MONOLITH (8 page)

LONDON; 1933

The windows hadn’t been smashed this time.

No one had hurled bricks or lumps of stone at the glass but, as the old man stood gazing at the large window he was beginning to think that perhaps more of the destruction would have been preferable.

There were several dozen thick gobs of phlegm spattered on the glass.

He shook his head in silent disgust and reproach, incredulous that anyone could stoop to such foul depths. The thought of several people standing outside his shop and spitting on the windows was in many ways a more repulsive one than the image of some crazed mob hurling bricks and rocks. The pre-meditated loathing and accumulated hatred that such a gesture spawned was almost too vile to entertain.

The old man felt a twinge of sadness that people could express their feelings in so base a manner. However, that sadness was rapidly replaced by a growing feeling of anger. A rage that was difficult to contain. He was shaking gently as he stood inside the shop looking out through the phlegm mottled window.

Two men passed by on the outside of the shop and glanced at the soiled glass with a look of disinterest. They could see the old man inside but they merely turned away when they met his gaze.

Had they been two of the culprits he wondered? Had they been two of the many who had stood in front of his shop and spat on the windows? He had no way of knowing and he would never know.

Carrying a bucket of warm water and a cloth he made his way out onto the pavement and set about cleaning off the sputum and mucus.

The sun was shining and the old man could feel it beating down on the back of his neck as he worked to remove the filth. Every now and then he would step back and admire his handiwork; glad that the windows were beginning to sparkle again where he had cleaned them.

In the centre of the window there was something else.

Not sputum, not phlegm but something that had been painted onto the glass with quick and broad strokes of the brush. He glanced at it occasionally and shook his head, hoping that the warm water in the bucket would remove it but fearing that he might need something more powerful like turpentine or white spirit.

It might have been put there by a child such was its simplicity.

But behind that simplicity was a malice and fury that the old man had encountered before in his life but still found difficult to understand.

A stick image of a hanged man adorned the middle of the window.

Beneath were painted two words;

YOU DIE

He shook his head and set about cleaning them off.

As he was wringing out the cloth in the bucket of water a man in his thirties walked past and kicked out at the metal container, knocking it over and spilling the water across the pavement, some of it spilling into the gutter. The old man didn’t even look at him. He could hear the muted laughter as the man passed by but the old man said nothing, he merely picked up the bucket and headed back inside the shop to re-fill the receptacle.

The cool air inside the shop was welcoming and the old man made his way to the rear of the shop to kitchen where he spun the tap and watched the water filling the bucket.

Once that was done he would continue with his task.

But, before he did, he selected the large key from his pocket that would unlock the cellar door.

There was something down there he had to attend to.

He was standing near a large wheeled skip smoking a cigarette and staring at the ground as if there were diamonds buried in the concrete. He wore the dark green uniform and luminous yellow bib that instantly marked him out as a paramedic and he seemed oblivious to the people moving past him and around him as he smoked his cigarette.

Jess watched him for a moment longer then walked briskly towards him, seeing him glance up in her direction briefly then he dropped his eyes once more, seemingly more interested in what lay before him on the ground. He took another drag and spat out a small piece of tobacco that had been sticking to his tongue.

Jess slowed her pace and moved nearer to him.

‘Mr Gibson?’ she said, quietly.

He looked up and met her gaze with large watery eyes.

‘James Gibson?’ Jess went on.

The man nodded and took another drag on his cigarette.

‘My name is Jessica Anderson, I’m a reporter,’ she told him.

Gibson eyed her blankly and didn’t speak.

‘I was wondering if we could talk,’ Jess said.

‘About what?’ he wanted to know. ‘I’m working.’ He nodded towards the ambulance that was parked in the road across the street its blue lights turning silently.

‘You don’t look very busy,’ Jess told him.

‘What do you want?’ Gibson snapped.

‘You know Spike?’

Gibson looked blank.

‘Oh come on, Mr Gibson, you called him this afternoon about that accident at the Crystal Tower. You were one of the paramedics in attendance weren’t you?’

Again Gibson said nothing; he merely drew on his cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke in Jess’s direction.

‘Can I get one of those?’ she said, pointing at the cigarette.

Gibson dug his hand in his pocket, pulled out a pack of Marlboro and offered her one which she took, also accepting his somewhat reluctant offer of a light. The flame of the Zippo danced in the breeze for a moment then Jess backed away, the end of the cigarette glowing red.

‘Spike said you’d pay for what I’ve got,’ Gibson announced.

‘Depends what it is and whether it’s worth paying for,’ Jess told him.

‘I took some photos of the guy this afternoon,’ Gibson informed her, pulling out his phone.

‘Let me see them.’

‘How much?’

‘They might not be worth anything.’

Gibson hesitated.

Jess reached into her bag, took a twenty from her purse and shoved it into the paramedic’s hand.

‘That’ll do for a start,’ he said and held up the phone before her.

Jess looked at the first picture.

‘Jesus,’ she murmured, studying the shot. It showed Alan Reed skewered to the wall, blood staining his upper body and overalls. ‘Death by forklift truck. That’s original.’

Gibson scrolled through several more pictures.

‘He was dead when you got to him?’ Jess asked.

‘What do you think?’ Gibson chided.

‘Was anyone else injured?’

‘No. Just him.’

‘What do you think happened?’

Gibson shrugged.

‘The brake on the forklift must have failed somehow,’ he said. ‘He was standing in front of it and …’ he allowed the sentence to trail off.

