting him with four small boxed windows of a brightly lit room inside.
Peeking through, the view offered little to no substance. Within a few feet stood another wall with cables and large pipes running across. The wall was smoother though, seemed cylindrical from where he stood.
It was brighter inside too. A rectangle light encased in plastic was fixed onto the wall at a noticeable angle. From its warm white, Wilder could plainly see hints of the floor not obscured by his current view.
A single line of smooth steel ran across the bottom of his vision. Rather thick in width, it ran as far as he could see on both sides. This reveal alone gave hints to where Wilder was.
Venturing in with confidence, Wilder saw what the room truly was. A long straight circular tunnel lined with track. It was an old lost line of the subway system in London.
To his right, sat in a collection of uneven proportions was stone, steel and mortar. The tunnel in that direction appeared to have caved-in a long time ago, blocking off any notion of reaching the other side.
In the opposite direction, a short walk away. Sitting idly and still onto the tracks was an old subway car. Early nineteen-hundreds if Wilder had to guess. Nicely preserved and maintained. The warm red paint that coated the exterior had yet to peel and the glass windows didn't have a hint of dust blocking the inside view.
From where he stood, Wilder could see movement of shadows shuffling around the car. Echoes of laughter and chatter reached his ears. They were oblivious to the stranger lurking outside.
Stepping onto the sleepers in quiet and precise steps, Wilder reached into his suit and drew out his fountain pen.
Wielding the instrument tightly between his finger and thumb, he made his short way to a wooden crafted step stool that led to the door of the first car.
The wood creaked on the first step. The noise gave Wilder pause as it echoed down the tunnel. But the discussions inside were not disturbed. Joy and banter continued as Wilder made the second step.
Another creak and another pause.
A bead of salty sweat formed on his brow as he waited. He could not yet reach the nearest window and see inside. But the noise continued nonetheless.
Planting onto the final step, the echo of the wood bounced once more and the car drew silent.
"Shh! Did you hear that?"
Quickly hugging tightly against the door, Wilder ducked his head below the window. His ear and cheek pressed hard to the wooden structure, Wilder was in an uncomfortable position as listened intently to the people inside.
Their tones were hushed and cautious. Wary of movement and sounds.
"Hear what?" someone replied.
"I dunno? Some noise from outside"
"I didn't hear shit"
"I did! It sounded like a creak. It went, eeek!"
"Probably just another sodding rat then. Those bastards keep coming back for more of our shit. Oh, speaking of rats! Did ya hear about the one that scared Pete the other day?"
The conversation soon returned to laughter to Wilder's relief.
Slow and patient, he reached his head to the corner of the door window and glanced inside.
The interior was as expected for an early nineteen- hundreds car. Surprisingly wide with padded seats facing each other on both sides. The men inside seemed to have enough room to walk about on the wooden centre boards, barely unabated by another's presence. Even with the fold-out tables planted about the car, it was quite spacious.
Four inside to Wilder's count.
Three were sitting behind the fold out tables. Each man, dressed in casual streetwear were handling tiny bags filled with the red powder. They were filling small square boxes, the size of a man's fist with the stuff.
The man last was standing about, chewing on something, most likely gum. His attention was far from focused on the job at hand. If he was the look out, he failed at all aspects as his eyes and mouth was all on the other three.
He was loud and obnoxious. But the others seemed to found him charming as they engaged in his banter.
No visible weapons. Possible blades concealed on their person. Each male is appearing to be of average strength with no noticeable impairment… of the four, I recognise one.
Behind one of the tables was a middle-aged male. Dark patches of hair around a massive bald spot in the centre, the man was portly with a gut hanging out of his shirt. His chin and cheeks unkept and unshaven. Like a man ashamed of the loss of hair up top, he seemed to want a large beard growing below.
Dipping his head below the window, Wilder pulled out his phone and looked into his photo's. And sure enough, a familiar face appeared on his screen.
Kevan Bright. Not one of the five. But you will do for now.
After the phone disappeared back into his suit, Wilder removed the page of the Death Note he had tucked away two days prior.
Clean and fresh was the page, Wilder planted it against the train car and began to write.
Kevan Bright. Speaks the names of the other three present before dying of a heart attack.
A short time elapsed and Wilder watched in cautious glimpses as Kevan stopped stuffing tiny bags with Poppies as the Death Note took hold.
