Stone Cold

by J. D. Weston

  “Good, do you want a cup of tea?”

  “No, thank you, sir,” Shaun replied quietly.

  “Lenny, get him a cup of tea will you,” said the man, ignoring Shaun’s response. Lenny rose and left the room by a side door, leaving just the man and Shaun at the desk. The driver of the van sat on one of the reddish leather sofas in the corner of the room playing with his phone.

  The wiry man at the desk put his elbows on the surface and linked his fingers, resting them against his mouth. “Tell me about yourself, Shaun,” he said.

  “About myself?”

  “Don’t make me repeat myself, Shaun,” the old man warned.

  “I’m twenty-four.”

  “That’s a start. How about embellishing on that very detailed account.”

  “I’m from North London, but I live in Potters Bar now. My dad left, and Mum moved us up there for a fresh start.”

  “You live with your mum do you?”

  “Yeah,” said Shaun, slightly embarrassed that he hadn't managed to leave the family nest at his age.

  “And why did your dad leave?”

  “Dunno, I don’t think he had another woman, but him and mum always argued, he just never came home one time.”

  “That’s a shame, Shaun. Do you see him at all?”

  “No, I haven't seen him since he left.”

  “And how do you feel about that? Would you like to see him?”

  “I don’t mind really, I mean, I don’t know if he wants to see me, especially not now.”

  “Especially not now? But he’s your dad, Shaun. Why wouldn’t a father want to see his son?”

  “Because of what I did, and because of who I am.”

  “Tell me about what you did, Shaun, tell me why the police were holding you.”

  “You know what I did.”

  “Do I? All I know is what I read in the papers, and you can't believe everything you read in the papers can you, Shaun?” The man sat back and folded his arms, “Tell me what you did.”

  Shaun leaned forward and rested his elbows on his legs. He stared at the floor, his eyes didn’t focus or blink, they just followed the intricate patterns of the hardwood’s grain.

  “Shaun, I’m waiting. Tell me where you did it, let's start there.”

  “In the park near our house, in the forest by the lake.”

  The man let Shaun continue of his own volition, he knew he’d gain momentum and tell him what happened, but sometimes people just needed a nudge.

  “I was out walking one time. I liked to walk there, it's quiet. Every now and then I’d get a couple of beers from the off-license and sit there by the lake. If you sit long enough, the birds and squirrels and stuff all get used to you, and you can watch them running around. Anyway, I was sitting there one time, I’d finished my beers and was sat near the lake looking at the swans. There was a voice behind me, a girl’s voice. She asked me what I was doing.”

  “Stop snivelling, Shaun, you’re going to mess the floor up,” said Terry.

  Lenny came in with a cup of tea in a mug with the slogan, ‘Worlds Best Husband’ on it in bold red letters, and set it on a coaster on the desk in front of Shaun.

  “Len, get him some tissues will you, he’s making a right old mess over there.”

  Lenny left once more to fetch a box of tissues from the kitchen and returned immediately holding them out for Shaun, who took the box without looking up at Lenny.

  “Do you know what they do to people like you in prison, Shaun?”

  Shaun shook his head and continued to stare at the floor.

  “Well, put it this way, you wouldn’t be doing much of what you did again, mate. Your old boy would be hacked off and probably fed to E-wing in their supper.” The man laughed at his own joke. Shaun could feel his eyes on him, burning into him.

  “I don’t know what would be worse though, to be honest,” Terry continued, “they must be hunting you down in Potters Bar right now. I imagine crowds of them sat outside your mum’s house with pitchforks. You’re lucky we found you so easily. What do you reckon Rob? Being locked up or being let out? Which one would you prefer?”

  “I reckon I’d prefer to off myself, boss, in that scenario,” said Rob from the other side of the room. “Let's face it, neither one of the options is likely to make you many friends.”

  “Too right, Rob. Did you hear that, Shaun? Rob over there reckons you ought to off yourself, eh? What do you say to that then?”

