The Stone Man - A Science Fiction Thriller

by Smitherd, Luke

  She was patrolling back and forth in front of the Stone Man, wide-eyed and breathing heavily. If she wasn’t keeping the people around her at bay deliberately, she was still doing a damn good job of it. The mass of bodies on the other side of the Stone Man seemed to be getting an identical treatment from someone else; I couldn’t see them clearly around the bodies of the woman and the Stone Man itself, nor could I hear what they were saying over the general noise, but it sounded like a man.

  The woman was about fifty, well-dressed, and clearly at the end of her rope. She was very red-faced from her efforts, and sweating. Her smart white summer blouse and beige skirt were in sharp contrast to her flustered appearance, giving her a temporary air of great visibility. The people on the very inside of the circle looked uncertain, wondering if this was some kind of show (which was probably another reason that they were hanging back, not wanting to either spoil or become part of a public performance) and some of them were smiling nervously at each other. As I drew within clear-hearing range, she was taking a moment to try and get her air back. She’d obviously just finished her rant, and was now struggling to compose herself before continuing, deciding that an attempt at a more rational demeanour might better help her cause.

  She closed her eyes slowly, and took a deep breath, lifting her chin. She reminded me slightly, in that moment, of Yoda, just before he tries to lift Luke’s X-Wing out of the swamp. When she started speaking again, her eyes remained shut.

  “I’m not crazy,” she said, quietly but decisively, her voice shaking slightly. “I’m not making it up. I’m not some loony, and I’m not the only one here that’s saying it. This isn’t a, a … I don’t know, some kind of bloody play or anything, this is what’s happened. It’s real. Any of you who were here earlier, did you see anyone bring this thing over? Look, look how much it weighs, for God’s sake!” she suddenly cried, shouting this last part as her composure gave way and she struck at the Stone Man, first with her purse and then with her balled up fists. She moved up close to it and began to push against it with her shoulders and full body weight. It didn’t move a millimetre. I always remember the crowd’s seemingly subconscious reaction when she first hit it; everyone responded in the exact same manner, without really noticing that they’d done it. They’d all flinched away slightly.

  I think at that point someone might have moved in to calm her down, but I didn’t see if they actually managed it because that was when the young guy—the one who’d still been shouting at the people on the other side of the circle—suddenly flung his arms in the air and pushed his way out of the crowd. I could see him clearly now, dressed in a dark hooded top and overly baggy jeans. The people parted to let him out, perhaps relieved—the human urge to treat public displays of volume as if they were contagious coming into full effect—and I broke away from my side of the circle to pursue him. I’d seen enough for now, and I wanted to find out what the shouting was about without having to deal with any interference. More and more people were arriving and joining the circle, and I knew that if I was going to speak to him, it would have to be now if I were ever to stand a chance of getting back into the crowd and regaining a decent vantage point.

  I dashed around to the opposite side of the pack and saw that he hadn’t gone far, stomping along with clenched fists and shaking head. He’d pulled the hood of his top up over his head as well, so I couldn’t get an idea of his facial appearance from the angle that I was approaching at, but it was clear by his body language that he wasn’t happy. I could at least see that he was shorter than myself, and of slight build. I decided to open a dialogue by appealing to his righteous anger; in my experience, angry people warm to you very quickly if you agree with them. Running around him so that I was several feet ahead, I stopped, looking past him to the crowd, pretending that an idea had just occurred to me. Waiting until he drew near, I tutted loudly.

  “What the hell is wrong with all those idiots, eh?” I asked him, speaking as if I was just making conversation. I probably wasn’t very convincing; small talk has never been something that I’m comfortable with, as I say.

  “Fuck ’em,” he muttered, not looking at me as he went to walk past. From this new angle I could see that he was in his early twenties at most, with crew cut hair and a face that was only just seeing off the last ravages of acne. His cheekbones stood out, giving him a drawn, wiry look. He started to fish a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket, and seeing the opening I pulled out my lighter to accommodate. I don’t smoke myself, but I often find that carrying a lighter has its uses, especially in this job. He stopped—still not looking at me—and clearly wasn’t really thinking about what he was doing, still lost in his fury as he fumbled out a cigarette and put it in his mouth. I flicked the wheel and a plume of flame appeared. Lowering his head towards it, he gave a non-committal grunt of thanks as he took a drag on the cigarette and let out a sigh that was more of a hiss. Straightening, he clenched his jaw and looked back at the crowd, still shaking his head. Whatever they’d done, they’d really managed to offend him.