"-like I said asshole, that bitch has…"
He paused briefly, his eyes turned empty and distant as he opened his mouth again. Barren of all emotion, he spoke in chilling monotone.
"Aiden Howes. Bruce Hodge. Terry Smith"
And with that last name, Kevan grasped his chest tightly as his face distorted in pain. Aiden, Bruce and Terry watch in confused and shocked horror as Kevan planted his face into the bags of red powder and stopped moving.
But before that moment of confusion, Wilder hastily wrote down each of their names as spoken by Kevan. His eyes memorising each face as the pen scribbled onto the paper.
Before any man could compose or understand what was going on. Aiden, the obnoxious man meant to be on lookout slammed to the floor dead. The other two followed suit, slumping or collapsing out of their chairs lifelessly.
Sliding open the door with a light creak, Wilder hopped into the train car dead with silence. The floor near the door was messier than he realised. Piles of the small boxes lined next to the entrance up to chest high, one wrong move and Wilder could easily knock down the encroaching towers.
"How long have you been dealing in my territory Jackson!?" Wilder seethed through his pearly teeth as he noted the large amount of Poppies inside.
"About four months now, give or take" a lightly distorted voice replied.
Startled, Wilder's grip on his fountain pen grew tighter as he swung his head in a sweeping fashion, searching for the source of the sound.
"Where are you, Jackson?" he demanded with scowling eyes. His movements suddenly halted as his gaze peaked at the sight of a camera tucked away in the top corner of the car near the entrance.
"Good evening, my black Prince charming. Yeah, I know who you are. You're the little shit disrupting my workflow. I've been watching you on the feed for a while now. Noticed you the moment you iced Cavan. Bit dark, not just the lighting, but how you did him in… brutal way to go. Not many in the business have a stomach for that kind of unpleasant display… curious as to how you killed Brian though, and those in the room with ya… didn't even touch em… love to know how you did that!"
"Would you like a demonstration, Joeseph Jackson. I'll even let you participate if you'd like"
A small grin broke off Wilder's empty lips. The words were nothing to him but they held a little pleasure in being spoken.
Jackson did not immediately respond, but when he did it began with odd confident laughter.
"Heh, hah, ha, ha! Well shit brother, your balls must be bigger than your dick… Messing around with a Crimson Claw gets most people scratched off the list, if ya know what I'm saying… I think you and I should get better acquainted… Why don't you come on over so we can speak a bit more… professionally… Two cars down. Don't keep me waiting" Jackson replied without a hint of fear or concern. Which appeared very strange to Wilder.
"You surprise me, Jackson. Aren't you afraid that I could just kill you now? Like the men before my feet. Dead. Why invite me over when you could flee like a coward instead?"
A little snicker followed through the speaker before he replied.
"If you wanted me dead, I wouldn't be talking to ya now, would I? Still don't know how you killed them… wasn't airborne viruses or modern weapons… the way Kevan randomly said those boys name would suggest hypnosis or some voodoo crap… and you needed a name to kill the others or else Kevan wouldn't have said anything… and you already know my name. So, as I said. If you wanted me dead, it wouldn't be speaking right now!"
Jackson wasn't as stupid as Wilder had expected him to be. He was no Mark Taylor, that was for sure.
"Your right Jackson. Though I could end your life at any moment. I do have a need for you"
Far at the other end of the car, the door suddenly whooshed open as a burly man dressed in a fancy red and black suit emerged through the doorway.
"And I have a sudden need for you too. Hence my own hesitation to let my boy kill you now"
As if to show Jackson was serious, the man in red pulled out a 9mm in all its threatening form. Its barrel held close to the man's side, pointing squarely towards Wilder.
"No weird voodoo shit on your part. And my boy here, as well as the six in the next car over, will not gun you down where you stand"
Fingers twitching, the fountain pen shuddered as Wilder contemplated his options.
I could just kill him now. It would be easier… but less efficient… no. I will not lie to myself. His value in life outreaches his worth in death.
"Follow me sir. The boss is waiting" the thug ordered.
Wilder grunted a pleased sound as he turned to the camera once more. His demeanour shifting to an eased and relaxed look upon his face.
"I suppose if we are doing business, you'd be providing an appropriate bottle to break the ice. Might I suggest a fine Brandy. Or perhaps suiting to your apparent theme of red, a nice dry bottle of Merlot" he smiled towards the camera.
