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  CAFFEINE NIGHTS PUBLISHING

  SHAUN HUTSON

  MONOLITH

  Fiction to die for...

  Published by Caffeine Nights Publishing 2015

  Monolith Copyright © Shaun Hutson 2015

  Jingle Bells Copyright © Shaun Hutson 2015

  Shaun Hutson has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998 to be identified as the author of this work

  CONDITIONS OF SALE

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, scanning, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher

  This book has been sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental

  Published in Great Britain by Caffeine Nights Publishing

  www.caffeine-nights.com

  www.caffeinenightsbooks.com

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN: 978-1-907565-69-4

  Cover design by

  Mark (Wills) Williams

  Everything else by

  Default, Luck and Accident

  Also by Shaun Hutson:

  ASSASSIN

  BODY COUNT

  BREEDING GROUND

  CAPTIVES

  COMPULSION

  DEADHEAD

  DEATH DAY

  DYING WORDS

  EPITAPH

  EREBUS

  EXIT WOUNDS

  HEATHEN

  HELL TO PAY

  HYBRID

  KNIFE EDGE

  LAST RITES

  LUCY'S CHILD

  NECESSARY EVIL

  NEMESIS

  PURITY

  RELICS

  RENEGADES

  SHADOWS

  SLUGS

  SPAWN

  STOLEN ANGELS

  THE SKULL

  TWISTED SOULS

  UNMARKED GRAVES

  VICTIMS

  WARHOL'S PROPHECY

  WHITE GHOST

  Hammer Novelizations

  TWINS OF EVIL

  X THE UNKNOWN

  THE REVENGE OF FRANKENSTEIN

  This novel is dedicated to my wonderful daughter Kelly.

  It's not enough and it never could be but it comes with all my love as ever. Thank you.

  Acknowledgements

  Writing a novel can be great but it can also sometimes be like pulling your own teeth out with rusty pliers so here are some people who supplied anaesthetic this time around.

  A huge thank you to my agent, Brie Burkeman, who has shown faith in me that I honestly don't deserve.

  My publisher, Darren Laws who has similarly displayed patience and encouragement far beyond the call of duty. A big thanks to everyone at Caffeine Nights obviously.

  Thanks are also due for different reasons, to Cineworld Milton Keynes and all the management and staff there (Mark, Adam, Tammy, Mel, James, Barry, Alun, Dani, Phil, Phillip, Kirsty and everyone else I've forgotten or who doesn't work there anymore!) and also The Broadway Cinema in Letchworth.

  Extra special thanks to Rod Smallwood and everyone at Phantom Music and, of course to Steve, Bruce, Dave, Nicko, Adrian and Janick. Still the best.

  My biggest thanks go to my Mum for so many reasons.

  Thanks is too inadequate a word to say to my daughter, Kelly who has just about managed to help me keep my sanity. She has taught me so much about so many subjects I probably should feel inadequate and ashamed but all I feel is an incredible sense of pride in her and everything she does. Even if she has stopped me drinking milk!

  A special word of thanks too for Craig Hogan of course.

  And of course to you lot, my readers who have stuck by me from the beginning. For your patience, your support and your faith I thank you.

  Let's go.

  Shaun Hutson.

  MONOLITH

  Shaun Hutson

  ‘When you have eliminated the impossible, what remains,

  no matter how improbable, must be the truth …’

  Arthur Conan Doyle.

  PROVOCATION

  LONDON; JUNE 1933

  The window exploded inwards showering glass in all directions.

  Seconds later another impact against the large expanse of glass caused more of the crystal shrapnel to erupt inwards, spraying the interior of the building.

  Two more bricks followed, each one shattering more glass.

  The little man on the stairs had heard the first crash and that was what had woken him, by the time he heard the second he was already out of bed and heading for the top of the stairs. Despite the fear he felt he knew he had to get down to the scene of destruction, to see exactly what was going on and, if possible, to prevent more of it.

  He had felt fear like this before and he swayed uncertainly on the narrow wooden steps, dreading what might await him but knowing he could not hide from it.

  He had hidden too much during his life already.

  Either run or hidden. Those two methods of existence were becoming much too large a part of his way of life and he’d hoped that they had ceased. The sounds from below him now told him that they had not.

  He wiped his face with one shaking hand and advanced further down the stairs, ears alert for more sounds. When none came he swallowed hard, wondering if the ordeal was over. Hoping that it was.

  He rubbed his hands together now, large liver spots visible on the thin flesh of both. A legacy of his advanced years. He moved with surprising assurance for a man in his mid-seventies though, just the occasional pain of an arthritic left knee slowing him down.

