MONOLITH (11 page)

LONDON; 1933

Twelve large candles had been placed in a circle in the centre of the cellar floor.

The old man had also put five or six larger ones at various points around the subterranean room and the sickly yellow light they gave off created a circle of dull brightness within the impenetrable gloom of the cellar. The darkest and dankest corners remained in pitch darkness. The slow drip of water from some unknown source also filled the air as the old man moved slowly but purposefully around.

He’d already been in the subterranean room for close to three hours and the work he was completing down there was tiring. It would have been for a man half his age but he merely continued with the merest pause every now and then to rest his aching back and his numb fingers. He blew out his cheeks and crossed to the small glass of vodka that was on top of a large crate close to the cellar steps. He sipped at it and glanced again towards the circle of candles in the middle of the subterranean chamber. The vodka burned his throat as it made its way to his stomach and he shuddered a little as he felt the liquor inside him but a faint smile touched his lips and he nodded almost appreciatively towards the clear fluid.

On the far side of the cellar, hidden by the thick shadows, there was movement.

The old man knew it was a rat because he heard a low squeaking as the rodent scurried across the stone floor before disappearing into one of the holes in the bottom of the wall.

He murmured a curse in his native tongue, his irritation directed towards the fleeing animal. But that irritation disappeared quickly as he surveyed what was in the centre of the room.

Again the old man nodded to himself, satisfied with what he saw and, once more he afforded himself a small grin of pleasure. He reached for the vodka glass and lifted it in salute to some invisible companion before taking another sip.

Three hours down here already, he mused and it would be another three before he was completely finished. There was still much to do before his task was over. And once it was accomplished, he told himself, that was just the beginning.

Wiping his hands on the apron he wore he stood motionless in the gloom, his eyes fixed on the centre of the room.

He spoke more words aloud in his native tongue, words of gratitude but also of anger. He would show them. He would show them all. They would pay. Every one of them would pay for their actions.

The old man smiled once again.

There were several metal tools lying on the top of the wooden crate close to him and he glanced down at them, selecting the one he would need next. There were spatulas, saws, chisels, knives and a large flat triangular bladed weapon that resembled a brick-layers trowel. It was that which he reached for now.

He advanced slowly towards the centre of the room, his eyes fixed on what awaited him there.

For too long now he had put up with ridicule and persecution.

It ended this night. Here and now.

Let them come again. Let them threaten and humiliate him and they would see the meaning of retribution. They would learn never to disrespect him again.

As the candles burned lower, he continued with his task.

By the time he’d finished, most of the candles were little more than puddles of wax with barely flickering wicks at their centres.

The old man backed away.

The time had come.

Brian Dunham groaned irritably as he heard the phone ringing.

He glanced across at the implement that was standing on a wooden table on the far side of the sitting room and wondered who was calling. He hauled himself out of his comfortable chair and wandered across to the phone, clearing his throat before he picked it up.

‘Hello,’ he said.

There was a faint hiss of static at the other end of the line and then just silence.

‘Hello,’ Dunham repeated wearily. But still there was no response from the other end.

He repeated the word three more times then dropped the phone back onto the cradle.

As he was turning away from it the door of the sitting room opened and a tall slender woman a couple of years younger than Dunham himself entered, noticing that he was standing beside the phone. Her features pinched a little more than usual and she looked at him.

‘Wrong number,’ Dunham said, flatly.

‘Again?’ Julianne Dunham murmured, closing the sitting room door behind her and seating herself in a chair opposite her husband. ‘That’s the fifth time tonight.’

‘Stop counting,’ Dunham said, smiling and re-settling himself in his own seat and reaching for the files he’d been reading before the phone rang.

‘Don’t you think it’s time to stop for the night, Brian?’ she said, nodding towards the papers he held in his hand. ‘You’ve been at it since we finished dinner.’

‘I haven’t got much more to do,’ he assured her.

‘Good,’ she said, looking at her watch. ‘It’s after eleven now.’

‘London won’t run itself,’ Dunham told her, smiling.

‘That doesn’t mean you have to try and run it alone,’ she told him, getting to her feet and crossing to a polished dark wood cabinet close to the fireplace. She took out two brandy balloons and a crystal decanter and proceeded to pour generous measures of the amber fluid in the decanter into the waiting glasses. She moved back towards her husband and set one down on the table next to him before slipping back into her chair and sipping at the brandy.’Are you allowed to stop long enough to drink that?’ she asked.

Dunham smiled and reached for the brandy balloon near him, sipping from it. He nodded approvingly.

He was about to speak when the phone rang again.

‘Oh for God’s sake,’ he grunted, hauling himself out of the seat but Julianne beat him to it, crossing to the phone and snatching it up.

‘Hello,’ she said.

It was silent at the other end of the line.

‘If you think this is funny you’re pathetic,’ she snapped.

Dunham shook his head and pulled the phone from her hand, pressing it to his ear.

The line was still open but there was no one speaking, just an insistent hiss of static.

‘I intend to report these calls,’ he said, angrily. ‘All calls to this number are recorded and logged by the police you know. They’ll trace your number and …’

The line went dead.

Dunham smiled triumphantly and replaced the receiver.

‘I thought that would frighten them off,’ he announced. ‘Probably bloody kids.’

He turned back towards his chair, slumping down and reaching for his brandy once more.