Not waiting for the reply, Wilder sheafed his pen into his breast pocket and walked head held high. His posture was like that of a waiter as he moved, unconcerned about the man holding the gun as he was led through into the next car.
It wasn't a warm welcome in the second car. Six barrels greeted him with stern looks on all the goons. They did not hinder Wilder's walk towards the third car, each stayed as far away as they could in the limited space. More boxes of Poppies littered the car in piles taller than himself. The sight gave Wilder the intrusive idea to just burn the nightclub down and destroy everything inside. But it was only intrusive.
The third train car door was already opened by the time Wilder made it across. His unwanted chauffer, with his large and imposing muscles nudged Wilder inside with the tip of his gun when he stopped for a moment at the door.
Inside, styled vastly different from the last two cars. The third car broke all feeling of traditional early nineteen hundreds subway car. The interior had been greatly remodelled and butchered of classic furniture. Once lined on each side of the walls, cushioned seats were replaced by long fishtanks on both sides. The windows replaced and filled in by luminescent lights that glowed the water in eery blue. This glow was the only source of light that filled the room.
It warm warmer here. Quite noticeably warmer. The tunnel wasn't too cold to Wilder's taste, he could quite happily walk about in his t-shirt and he would not be bothered by the elements. However, the man sitting before him. With his legs crossed and planted onto a fine-looking oak desk. He appeared to be a man who enjoyed the warmth with two noticeable heaters in the room beside him.
"Joeseph Jackson" said Wilder in his firm deep voice, smiling false pleasantries. He did not give any hint of fear or uncertainty to his enemy.
Crimson red streaks flowed in a sea of black hair. They were short but spiky, held up by hair gel. A long strand of black hung loosely down and between his brown eyes. Full of hunger, a sense of desire for knowledge and power deep inside.
A self-pleasing grin grew on Jackson's face as he lightly bit into his lip. Hands clasped together, resting on his stomach. Jackson nodded towards the chair that sat opposite himself and smiled a curious smile.
"Please! Call me J.J. All my friends do… Just like how the people of Peckham refer you as their Prince… nice nickname by the way, came up with it yourself or… Come sit. I'll have Sam here pop open a bottle for us… break the ice as you put it"
Wilder took the offer with a polite bow and seated himself opposite Jackson's desk. His hands securely placed onto the table in full view. A show of good faith on his part.
Sam, the brutish looking man in red soon planted a pair of tumblers onto the desk with no finesse. Rummaging around, he soon found a black tall bottle of wine underneath one of the fishtanks.
He didn't appear to realise or perhaps even cared that wine did go with this particular glass. A fine whiskey or brandy would have served or even a mixed cocktail, but Wilder knew he expected too much. Getting a drink at all was already beyond his expectations.
As the cheap looking Merlot poured into their respective glasses, Wilder took the initiative to speak as he grasped the tumbler gently into his fingers.
"J.J" he smiled as he took the first sip.
"Do you know why I've come to your nightclub, yes?"
A golden tooth glistened in the man's grin as he removed his feet from his desk.
"Because I put a hit on your little girl. I do believe her name was… Isabelle, yes?"
Reaching for his own glass, Jackson held the drink for a moment, swirling it, admiring the deep red inside.
"I had to send you a message of course. Got too many complaints from my boys. Saying they were… I believe they said "getting the crap beaten out of us by darkies". Now I thought "oh shit! Some fucker is invading on my territory. I'd better set things straight". Funny thing is… no matter how many of my boys that I sent out, searching for some hoodlums or two-bit gangster… I never got a whiff nor a whisper of any other gang in Peckham… Just one man with balls fatter than my fist… and here you are… having a drink with little old me" he smiled as he drank.
An unwanted chuckle escaped from Wilder's lips as he listened to Jackson. He was admittedly amused by the conversation.
"Excuse me. I- I do not mean to be rude. I am no gangster, mob boss or hoodlum. I am merely a father who wants his daughter to grow up safe in Peckham. Your boys could not find anyone because… well, there is no anyone"
Wilder's face grew slightly darker as his gaze met Jackson's eyes.
"My people. Are the people of Peckham. When they hear. Or see trouble. They. Inform. Me. And I… Well-" he smiled once more.
"You've seen my results"
Jackson gave no hint of fear in his intrigued grin. Leaning heavily into the desk with drink in hand, the man was more interested in listening to Wilder's story than anything else.
