MONOLITH

by Shaun Hutson

  A perfect family picture.

  Johnson raised his eyebrows. Some smartarse had once said that the camera never lies. That was bullshit too. It did nothing but lie. The snapshot he was looking at now made it look as if he and his family were without a care in the world.

  It hadn’t been until they’d returned from that holiday that his wife had found a lump in her left breast.

  Johnson could still remember the absolute fear that had consumed him when she’d told him. He’d marvelled at how small a discovery could produce so much stress and worry. The fact that it had seemed to take an age to get her an appointment for a biopsy hadn’t helped. That had been two months ago and she still had another few days of waiting for the operation that would tell her whether the lump was benign or malignant.

  He sucked in a deep breath. Even the word itself was frightening. Malignant. It was right up there with inoperable and terminal. As well as fear, Johnson had felt another emotion he hadn’t expected to feel. One of anger. Why did it have to be his wife? Why her? She had done nothing but good all through her thirty-six years. Why single her out for this ordeal? He’d seen plenty people during the course of his work who deserved far more richly the kind of worry and possible suffering that his wife was going to have to endure but no, she had been picked for this. A good person, not a shithouse. Not someone who deserved to suffer. Of course he’d tried to consider the positive side. The lump may well be benign. It would be removed and everything would go on as normal.

  Finding the positives in situations wasn’t exactly Robert Johnson’s forte. Maybe that was the result of eighteen years on the police force, he told himself. If he always looked on the dark side then anything at all was a bonus. That was the way he’d always been and he saw no reason to change now.

  The hardest decision he and his wife had been forced to take had been over whether or not to tell their daughter. How did you explain to a six-year-old that her mother might have a disease that could kill her? How did you look into the face of a child and tell it that it may well be losing one of its parents?

  They had decided to wait until they found out the result of the biopsy before explaining anything one way or the other. If the news was bad then they’d deal with it somehow and if the lump was benign then there was no need to say anything anyway. Ignorance would be bliss for their daughter. At least that was what Johnson hoped.

  If he’d been a religious man he would have prayed for his wife’s well-being but along with a tendency to see the bad rather than the good in situations, his time in the police had also brought it crashing home to him that no God whoever he was would permit some of the things to happen that Johnson had seen over the years. He’d heard a quote but couldn’t remember where from and it had always stuck in his head: ‘I believe that God is a sadist but probably doesn’t even know it.’ Johnson looked down at the image of his wife and he found it hard to disagree.

  He was still looking at the picture when there was a knock on his office door.

  He was about to call out to the person on the other side to enter when they did.

  D.S. Raymond Powell walked in and closed the door behind him.

  He noticed that Johnson was looking at the picture and for a moment he thought about saying something but, he told himself, what was the point? He was sure that if there’d been any good news then his colleague would have told him. Best let sleeping dogs lie.

  ‘I’ve been through all the statements that the uniformed guys took,’ the D.S. began.

  ‘And?’ Johnson murmured.

  ‘Nothing. No one saw anything. A couple of people heard what they thought was breaking glass but no one saw a thing.’

  ‘Did Dunham or his wife add anything to their statements?’

  Powell shook his head.

  ‘So all we’ve got left is the report from forensics about the attacker,’ Johnson sighed, slumping into his seat.

  ‘The residue at the bottom of the indentations in the garden and on the walls of the house was clay,’ Powell confirmed.

  ‘But not commercial clay, not something that could have been carried on the feet of a builder or workman.’

  ‘So is our suspect a mad sculptor?’ Powell chuckled.

  Johnson sighed wearily.

  ‘What do you think, Ray?’ the D.I. said, holding the report up and waving it before him. ‘About the estimated size of the attacker?’

  ‘Forensics says that their calculations are based on the depth of the footprints…’

  ‘But they’re not footprints are they?’ Johnson interrupted. ‘There are no marks or patterns that would have been left by the sole of a shoe or boot. If there were we could trace them, find out which make they were and who might have bought some recently. The fucking marks in Dunham’s garden aren’t even shaped like footprints.’

  ‘Well someone left them,’ Powell said.

  ‘Someone who must, according to Forensic calculations on the height to weight ratio, be over twenty-five feet tall. What are they telling us? We’ve got to arrest fucking King Kong?’

  ‘It wouldn’t be the first time,’ Powell grinned but the joke didn’t seem to register with Johnson who merely shook his head and sighed.

  ‘It’s crazy,’ he murmured.

  ‘It doesn’t make a lot of sense, I’ll give you that.’

  ‘Not a lot of sense? It makes no fucking sense at all. Those marks were left by someone calculated to be over twenty five feet tall and weighing more than fifty stone. And not one single person in that street last night saw anything, before during and after the attack. Now you, or someone, tell me what the fuck is going on because I haven’t got a clue.’

  THIRTY-SIX

  ‘You should have told me about your father.’

  Jessica Anderson looked into the face of the man seated opposite her and saw the distress in his expression.

  ‘Why? What good would it do?’ Alex Hadley said. ‘Talking about it isn’t going to make him any better is it?’

  ‘You shouldn’t bottle stuff like that up, Alex. It doesn’t do you any good. That’s what my mum always says to me.’