Jess frowned and inspected the pictures more closely.

‘There’s virtually no blood,’ she murmured.

‘What?’ Gibson grunted, peering over her shoulder.

‘Around the body,’ she repeated. ‘There’s hardly any blood. Not on the wall behind him, not on the floor under him. Don’t you think that’s strange?’ Gibson nodded.

‘Major arteries would have been severed by an injury like that wouldn’t they?’ Jess said.

‘Definitely.’

‘And yet there’s very little blood other than on his clothes. Was the scene cleaned up before you guys arrived?’

‘Why would anyone do that?’

Jess shook her head.

‘They wouldn’t,’ she muttered.

Gibson reached for the phone but Jess kept it out of his reach, still scrolling through the pictures.

‘Were the police called too?’ she wanted to know.

‘There weren’t any when we arrived,’ Gibson told her. ‘There were lots of guys in suits though. I think someone said they were security or something.’

‘Voronov’s Private Security Guards,’ Jess murmured. ‘Did they touch the body? Move anything? Clean up?’

‘Not that I saw. Why would they do that?’

Jess shook her head.

‘So what about the pictures?’ Gibson insisted. ‘They’re worth more than twenty quid.’

Jess looked at him then scrolled through a few more of the shots on the phone.

‘Fifty,’ she said, flatly.

‘Fuck off,’ he snapped, grinning crookedly. ‘I could flog them to another reporter for more than that.’

‘Then do it,’ she said, flatly. ‘Fifty or nothing.’

Gibson took a final drag on his cigarette then tossed it aside. He held out his hand.

‘Fifty,’ he repeated.

Jess fumbled in her purse for the money, hesitating a moment.

‘And I’m the only one who’s going to see these pictures aren’t I?’

Gibson nodded.

Jess pushed the money towards him.

Gibson took it with a grunt and shoved it into his pocket.

‘Nice doing business with you,’ Jess said as he stalked off towards the waiting ambulance.

She waited a moment then selected the phone book on her mobile. She found the number she wanted and called.

Jess didn’t look at her watch but she guessed it was just past nine when she got back to her flat.

She wandered into the kitchen, retrieved the half bottle of vodka from the freezer and poured some into a glass that was standing on the drainer. However, instead of taking a sip of the liquor she merely looked at it, wondering if she really wanted it.

Dutch courage?

She put the glass down untouched thinking how ridiculous this was. She was about to call her own mother, she didn’t need anything to give her strength or fortitude. She felt suddenly irritated with herself but nonetheless the feeling persisted. She knew she should make the call but she didn’t really want to.

You’re worried about yourself not your mum.

Jess sighed, left the vodka on the worktop and walked through into the sitting room where she sat down, selecting the number she knew she had to call. Only then did she check her watch to see what the time was. She knew that her mum slavishly watched soap operas every night of the week for an hour and a half or more and she didn’t want to interrupt her now.

That’s a good excuse. Not used that one before have you?

She decided that the soaps or whatever else her mum watched at this time of night was now probably over and it was safe to call. She selected the number she needed and waited.

It took a while for the phone to be picked up at the other end and during the lull Jess entertained the same thought she always did when she had to wait too long for her mother to pick up the phone. She imagined that something was wrong, that her mum was ill, had collapsed or fallen down the stairs or something equally appalling and only when she heard a familiar but slightly faltering voice at the other end did she relax to a degree.

‘Hello,’ said the frail voice at the other end of the line. There was some hesitancy in the tone that Jess knew only too well.

‘Mum, it’s me,’ she said.

‘Hello, Jess. Are you alright, dear?’

‘I’m fine, Mum, I said I’d ring so I’m ringing. Sorry I had to rush off earlier.’

‘So am I but it’s not your fault.’

Jess felt a stab that she recognised only too quickly and easily as guilt.

‘Did you get everything done that you had to do?’ her mother asked.

‘It was just work stuff,’ Jess said. She didn’t see any reason to go into too much detail.

‘As long as you’re alright, dear,’ her mother said. ‘Perhaps you can stay longer next time.’

‘I will, Mum,’ Jess said, wishing that she could give some kind of guarantee but knowing she couldn’t. ‘Are you watching TV?’

‘Well I was but I just dropped off for a few minutes, there’s never much on anyway is there?’

‘Sorry if I woke you up.’

‘I’ll be going to bed soon anyway.’

‘It’s only just after nine, Mum. You don’t want to be going to bed this early. Why don’t you watch a film or something?’

‘I think I’ll have an early night. I feel tired anyway and there’s nothing to sit up for. It was different when your dad was alive but with no one to talk to …’ She let the sentence trail off.

Jess felt another stab of guilt.

Why? It’s not your fault your dad died is it?

‘Perhaps you could stay one night,’ her mother went on. ‘That would be nice.’

‘I will, Mum,’ Jess said. She could already feel tears welling up in her eyes and she needed to end this call before she started openly weeping.

‘You won’t be late in bed, will you, dear?’ her mother asked. ‘You have to be up for work, don’t you?’

‘I’m just going to do some work then I’ll be going to bed, Mum,’ Jess said, sniffing.

There was a heavy silence that seemed to go on forever then Jess spoke again.

‘I’ll let you finish watching your programme, Mum,’ she said.

‘Alright then, dear,’ her mother replied. Another long silence. ‘I love you.’

‘I love you too, Mum.’

As she finished the call the first tears began to roll down her cheeks. And it was a while before they stopped.