  “Ah saw it. Ah fuckin’ seen it, man,” he said, staring angrily at the crowd, shaking his head gently. He paused to take another drag, let it out. “Twats,” he said, drawing out the s longer than was necessary.

  “What, the statue thing?” I asked, pointing at it, the head still slightly visible above the growing crowd of people. He nodded, not turning around to look, inhaling again instead. The cigarette was calming him, steadying him, soothing his ego. I decided it was safe to press on. “But … haven’t they all seen it as well?”

  He suddenly whirled round to face the same direction as me, face screwed up in disgust at my stupidity. He looked like a rat that had smelt something it didn’t like.

  “No, ya fuckin’ …” His words trailed off, as he realised that not only did he not know me well enough to talk to me in such a manner, but also that I could probably pound him fairly comfortably. I’m not a big guy, or even a tough guy by any stretch, but it was clear that taking down this spindly specimen wouldn’t prove to be too much of a challenge. He looked me up and down quickly, and his angry eyes dropped slightly, although his expression didn’t change. “No … all those arseholes seen the fucker, man. Ah saw it first.” He stared at me, waiting for me to comprehend. I shrugged slightly, confirming that comprehension wasn’t coming anytime soon. His face screwed up further.

  “Ah saw it turn up. No one else was looking. Nah, ac’shully, dat woman was looking, she was looking, but she fuckin’ …” He paused for a moment, waving his hand in the air dismissively. “She fuckin’ blah blah blah and no-one give a fuck, but ah was tellin’ them that ah fuckin’ seen it, and they all just standin’ there like errrrrrrrrrr and ah’m tellin’ ’em and tellin’ ’em and they don’t fuckin’ geddit. Fuckin’ jokers, bruv, jokers.” He took another drag, and wagged a finger at the crowd. “And some of ’em start laughin’, man, fuckin’ bitches … fuckin’ nearly battered ’em, man, boom,” he finished emphatically, punctuating the word with a short, aggressive air punch that said that he meant it, unaware of how ineffective he probably would have been. His anger was so genuine that I suddenly wanted to know what he had to say, despite my normal loathing for this kind of chavvy little twat.

  “Look,” I said, reaching into my bag for my Dictaphone, “tell me. I want to know, I’ll listen.” He saw the Dictaphone and started to back away, staring at it.

  “Fuckin’ what?” he said, drawing out the t in the same way he’d done with the s. Though my first instinct was to smash him over the head with the Dictaphone, I merely waved it dismissively, smiling.

  “I write for the paper. Just want to get an idea of what happened. Won’t even use your name if you don’t want me to.”

  He didn’t reply at first, just carried on staring at the Dictaphone with that screwed up face of his, smoking. He turned to look at the crowd for a moment, and then faced me again with a snort and a little shake of the head, gesturing me towards him. I bet Straub still has th
e recording. I’ll never forgive her for taking that Dictaphone off me. I bet it’s valuable, too; it’s probably the first eyewitness account of the first human sighting.

  ***

  (Faint sound of crowd noise. By now, there are around three hundred people in the background, plus constant traffic sounds from the cars driving past Millennium Place. The first sound is a large post-exhale intake of breath from the interviewee. I can be heard telling him that it’s now recording, and then asking if he wants to give his name.)

  “Nah, bruv, nah …”

  (There is a long pause whilst he possibly considers what he’s doing, but then thinks better of it, clearly keen to be heard. He’s smarting, still angry and feeling humiliated with that brand of indignation that only the young can muster.)

  “Ah was on da phone, like, just talkin’ an’ that, and dere, over dere like?”

  (The sound fades as he turns away to gesture to where the crowd is standing.)

  “There were no one dere, right, and maybe like … some people dere, and dere, and over dere, and dat’s it—”

  (“How many people?”)

  “… thirty … ’bout thirty innit, like spread out? But ah was the only one near dere ’cos ah was on me phone, like. So ah fuckin’ saw. Dey’s like, like …”

  (He pauses, holding his hands apart, seeing it again.)