"Yeah (chuckle) I've seen the crazy shit you can do. I suppose your also the one who did that Henry guy in. The one on the news… shit man, gave me goosebumps when I saw his brains splatter… how did you do that though?... you're not some new form of Kira, are you?"
There was a brief moment of pause between them. Each took their turn to drink and smile pleasant secrets before Wilder cleared his throat to continue.
"Do you believe in God? J.J. And I do not mean the bearded fellow in the skies. But a more… real God…"
Jackson took a moment to digest those words before taking a heavier drink of his merlot. Tapping the glass onto the desk, Sam hurried over with the bottle in hand and poured out another. Turning to Wilder, the large man offered to top up his but, with a slight wave of a hand he politely refused.
Wiping away the glistening red on his lips, Jackson coughed up a short laugh before replying.
"Are you serious? You're not one of those Church of Kira freaks, are you?"
Wilder shook his head with little effort as he leaned back into his chair. His index finger tapping the ring off the tumbler as he smiled.
"No. I do not worship Kira. Despite his best efforts to make the world a better place. I do believe he was a fool for trying too much. He got in over his head with the power he wielded and I believe that's what got him killed… he was nothing more than a child waving daddy's gun"
Tipping the glass to his lips, the dry liquid tasted of cherries and plum as they lapped his tongue. Pouring out the last of the drink down his throat, Wilder gently tapped the glass onto the desk and pulled his chair forward.
Reaching into his suit, Sam was about step forward in an aggressive fashion but was halted by a wave from Jackson. The man was far to invested in the mystery and magic to be interrupted now.
"Do you know what this is?" he asked as he pulled out a page of the Death Note and placed it squarely onto the desk next to his tumbler.
"It's a fucking piece of paper?" Jackson scoffed a shrug in confusion.
Whites glistening with a devilish charming smile, Wilder tapped the paper as he explained in a clear tone.
"This is the weapon that Kira used to wipe out criminal activity in the world to below four percent. A gift from a God of Death…"
Jackson's smile visibly disappeared as his eyes wondered back and forth between the sheet of paper on the desk and Wilders honest smile.
"How?" he asked, as though the doubt in his mind wasn't strong at all.
Wilder tapped to the names already on the paper. Kevan, Aiden, Bruce and Terry. He turned the page around so that Jackson could have a better look. Even letting him touch the surface with a searching finger.
"It's a page from the most dangerous weapon to grace this world. A Death Note" he began to explain.
"Write a person's name while thinking of their face and that man or woman will die"
Planting a hand around the left side of his face in bemused disbelief, Jackson shook his head with a weak laugh.
"Fucking paper!? You're telling me my boys died of a bad review or something? That Henry blew out his brains because you sent him a letter to do so? Unbelievable"
If Wilder was in Jackson's shoes right now, he would have said something similar himself. A few weeks back and none of this would have made sense either.
"It's real" he said as he took a short glance towards a noticeably nervous Sam standing aways.
"The Death Note can do so much more by the way. You can add little details that lead up to the person's death. Actions, commands. As long as it falls under something reasonable and plausible it can happen. You can even set up a date and time if needed"
The smile that Wilder held on his face disappeared in an instant, so fast that Jackson lost his own grin in response.
"For example. Samuael Marks"
Both men turned to the startled large man in red, his hands shaking, loosening his grip onto the wine bottle.
"Facetious!"
With that one word, Sam's shaking stopped. His hand firmly grasped around the glass bottle, his arms as stiff as a board. He stood there beside the two men like a living statue.
"Pour us both another drink" Wilder commanded.
No thought or hesitation slowed Sam's movement as he did what was asked of him. The bottle poured elegantly into both tumblers before that man returned to his standing position.
But Wilder was not done yet.
"Break the bottle and impale yourself"
Jackson's arms twitched as his eyes spelled fear, Sam followed through with the demand thoroughly.
Smashing the glass against the desk with one hard smack, the shards of glass scattered into the air and pattered all around them. Sam gripped hard onto the neck and plunged the jagged and sharp bottle into his gut hard. Forcefully pushing it further inside, Sam moaned in pain as tiny drops of red turned to a light trickle as something poured out of the bottle and onto the floor.
Unfazed by the sight of Sam dying, the man collapsing to his knees with a noticeable thud, Wilder instead grasped his drink and took another small gulp.