  “I thought about it,” said Shaun quietly through his phlegm-filled throat, but the talk of suicide only made his sobbing worse. His body convulsed as he tried to stop the inevitable. He closed his eyes tight, which screwed up his face; snot ran down from his nose far too fast for a tissue to stop it.

  “You thought about it, did you? Did you hear that Rob? He thought about offing himself.”

  “Yeah, we heard, boss, we’re amazed he didn’t follow through with it, aren’t we, Lenny?”

  “That’s right, amazed we are,” said Lenny. The two men both continued to play on their phones.

  “How would you do it, Shaun?” asked Terry. “Here, Rob, how would you do it, if you was him?”

  “Well, it would have to be quick, boss. I reckon jumping off a bridge is a pretty good way to do it, they reckon you have a heart attack on the way down, so you don’t even feel the bump.”

  “Jumping off a bridge,” he said the words staccato, “Shaun, what do you say to that then?”

  Shaun didn’t reply.

  “Lenny, what about you? How would you do it?”

  Lenny was sat opposite Rob on the couch looking at his phone, “Well, I always thought jumping in front of a train would be quick, but it's such a selfish way to go, you know, all those people late home from work and that. So I reckon it’d have to be….” He drew the last word out, while he made up his mind, conscious that the boss was waiting and he didn’t like waiting, “Drowning. That’s it yeah, they reckon it’s quick and one of the better ways to go, over in seconds.”

  “Do they now? One of the better ways to go, eh? Drowning. Did you hear all that, Shaun? Shaun, don’t make me repeat myself, I don’t like repeating myself.”

  “I heard it, I heard it all.”

  The wiry man in the chair leaned forward and spoke quietly, “So tell me, Shaun. Tell me how you would do it.”

  Shaun couldn’t hold the build-up of emotion inside any longer, a loud whimper escaped from his throat along with a deep breath which itself culminated in a howl. He cried hard, unable to restrain it, the tears had to come.

  “I was going to hang myself!” he said mid-sob, “I was going to jump from the balcony in the library and snap my neck. I’d be done with it all.”

  “There we go,” said the wiry man, sitting back in his winged chair, “you were going to hang yourself.”

  “You ever seen a man die, Shaun?”

  Shaun shook his head, “No.”

  The man was silent for a moment, “I have,” he grinned, “I’ve seen many men die, and you know what, Shaun?” he said, with a lift of an eyebrow, “Pretty much every single one of them pissed their pants. What a way to be remembered eh, Shaun? Pissing your pants? Not only would you be remembered for being that nonce that ruined that girl’s life, took away her innocence and caused devastation among her family, but they’ll all remember that you pissed your pants as well. Not to mention, of course, the nightmares you’d have given the old Doris who unlocked the library every morning, eh. She’d have walked in one morning, probably slipped over in your piss, broken her hip, and lay in the stinking puddle looking up at your ugly mug swinging around above her. What do you reckon, Rob?”

  “I reckon you’re right, boss. Slipped over, broke her hip and lay in his piss.”

  “What do you want from me?” Shaun asked.

  “Lenny, tell Shaun the first thing I want.”

  “Courtesy, Shaun,” said Lenny.

  “That’s right, Shaun, courtesy,” said the old man. “A little bit of respec
t for the man that got you off the street before you were lynched, castrated and set on fire by the locals with their pitchforks. Understood?”

  Shaun nodded his head.

  “So do me the courtesy of looking me in the eye when you talk to me, I’m fed up of looking at your ear, what’s on the floor?”

  “Nothing, there’s nothing on the floor,” Shaun said, lifting his head to meet the man’s eyes.

  “Right, well stop looking down there, and look at me. Can you drive?”

  “Eh?”

  “A car, Shaun, can you drive a car? Do you have a driving license?”

  “Yes, yeah, I got one,” he started to pull his wallet from his pocket.

  “I don’t need to see it, just as long as you’ve got one. Right, you’re going to be doing a little job for me.”

  7

  Three Choices

  “What is it you want me to do?” asked Shaun.