  He stood at the bottom of the stairs listening for interminable moments then moved towards the door opposite him, selecting a key and pushing it into the lock. He unfastened the door and waited a second before he opened it.

  Even through the gaps in the frame he could feel a cool breeze blowing and he shook his head and clucked his tongue as he realised what must have been done inside the shop itself.

  Sure enough as he emerged into the area beyond the door he felt the breeze more strongly and saw that it was indeed coming through the shattered front window.

  There were several bricks or lumps of concrete lying on the floor and he knew they had been used to inflict the damage.

  A quick glance around the inside of the shop told him that nothing had been stolen. That had not been the motive behind the attack. The glass display counters were untouched. Whoever had broken the windows had done so in a display of pure anger and aggression but not coupled with a desire to rob him too. He wasn’t sure whether he should be thankful for that or not. At least if they’d robbed him then the ordeal may be over but, he reasoned, once the windows were replaced again then they could repeat their frenzied attacks again and again. It would become a cycle of destruction and renewal.

  As it had been before.

  He wandered over to the broken window and peered out into the narrow street but it was silent, wreathed in blackness as it stretched away on either side of him. There weren’t even any lights glowing in any of the other windows that he could see through his thick spectacles. The night sky was the colour of burned wood, pure black apart from a sprinkling of stars but there were clouds gathering to the East, buffeted by an increasingly strong bree
ze.

  He sighed and ambled over to a cupboard near the front door of the shop. From inside he pulled out a broom and he began to sweep up the broken glass, pushing it all into a pile so that it could be gathered up and collected more easily.

  The task caused him to stop for breath on more than one occasion and once he actually leaned against the nearest glass counter for a moment to regain his composure, feeling a little dizziness.

  This wasn’t right, he told himself. He shouldn’t have to endure this. No one should. And yet the overriding emotion he felt wasn’t anger but sadness. Of course there was annoyance at the stupidity and ignorance of those who would cause such damage but he also felt sadness that people found it necessary to act like this against him.

  When he’d collected all the glass together he put it carefully into a cardboard box and carried it to the rear of the shop. He’d dispose of it later he told himself, after he’d contacted the police. Not that they would be able to do anything. After all he had seen no one attack his shop, he could identify no one, give them no names. Was it even worth bothering the forces of law and order?

  There was a way to fight back, a way that only he knew.

  Perhaps that time had come.

  ONE

  Jessica Anderson woke with a start and sat up.

  She looked around, her gaze darting back and forth inside the bedroom. Then the headache hit her. She’d been safe while she’d been asleep, cocooned from the pain but now, as she rubbed her eyes and blinked hard, she felt the thumping at the base of her skull.

  Jess murmured something under her breath and reached for the glass of water on the bedside table beside her. She took a sip then swung her legs out of bed, sitting on the edge for a moment as she composed her thoughts and tried to think if she had any headache tablets in her handbag. Where, she thought for that matter, was her handbag? She stood up and padded naked across the bedroom towards a chair in one corner of the room where she finally caught sight of her bag. It was just visible beneath her jeans. Her knickers were lying close by, discarded on the floor.

  Jess smiled to herself as she picked up her clothes from various parts of the room and dumped them in an untidy heap on top of the bed. She pulled on her top and sat on the bed rummaging through her bag, satisfied when she eventually found some paracetamol. She pushed two of the 500mg capsules from their plastic strip and swallowed them with more of the water. As she turned back to the pile of clothes beside her she noticed something on the other pillow of the bed. It was a small handwritten note which she picked up and glanced at.

  HAD TO GO TO WORK. COFFEE IN THE KITCHEN.

  CALL ME WHEN YOU GET THE CHANCE. THANKS

  FOR LAST NIGHT. YOU WERE AMAZING.

  Jess smiled and began dressing.

  When she was, she set about looking for her shoes, realised they were still in the living room and decided she’d get them later. She wandered into the kitchen and selected a mug from the wooden tree on one of the worktops while she waited for the kettle to boil. When it did she made herself half a cup of coffee and sipped it as she stood leaning against the worktop, her mind anywhere but the small kitchen she now stood in. At least her headache was beginning to lessen. It had subsided into a dull pain rather than the thumping she’d felt on waking. That, she reasoned, was something. She glanced again at the handwritten note she still held then pushed it into the back pocket of her jeans and headed for the living room.

  Sure enough one of her shoes was near the door the other one under a small coffee table. She couldn’t remember taking them off just as she couldn’t remember taking her clothes off but then again there wasn’t a great deal about the previous night that she did remember. Jess pulled the shoes on, ran hands through her shoulder length hair and headed for the front door.

  As she reached it she pulled the handwritten note from her jeans and scanned it once again.

  CALL ME WHEN YOU GET THE CHANCE.