  Hadley laughed bitterly.

  ‘Maybe your mum’s right,’ he murmured. ‘How is she?’

  ‘Frail,’ Jess said. ‘That’s the best word I can use to describe her. She seems to shrink a bit every time I see her. She keeps telling me she’s fine but …’

  ‘Maybe she is.’

  ‘She misses my dad, I know that.’

  ‘How long were they married?’

  ‘Fifty years.’

  ‘No wonder she misses him.’

  ‘And she’s struggling with money too. She doesn’t say it outright but I can tell. She’s always going on about how expensive things are and talking about her bills. My dad’s pension isn’t much and what she gets barely covers her expenses every month. I just wish I could do something to help her.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Pay her bills or something. Give her some money when I go round to see her. I don’t know.’

  Jess exhaled almost painfully.

  ‘It’s not your place to do that, Jess,’ Hadley told her.

  ‘I know that but kids are supposed to help their parents, aren’t they?’ she protested. ‘They gave me everything when I was growing up, Alex. I wanted for nothing and now I feel that I’m letting my mum down.’

  ‘I know what you mean but you’re not.’

  ‘Well I think I am.’

  ‘It isn’t your fault, Jess,’ Hadley said, flatly. ‘Stop blaming yourself.’

  ‘That’s a bit pot and kettle isn’t it? You’re blaming yourself for the state your dad’s in.’

  Hadley shrugged.

  ‘So, do you want to talk about your dad?’ Jess went on.

  ‘No,’ he sighed. ‘A trouble shared is a trouble halved and all that bullshit. Is that what you mean?’

  Jess regarded him evenly.

  ‘I’m just saying, if you wanted someone to talk to you could have talked t
o me,’ she said, finally.

  Hadley glanced down at his half empty coffee cup then took a sip of the contents.

  ‘What fucking use is talking?’ he muttered. ‘If I tell you my Dad’s dying is it going to make him better? No.’

  They sat in silence for a moment then Hadley spoke again.

  ‘And what about you, Jess?’ he said, softly. ‘When you’ve got problems who do you talk to? Who do you unburden your soul to?’

  She wasn’t slow to catch the edge to his voice and she held his gaze unblinkingly.

  ‘I was trying to help, Alex,’ she said.

  ‘If you can’t help yourself then no one can help you.’

  ‘Who said that, Oscar Wilde?’

  ‘Amy Winehouse I think.’ He smiled.

  ‘And look at her,’ Jess grinned.

  Hadley nodded.

  ‘Listen Jess, I appreciate your concern,’ he said. ‘But there’s nothing you can do. There’s nothing anyone can do.’ He sighed. ‘No one gives a fuck.

  ‘Nobody in that hospital cares about my dad. He’s just another statistic to them.

  ‘Another bed they want empty so they can put some other poor sod in it.’

  Jess was about to say something when Hadley pressed on as if anxious to change the subject.

  ‘So, come on, tell me, what do you need my help for?’ he wanted to know.

  ‘I have to get back inside the Crystal Tower and have a look around,’ she informed him. ‘I told you that.’

  ‘And what the fuck are you looking for, Jess? Still trying to find a story that isn’t there?’

  ‘There is a story and you know it.’

  ‘Then what is it? If it’s such a big deal why aren’t there other journos all over it?’

  ‘People have died, Alex, too many people. There’s a reason and I think that reason is inside the Crystal Tower. That’s why I have to get back inside and see what I can find.’

  ‘That’s not going to be easy. And after your little run in with that security guard last time they’re going to be looking for you. They probably got you on close circuit TV and Christ knows what else.’

  ‘That’s why I need your help.’

  Hadley raised his eyebrows and sat forward slightly.

  ‘Go on then,’ he said, smiling. ‘I’m listening.’

  LONDON; 1933

  They told the old man he didn’t belong.

  Told him he didn’t belong in the house he lived in, in the street where that house was and then they told him he didn’t belong in their country.

  There were eight of them. All of them looked like big men to the old man who wasn’t more than five feet four in height anyway. They towered over him and surrounded him and they waved their fists angrily and threateningly and they spat furious and angry words at him. He’d heard the words before spoken in different tongues and he told himself he should be used to this kind of prejudice and hatred. But he wasn’t. And when one of them made to grab the lapels of his jacket he tried to back away but another of them blocked his escape.

  He felt himself being lifted bodily into the air and he thought about striking out at his aggressor but realised that this would only provoke greater anger and violence.

  The bigger man’s face was inches from his and he could smell his rancid breath and the liquor on it as he snapped and shouted.

  The others looked on with a mixture of approval and indifference.

  The old man was finally pushed away, slammed hard into the door of his shop.

  They advanced upon him, one of them swinging a hammer, threatening to shatter the windows and even the old man’s skull if necessary. He backed away from them as best he could, knowing that there was no escape this time but also knowing that he had feared and expected this time and he was at least ready for it. Ready for them.

  Another of them was carrying a brick in his hand and, as the old man retreated into his shop, the man with the implement smashed it into one of the display cases nearby. Glass shattered, some of it spraying across the floor of the shop, crunching beneath the advancing feet of the men. The old man protested but his words fell on deaf and unconcerned ears.