  “Right next to me … it was like, cold, like fuckin’ freezin’. And ah’m like, fuckin’, shiverin’ an’ dat, and everyone else is like la la la, fuckin’ warm, and it’s all sunny but ah’m lookin’ round tryin’a see where the fuckin’ cold’s comin’ from, but dey’s just … nuthin.”

  (He breaks off and takes another drag on his cigarette. His hand is shaking.)

  “And then ma phone is just like WEEEEEEEEE in ma fuckin’ ear! Like ah can hear Donna and then it’s just this fuckin’ … noise, like the speaker’s fucked, and ah’m like fuck dis an’ hang up like, and then ah look and just like, dere—”

  (He gestures to a spot about two feet in front of himself, implying distance.)

  “—it’s dere, and it weren’t dere before, man, it weren’t-fucking-dere, but it’s not dere properly, like ah can see troo the fucker.”

  (Another pause as he stares at me, almost daring me to say anything. I don’t respond at first, not understanding. He continues.)

  “Ah mean, like, it was fast, man, like ah could see troo it for like, a second, then brap, it’s there totally, and ah’m all ’ot again innit, and it’s dere, but it’s just fuckin’, just …”

  (His eyes are wide, his expression manic, looking into space with his hands splayed as he sees it again.)

  “… bing! DERE. Outta fuckin’ nowhere. And ah’m looking at this fuckin’ stone thing dat’s just fuckin’ poofed, appeared like, and ah’m lookin’ and no-one’s noticed, and ah just … ah just …”

  (He searches for the words.)

  “… ah fuckin’ … man …”

  (There is a long pause as he almost visibly deflates, shaking his head. I think he is starting to feel sorry for himself. When he continues, I think that he has forgotten who he is talking to, this adult stranger with a Dictaphone, an adult who thinks he might just be interviewing a smackhead. I almost turn it off and put it away. Later, I will know that he would have been genuinely traumatised by seeing the impossible, the materialisation of a solid physical object out of thin air, and was simply having an emotional release. But now, I just think he’s off his tits. I carry on recording anyway.)

  “… I just, like … ah dunno … ah just started fuckin’ … like…shouting, or somethin’, and then ah can’t fuckin’ breathe an’ ah’m shakin’ and ah fall on ma arse, but ah’m still shoutin’ an’ pointin’ at it, ’cos … ’cos … it shouldn’t fuckin’ BE dere, y’know? An’ then ah fuckin’ honk up a bit, and other people are comin’ over an’ ah’m tryin’ to tell ’em but den dey’s walkin’ away quick, but den dat old woman come over an’ she’s shoutin’ too like AH SAW IT AH SAW IT TOO and some people are stayin’ and some are fuckin’ off and some fuckin’ pricks are laughin’ … but it’s still fuckin’ right dere and then ah go all … like, fucked, like whoaoahah …”

  (He puts his arms out and mimes being dizzy.)

  “An’ ah have to just fuckin’ sit down a sec and then ah can hear people talkin’ about it an’ deres more people, and some of ’um are talking about me and dat woman is shoutin’ ’er fuckin’ ’ead off man, she sounds fuckin’ … fucked, an’ ah can hear people saying it’s a statue, it’s a fuckin’ …”

  (He waves his hand, searching for the word. “Sculpture?” I say, offering it up.)

  “Yeah, scupter. Dat. And I’m like, it’s not a fuckin’ scupter! An’ ah stand up and start fuckin’ shoutin’ an’ that, an’ ah’m fuckin’ shoutin’ at ’em for ages, then ah just … ah fuck off out of it.”

  (There’s a long pause, and a faint sound as the cigarette is flicked away into the gutter. “So the woman saw this too?” I say.)

  “Musta done. She said the same stuff. ‘Ohhhh, it was see troo and then it fuckin’ popped up …’”

  (I mentally register this statement in particular, as it is the first time I feel some real confusion. The woman had looked too well-dressed to be a crazy person jumping on the bandwagon. She’d looked like a teacher, or someone’s Mum. Another long pause, as he stands looking back at the crowd, shaking his head. I don’t speak either, rather bewildered at this point as to what the hell is going on. He suddenly speaks.)

  “Right, fuck it, the end. Safe.”

  (He turns to leave, finished just like that, and holds out his knuckles for me to put mine against. I do so. “Are you all right?” I ask. He responds without turning around, still hurriedly walking away and not even looking at the crowd.)