  There was a small table close to the door. Jess folded the note, placed it carefully there then walked out.

  She had barely made it out of the door when her mobile rang.

  TWO

  The tower rose from among the other buildings along the banks of the river Thames and loomed above them like a giant surveying a kingdom of dwarves.

  Despite the fact that it had only stood for eight months such was its size and presence many who looked upon it could not remember the skyline without it.

  Forty-three storeys tall with the first thirty-three of those floors intended as offices for any business rich or vain enough to seek sanctuary within its walls and the other ten floors intended for the kind of apartment buyer who didn’t blanch at the thought of such exorbitant prices for property. It was a monument to the obscenity of wealth or to the glory of capitalism. A sure sign and lasting testament to the fact that money could indeed buy absolutely anything.

  That was how some sections of the media viewed the construction. Some had praised its classic design and welcomed its building because of the amount of jobs it had created within the capital. When it was completed and inhabited both by the businesses who were to move in and also by those residents lucky enough to afford accommodation there upwards of one thousand people would be employed to ensure the efficient running and maintenance of the monolithic structure. At least three times that number would live and work within its walls.

  Others had dubbed it the most appalling eyesore ever to pollute the London skyline. No one seemed to remember exactly who had called it a concrete and glass boil on the backside of a changing city and the person who had christened it the glass penis had also been forgotten but the name stuck as a source of amusement and derision dependent on who was using it.

  So resplendent in its opulence was the tower that some said it should just as easily have been constructed from money. It was a monument to commerce and to everything that vast wealth could accomplish and achieve.

  It was wealth on a scale that few could ever appreciate or understand. The building costs had run into billions and the tower still wasn’t complete. Twenty four hours a day people were inside or outside in some cases putting finishing touches to the huge edifice. Rumour had it that the building wouldn’t even be completely finished before its inaugural opening which was drawing ever closer. However, such was the speed with which it had been constructed that many suspected this crucial deadline would be reached one way or another. Perhaps some corner cutting might be involved, some cost saving exercises that would enable the tower to be opened with the pomp and circumstance that was expected at the appointed time. Press releases from the owners of the building had certainly been consistent in their confirmation that there would be no deviation from the date originally given when the building would become fully functional.

  And there were large parts of it that were still yet to become so. From the basement car park to the upper floors of the residential area there were jobs to be completed. Some small and some major and yet the fact that work was still continuing with an opening day deadline approaching fast didn’t seem to bother anyone connected with the ownership of the tower or if it did at the moment they were keeping quiet about their concern.

  However, as night crept across the city and the sky darkened not everything within the tower was silent.

  THREE

  ‘Send it down, Bob.’

  Mark Bishop jammed the two-way radio back onto his belt and stepped back from the sliding metal doors that masked the lift shaft.

  From behind those doors he heard a low whirring sound and he looked up at the bank of numbers above the entrance, each of them lighting in turn as the descending lift passed the floor.

  There was a harsh metallic shriek that made Bishop wince and he reached again for his two-way.

  ‘Fucking thing’s stuck on twenty-four,’ he said into the mouthpiece.

  There was a crackle of static from the two-way followed by another voice.

  ‘I know. Same as before,’ the voice intoned.

  �
��I’ll walk up and have a look,’ Bishop said, wearily. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘I’m inside. There was no problem until it got to twenty-four.’

  ‘Open it up and I’ll be there in a minute.’

  Bishop sighed and headed towards the end of the long corridor he now stood in. Through a set of double doors he emerged into a stairwell which he hurried up before stepping out into another corridor on the floor above. As he strode along he saw a man dressed in dark blue overalls like his own step into view from the open doors of the lift.

  ‘From thirty-two down to twenty-four it was fine,’ the other man said shaking his head.

  ‘Might be a sensor inside the shaft playing up,’ Bishop suggested.

  ‘I hope it’s not the fucking guide rails,’ Robert Wilkinson offered looking towards the open mouth of the lift doors and the car beyond.

  ‘No, there’d have been something in the reports before now,’ Bishop insisted. ‘That’s a big job isn’t it? If it’s the guide rails they’ll have to re-set the whole fucking shaft. Somebody would have noticed that before now.’

  ‘The others are fine,’ Wilkinson told him. ‘So are the scenic ones on the outside. It’s just this shaft and from thirty-two down to twenty-four. The lobby up is alright. It’s just coming down.’

  Bishop nodded again.

  ‘Do you want to leave it until tomorrow?’ Wilkinson enquired looking at his watch.

  Bishop hesitated a moment then shook his head.

  ‘No, we’ll try and sort it now,’ he said. ‘It’s a bit of overtime isn’t it? All comes in handy.’

  Wilkinson raised his eyebrows.