  “Oh its just a little job, drop something off for me, collect something else. You’ll know nearer the time. In the meantime, why don’t you relax, watch some TV, go for a walk if you want, it's nice out there, proper countryside.”

  “What happens after I do this job for you?”

  “Shaun, there are three possible outcomes, and you get to decide which one happens.” The wiry man behind the desk was growing impatient, but composed himself well, and explained things to Shaun in a childlike manner, so the possibilities were communicated plain and simple.

  “One,” he leaned forward on the desk and held up the skinny index finger of his right hand, which looked like it had never been asked to do anything except accompany his mouth in pointing and ordering other people around.

  “You try to run away, call the police, or mess things up for me in any way, shape or form, and Lenny and Rob over there will take you outside and give you a good kicking. Then we’ll dump your broken, pitiful body on your mum’s doorstep for either her or the locals to find you. Pitchforks, Shaun. Pitchforks.”

  He added a middle finger to the first without removing his eyes from Shaun’s, “Two. You ask too many questions. So, if that particular habit doesn’t stop, the boys here will see to it that my pigs are fed and that you aren’t ever seen again. Have you ever seen a pig eat a human body, Shaun?”

  “No,” Shaun felt his mouth hanging open.

  “It’s quite fascinating really. There’s no grace to it, they don’t care which bit they eat first, Shaun. They’re not like you eating your mum’s lovely roast dinner on a Sunday in front of the telly, eating your greens first to get them out of the way, so you’ll be left to savour the tender meat and succulent gravy, no, Shaun, it’s not like that at all. One or two of them will start on your feet, or your hands, whichever is closest. Then they’ll work their way up until literally nothing is left of you. They have to grind your bone down with their huge incisors and tear your flesh off, but they manage it okay, and it doesn’t take long.” The old man sat back in his chair and studied Shaun’s reactions, “Whereabouts along that process a man actually stops feeling pain and dies is different every time. Some blokes have survived for ages, even watching their knackers getting chomped off, unable to defend themselves, because their hands had already been chewed off. Do you remember that one, Lenny?”

  “Yes, boss. I remember. One of my favourites that was,” replied Lenny.

  “It’s a fascinating thing to watch, Shaun.”

  The finger configuration changed from the index finger and the middle finger combination, to the pinkie, ring and middle fingers together, the hand turned palm out.

  “Three. You relax, thank God, or anyone you want, that you’re not being sodomised in Pentonville prison right now and that you’re able to walk in the countryside with the fresh farm air and a chance at starting life again. In a week or so, you’ll take the van, do a delivery, pick up a bag for me and come back home.”

  “Then what?”

  “That’s another question, Shaun. Can you remember what outcome asking too many questions is part of?” asked the old man.

  Shaun nodded, “Yes,”

  “Oink oink, Shauny,” Terry turned to his boys, “Lenny, Rob, show him to his room, and then sort that box in the garage out will you?”

  “Yes, boss,” replied Rob.

  “Oh and Shauny, my old son,” said Terry.

  Shaun looked back at the man at the desk.

  “No more questions.”

  Shaun was shown into a small bedroom off the corridor behind the large room where he’d spoken to the older guy at the desk. He had cried himself into a frenzy. His captors had left the door to the room unlocked so he could access the small washroom and kitchen, but all the other doors were locked. He ran the tap and poured a glass of water before returning to his room. He stared blankly at the TV but decided to leave it turned off, preferring instead to insult himself with the violent imaginations of his bipolar mind.

  He sat on the bed with his head in his hands wishing time would slip away. The spiteful taunts from the old man and the offhand remarks of the other two guys had been far more tolerable than the antagonising suicidal encouragement that his own mind currently entertained.

  He stood and walked to the window. He pulled the nets back and tried to lift the window, but the old sash frames were either stuck fast by years of paint or fixed in the closed position, possibly by screws in the wood. He sighed, pulled the curtains back fully, and stared out into the dark night.

  The sky, being lighter than the surrounding fields, was framed by the tips of evergreen trees, possibly conifers. They stood in a neat row around the perimeter wall, their pointed tops looked like black teeth in a dark mouth; a sprinkle of stars dotted the night sky.