  “Yeah, safe, man. Safe.”

  ***

  I stood there for a moment, watching him go, and starting to think that maybe this really was some kind of annoying performance piece. I turned back to the crowd, looking for the woman and thinking that I’d try and have a word with her as well, maybe get a few crowd reactions for an opinion piece or something, but I suddenly realised that the woman couldn’t be heard anymore. That was when the first of the police cars arrived. They didn’t have the sirens or lights going; they just quietly turned up, presumably to check that there wasn’t some kind of trouble occurring, or maybe brought there by somebody reporting the shouters. Either way, they’d arrived, and so I headed back over to the source of the hubbub. I don’t really remember what I was thinking at this point; I was more intrigued than anything else, I think. I certainly didn’t believe what the chav had just been saying, but it was all interesting regardless.

  As I was walking over, everyone in the crowd suddenly let out cries of varying volumes—there were several screams—and jumped back a foot or two. I stopped walking and started running. So did the police.

  I reached the crowd about as quickly as the cops did, and snuck in with them, following in their wake as they pushed to the front whilst asking people politely to back up and let them through. I was looking at the Stone Man and the crowd, trying to see what the hell had happened to make everyone jump at once like that. Most people were now giggling nervously, embarrassed at their reaction, but I couldn’t tell what they had reacted to; a quick inspection of the Stone Man didn’t give anything away. As far as I could tell, nothing was any different. The police were talking to some people at the opposite side of the inner circle, too far away for me to hear, so I tried to pick up on the conversations of people around me. I didn’t get any clues at first.

  God, feel my heart!

  I was like, oh shit!

  You elbowed me in the ribs when you jumped!

  I was just about to ask the couple to my right what had happened, when I suddenly saw the evidence for myself; I’d been wrong. There was a difference to the Stone Man.

  It was no longer bent forward. It had straightened up, and its head was now tipped backwards towards the
sky. The arms seemed to be held out at a slightly wider angle than before as well. Everyone must have jumped when it switched position, but were simply excited now that it was perfectly still; already the police were smiling again and talking to the people, most of whom were now looking amused and expectant, phones out once more. It seemed that the general consensus was that this was definitely some kind of unusual, intentional show, and everyone was waiting for whatever was going to happen next.

  I, however, kept seeing the teacherish woman in my mind as she leant on the Stone Man, as she struck at it. I hadn’t seen any movement from it in the slightest. There was clearly real weight to the Stone Man, real solidity. I couldn’t see any hinge or break in the rough stone surface, any point of articulation. So how the hell had it now straightened up like that? I looked around for the teacherish woman; she appeared to have left, just like her chav counterpart. One of the police was on his radio, sounding as though he was calling in more officers or support of some kind—there were still people turning up to see what was going on—but he looked more amused than anything. I decided to stick around. I wasn’t massively hungry yet, the temperature was just nice now in the late afternoon, and there looked like there would be further developments.

  As the next hour passed, police barriers arrived, along with two more officers who good-naturedly spread the now four-hundred-strong crowd back a few feet—receiving a chorus of playful boos as a result—and set up a low retractable tape barrier at a radius of about eight feet from the Stone Man. A gentleman from the council turned up at one point, asked the police a few questions, and then moved back to the outside of the crowd, where he remained on his phone for the rest of the time that I was there. It filtered back through the crowd that he was trying to find out who was responsible for it, if they had a permit, and so on. Eventually, he apparently moved on to trying to sort out its removal.

  I’d gotten a few bits of audio from the people around me, a lot of them all too eager to talk into the Dictaphone, describing how it had suddenly moved without a sound (the silence of it was confirmed by all of them, which again struck a chord with me. How could something with so much weight move silently? Unless the teacher woman had been an excellent mime) and a few opinions (I think it’s representing the death of Coventry’s industry/I think it’s a marketing stunt/I think it’s shit) but was starting to grow a bit bored, to be honest. Rich Bell wasn’t answering his phone either, so all I had image-wise were a few shots I’d managed to grab on the digital camera that I kept in my bag; my phone’s own camera was far too primitive. Most of the new people that had turned up had hung around for a while, and, not having seen it move in the first place, didn’t have the level of invested intrigue to make them stick around. Eventually, hunger and boredom would draw them towards their homes. Even those who had been there all along were starting to look at their watches and think about dinner.