‘You blame everything on kids,’ Julianne reminded him. ‘What I don’t understand is how whoever it is calling has managed to by-pass the caller I.d on your phone and on the house phone.’

Dunham could only shrug.

The phone rang once more.

This time neither of them moved for a second but merely looked at each other until finally Dunham got to his feet and crossed to the phone. As he did, Julianne moved towards the window closest to her and pulled the curtains open slightly, peering out into the impenetrable gloom of the night. Behind her she heard Dunham’s voice.

‘I’m going to disconnect this phone,’ he said, angrily. ‘Then there’s nothing else you can do is there? You’ll have to play your stupid little game with someone else. Do you understand?’

Julianne looked around at her husband who was gripping the phone so tightly it seemed he might break the receiver then she returned to gazing out into the darkness of their garden. At the bottom of it was a high privet hedge that separated the garden from the street but the street light nearby cast a dull glow over the bottom part of the garden and left a sickly yellow pool across the perfectly manicured lawns and immaculately kept flower beds.

‘I’m disconnecting this phone now so you can call here all you want,’ Dunham snapped. ‘And the police will be with you in the morning, I can assure you of that.’

He slammed the receiver down.

‘Bloody idiots,’ he rasped.

Julianne turned towards him briefly then continued with her vigil at the window.

At first she thought that her eyes were playing tricks on her but then, as she squinted more to see into the gloom she felt her heart quicken.

‘Brian,’ she said, breathlessly. ‘I think there’s someone in the garden.’

Dunham frowned and moved towards her exhaling wearily.

‘Are you sure?’ he said, irritably, preparing to join her at the window.

‘I thought I saw something moving,’ Julianne said, her voice catching.

Dunham prepared to join her.

It was then that the window exploded inwards.

The sound of shattering glass mingled with splintering wood and the high pitched shriek of terror blurted out by Julianne Dunham as she recoiled, her husband grabbing her and throwing her to the floor as the debris flew into the room.

Dunham himself shouted in horrified surprise and rolled over in time to see a second window explode inwards and a flying piece of glass about the length of his index finger sliced through his cheek almost laying it open to the bone. He felt blood spill hotly from the wound and covered his head, aware that his wife was screaming hysterically beside him.

The floor was covered in broken glass, smashed wood and dust and Dunham found his heart hammering so hard in his chest he feared it might burst. The sound of the shattering windows seemed to echo inside the room, ringing in his ears like the aftermath of some detonation.

He was still considering this fact when a third of the sitting room windows were smashed, with even more force it seemed than the first two.

And now, for the first time, Dunham realised that their house may well be under attack. He had no idea by whom and he didn’t intend to lay on the floor covered in glass and wood considering who might be behind the outrage. The blood pouring down his slit cheek seemed to galvanise him.

He clawed at his cowering wife’s arm, trying to pull her with him as he crawled towards the door. Wanting only to be out of this place and away from whoever was threatening them and destroying their home.

Julianne wouldn’t move and just lay paralysed with fear on the expensive carpet, screaming and wailing helplessly.

‘Come on,’ Dunham shouted. ‘We’ve got to get out of here.’

She turned towards him with tear stained cheeks and he could see that her eyes were wide with terror.

There was a thunderous impact against one of the outer walls of the house and Dunham realised that something had been thrown against it or slammed hard into it. Such was the ferocity of the contact that the entire room seemed to shake. He wondered if the same implement being used against the brickwork of the building had been used to shatter the windows.

He was still wondering when a second monstrous blow slammed against the house.

For fleeting seconds he wondered if the entire sitting room wall was simply going to collapse in upon them. The paintings and framed photos on that wall shook and two fell from their hooks, dropping to the floor, one cracking the frame and splintering the glass over the picture it contained.

Julianne Dunham screamed again, her control already severely tested by the smashing of the windows now pushed beyond breaking point by these newer and more savage impacts.

Again Dunham pulled at her arm, ignoring the blood that coursed down his face and spattered onto the carpet.

‘Come on,’ he snapped, scrambling to his feet and almost physically dragging her upright. In response she wailed and flailed her arms as if she was being surrounded by a swarm of mad bees. ‘Come on.’

He roared the second time, his voice almost eclipsed by the latest huge impact against the sitting room wall.

By now he was convinced that the entire wall would be breached if another such crash came against it and he wondered what the hell could be making such sustained and frenzied assaults. Then another thought entered his mind and it made him gasp. If such power was applied to a door then whoever was outside would be inside within seconds. He looked around as if for something to help should the intruders get in but all he wanted was the phone and he dashed for it and snatched it up, hitting three nines as quickly as he could, waiting for the operator to ask him which service he needed.

He was still waiting when the next blow slammed into the wall. As his wife screamed uncontrollably and dropped to her knees Dunham thought he could actually see hairline cracks appearing in the wall closest to him. Dust rose from these rents like dried blood flecks from some mummified wound, twisting and turning in the air.

One more blow and that would be it, Dunham thought. The wall would be breached as if it were some medieval castle keep finally stormed by attackers and then there would be nowhere to hide.

He was vaguely aware of a voice on the other end of the phone as he stood staring raptly at the cracked wall. A voice asking him which Emergency service he required.

‘Police,’ he shouted into the mouthpiece. ‘Get me the police. Hurry.’

His wife screamed again, weeping hysterically now.

He waited for the final impact as he gripped the phone so tightly it seemed it would splinter in his grip.

‘Police,’ he yelled again. ‘Help us.’