"I have written five names in preparation of meeting you today Jackson"
Hearing his own name being uttered brought his steel cold eyes towards Wilder. He appeared to be no longer amused. And yet there was barely a hint of fear. It was there, make no mistake but Jackson held it deep down and away from Wilder.
"Brian Denly was the first to die today. I commanded him to slash his own throat in his favourite V.I.P lounge. I knew if I played my part perfectly as the man suffering from Poppie withdrawal, I would be led inside your club without much effort. Brian's corpse played as the perfect distraction when that man Cavan delivered me. He wasn't on my list so I had to be creative. Sam here was just unlucky. I knew you kept several selected members of your group close. I picked four of them and hope that at least one of them would be with you today. The other three will be dying rather suddenly at midnight, which is… seven minutes from now. Their deaths are a waste yes. But they will not be missed. Not by Peckham at least"
Cold dead eyes was all that Jackson could see from Wilder. He on the other hand could see the slither of terror building in Jackson's expression. The slight twitch of the eye, a little quiver of the lips. But his reaction failed to express that.
"Ha! He! Heeerrrr… yes. Magnificent!" his hand clenched so tightly to his glass that a light crack emerged from the rim.
"A gift from Death indeed! Its much more than I expected! You are a Kira!"
Puzzlement broke through the stone wall of Wilder. Jackson was far from any man he had encountered before. He was afraid yes, but he did not seem to care.
Tilting he head down slowly, Jackson eagerly consumed the sight of the page before him with greed.
"I have need of you Wilder. As I expect you have need of me? I've threatened to kill your daughter and yet I still do not die? I propose we work out a deal between us… satisfy our needs, yes?"
Even through the two heaters that filled the room in uncomfortable warmth, a shiver crawled up Wilder's spine as he listened to the filth spill out of Jackson's mouth.
And yet he was not wrong.
"Do not mistake my staying of hand as a means of safety, Jackson! Your death is pointless to me if another will simply fill your place. But your life can be forfeit if you prove more trouble than your worth"
Wilder hung onto the last word for a moment before he took another sip of his drink. He let the moment of silence between the two grow for a moment before continuing.
"I want your trade of Poppies to stop tonight. Not one more granule of red will be seen on my streets. Release all your girls from prostitution as well. Find them a better trade to be in. Money should not come with risks"
Nervous was Jackson's smile as he listened, the glinting gold tooth shone in the blue light.
"That's all?"
"No!" Wilder snapped back.
"Though I do not care for the rest of London. Crimson Claw activity from other district bosses could cause unforeseen harm if left untouched. I want the names and photos of all under employ… especially of those on top"
A most pleasing smile widened fully on Jackson, his eyes no longer showed fear but content with the offer.
"You and I are on similar pages my dear Prince but we are far from reading the same books. I suspect you want to hold the other Crimson Claws ransom under the threat of death, just like myself. Hold them tightly to a leash you wield. Keeping your precious Peckham safe and free from our influence… What if… now hear me out… what if you kill them. One by one, we take over each district and I place a man we can trust to rule in their stead. You could rule Peckham from your cosy flat with your sweet daughter. While I run things more smoothly… out of your hair and without a whisker of trouble"
His gritting teeth showed a hint of desperation. But through that was an avaricious man. Dangerous if left unchecked. Worse if left alone. Getting rid of him would have been the best of his interests but time was not on Wilder's side. Another would take his place in a matter of weeks and he would have to repeat this cycle all over again.
Better with a devil you know than a demon yet to come.
And if what Samui said was true, long back when he first met her. That Demon will come soon.
"Before we come to… an agreement. A set of rules must be in place if we are to upheld this… trust" Wilder replied with a feeling of unease.
"Rules?" Jackson chuckled.
"I've never been one to follow the rules before"
The last drop of Merlot dripped onto Wilder's tongue before he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
He observed the red stain on his dark skin that looked like blood.
"You will learn and follow my rules, Jackson. Just as I must follow mine"
Authors Corner;
Wilder's nickname is "Prince". It is based of the name of another character that is also the inspiration for the real-life pub called "Prince of Peckham".
The character in question is from a 90's TV show called "Desmond's". Lee Stanley was his name, also known as "The Peckham Prince". A straight cockney lad able to switch to Jamaican patois in a second.
His ability to change the way he speaks inspired my Wilder's ability to act. The swift change from a drug addict to his colder persona reflects this talent.