  The view from his bedroom at his mum’s house had been of the street behind theirs. The house had been too close to London to see the stars, too much light pollution. The only good thing about the view there was the occasional glimpse of a careless neighbour who had forgotten to draw the curtains before changing. The thought of his neighbour dressing woke that cruel part of his mind that relentlessly tormented him.

  He felt the cold of the glass and rested his forehead against it. He thought about smashing the pane and slicing himself up, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to do it; he was a coward. Anger rose steadily inside him as he questioned his own personality once more with rhetorical questions, “Why am I like this? Why did I do it?” He tried to control his self-hate, but he’d never learned how. The endless argument inside his head just made him even angrier.

  He stared out the window and felt the stare of someone, or something evil, staring back.

  There was something about the scene, the cold air, the dark night, the monster staring out the window from inside, that made Harvey think of the night that changed everything.

  He’d been twelve years old and had woke in the night. As he often did he went to Hannah’s room. They often shared the sleepless nights, when lonely thoughts of reality, kept dreams of what was and what could have been at bay.

  Hannah’s bed had been empty. So Harvey started down the stairs to look for her. He stuck the edges of the wooden stairs so the creaking boards wouldn’t wake anybody up. Harvey remembered the stale smell of cigar smoke and dim lamp light coming from the room on the right.

  He crept to the kitchen and let the cold stone tiles bite his young skin. It was the first time Harvey could remember being downstairs in the dark on his own. Muffled voices came from the cellar, and grew louder. Someone was coming. Harvey moved past the door and ducked into the corner of the pantry. He sank down to his haunches, and stared up as a tall man emerged from the cellar and leaned on the kitchen counter, he was breathing heavily. From somewhere, Harvey heard the rhythmic grunts and pained cries of Hannah. She’d been upset, but she hadn’t been alone, a man’s voice had filled the spaces between Hannah’s whimpers.

  The tall man in the kitchen lit a cigarette and blew smoke upward to the small open window that the cook left open. The moon, bright in the dark
night, lit the man’s profile perfectly. It was a face, Harvey would never forget.

  Harvey found himself staring at the moon. By the time he returned his gaze to Shaun, he had gone.

  There were no doors to the back except into the main house. Harvey made his way around the right-hand side of the buildings. The gardens and raised beds were well maintained, and he came across no obstacles. He found himself behind a double garage. Then he heard noises.

  Two sets of footsteps on gravel grew louder. Harvey heard voices and the whine of an electric motor from the garage doors. He froze, listened, then stepped closer. The voices moved inside the garage, they were carried by the echo of bare walls. Harvey crossed the small country lane quickly and moved through the field opposite the house so he could get a clearer view. He found himself squatting in a ditch looking at the courtyard, and into the open garage door.

  The garage walls were bare as Harvey had thought, unlike most garages, where tools and children's toys fought for prominent space or hung from the ceiling. This garage was clean and clutter free. It was the garage of a man who also kept his desk clean and clutter free, and likely his life.

  Harvey was of a similar mind. He knew that clutter and mess did not allow him to think as clearly as he needed. It was like acting without a plan, and hoping for the best; it just wasn’t conducive to a successful outcome. Success required patience, planning and execution.

  One of the men walked back out of the garage across the noisy gravel that carpeted the courtyard. Harvey slowly ducked down behind the long grass; no sudden movements.

  He watched intently as the man pulled open the van door, reached under the seat and pulled out a jimmy bar. Harvey noted the potential weapon. The man shut the door quietly and strode back into the garage. Harvey took the opportunity to move along the ditch to get a better view inside.

  The men used the jimmy bar on the lid of the wooden crate, and between the two of them, they lifted the lid and leaned it against the side of the box.

  Harvey could see the crate was on a pallet, as though it had previously been forklifted onto a lorry or truck. The men had their backs to Harvey, so he waited patiently for them to move, to make a mistake. He was unable to see past the men and unable to get closer.