  Another of the display cases was broken, this time overturned. There were watches inside it and they spilled across the floor where some were also trampled underfoot.

  All of the men were shouting now it seemed. The whole shop was filled with the sound of angry voices. They warned him not to go to the police because they would find out and they would make him suffer even more. They told him that no one would help him because no one wanted him here, no one had ever wanted him. They told him how much they hated him and others like him and they told him to get out. Get out of the shop and the country. Just walk away and they would leave him unharmed. If he didn’t do as they told him then there would be real trouble. They would harm him. And of that he had no doubt looking into their furious, hate filled eyes and listening to the anger in their voices.

  But in the silence that fell over the shop momentarily the old man said that he would not leave. He told them they would not drive him out.

  They said that if he wasn’t gone by midnight that night then they would return and when they did they would make him sorry for his defiance. The old man said that he would be waiting.

  One of them spat at him as he turned to leave. Another kicked a hole in a third display case and then they were gone. The old man stood shaking amidst the destruction they had wrought, thinking how much worse it might have been but not doubting for one second their intentions to come back when the darkness fell. What they would do when they returned he could only imagine and those thoughts caused him to shudder again.

  He stood alone in the shop for long moments then turned his back on the destruction, his face now set in hard lines. There was a determination about his gait as he walked and he murmured something in his native tongue under his breath as he headed towards the rear of the building.

  He retrieved the keys to the cellar and unlocked it, making his way down the stone steps into the subterranean room.

  When he reached the bottom he looked around the darkened space, his gaze drawn to what stood at its centre.

  They would be back at midnight they’d told him, well, he thought, a slight smile on his wrinkled old lips, let them come.

  Let them come.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  ‘So first no one sees anything and now this.’

  Detective Inspector Robert Johnson scanned the statement again then dropped the sheet of paper onto his desk and glanced across at his colleague.

  ‘This guy wasn’t in when we did the house to house stuff,’ Detective Sergeant Raymond Powell told his superior. ‘He was away on business. He decided to come forward after speaking to other people in the neighbourhood.’

  ‘Very public spirited of him,’ Johnson grunted.

  ‘I know it’s not much of a help but…’

  ‘Well it’s more than we had before isn’t it?’

  Johnson got to his feet and crossed to the window of his office, peering out across a windswept London. The breeze was strong and every now and then the glass would rattle in its frame.

  ‘And this guy is still the only one who says he saw anything?’ the D.I. murmured.

  ‘Yes,’ Powell confirmed.

  ‘He saw a man getting in the back of a dark blue or black van, a tall man who looked to him as if he was old because he wasn’t moving very well.’

  ‘He looked as if he had bad legs,’ Powell quoted from the statement. ‘Bad legs and possibly a bad back. Oh, and he was old too.’

  ‘So the man who attacked Brian Dunham’s house not only had superhuman strength but he couldn’t walk properly,’ Johnson grinned. ‘So we’re looking for a geriatric body builder or a pensioner with a fucking pneumatic drill.’

  Powell afforded himself a smile too.

  ‘Christ, we get no eye witness reports to start with,’ Johnson went on. ‘Then when we do finally get one it just makes things more complicated
.’

  ‘It was dark when the attack happened, maybe the guy didn’t see too clearly.’

  ‘And he says that the attacker got in and out of the van unaided, in other words whoever drove him there was already behind the wheel ready to drive away, right?’

  Powell nodded.

  The D.I. turned and sat down again, reaching for the Styrofoam cup that was half full of coffee. He sipped it then looked across at his colleague once again.

  ‘He didn’t get the reg number of the van?’ Johnson mused.

  Powell shook his head.

  ‘Just that there was a crippled or old or arthritic geezer climbing into it,’ the D.S. smiled.

  ‘What make of van?’ Johnson wanted to know.

  ‘He couldn’t be sure.’

  The D.I. shook his head.

  ‘Send some forensics boys back to the scene,’ he said. ‘Get them to check out the road outside Dunham’s house. There might be tyre marks or something that will help us identify the van at least.’

  ‘Already done it but I can’t see them finding much after all this time, can you?’

  ‘No,’ Johnson conceded. ‘But at least it feels as if we’re doing something doesn’t it? Let’s just say I’m padding the job.’

  Powell smiled again and got to his feet, preparing to turn in the direction of the office door. Before he did he turned and looked down at the photographs on Johnson’s desk. In particular the one of his wife.

  ‘Tell me to mind my own business if you want,’ he said, quietly. ‘But have you heard any news about your missis. She’s due to have her operation soon isn’t she?’

  ‘Two days from now,’ Johnson told him.

  ‘Like I said, tell me to mind my own business…’

  ‘I appreciate you asking, Ray.’

  ‘Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.’

  ‘Cheers, mate, I will.’

  Powell hesitated a moment then finally did head towards the office door. As he reached it Johnson called to him again.

  ‘Let me have that forensics report as soon as they’re finished will you, Ray,’ he asked. ‘Not that it’ll be any good I wouldn’t think.’