by Ray Smithies
Travelling through this expansive location of tar and cement, the industrial estates provided neither life nor movement. At seven pm factories had already closed for the evening, leaving the district resembling some forgotten concrete ghost town. Only the countless avenues of security lights provided any clue to these once inhabited rows of premises. It was an eerie and uninviting place, thought Marlow as he peered through the side rear window.
Down a further darkened side street and the line of vehicles slowed to a halt. Marlow saw Indigo emerge from his car and walk toward a corrugated gate, which appeared to be locked. Fiddling with a bunch of keys he eventually forced open the conspicuous-looking padlock. With both gates open he disappeared momentarily behind the high, galvanised-iron fence. Marlow gazed into the darkness, trying to make sense of this industrial site. There was no factory to speak of, only an obscure outline of something resembling a platform and four tall, narrow objects erected in the background. He was totally mystified as to what this place could be. Why was he brought here?
The lights were switched on to expose a large site. Still Marlow was unsure of his captor’s underlying intention, for the high metal fence still camouflaged the contents that lay beyond. Indigo then suddenly reappeared and climbed back into his car. All four vehicles slowly proceeded through the opening, the rear driver stopping to close the gates behind him. Marlow’s first impressions was a car yard of some kind.
To one end both new and used models were parked in a row as if displayed for some would-be buyer to inspect. Further areas were divided into various classified car parts. Chassis, alternators, starter motors, tyres and gearboxes were stored in the immediate area. A weigh station occupied the other side. Elevated at the back of the site, a conveyor ramp led to an industrial compactor. Marlow then realised he was in a recycling and waste-management plant. Assessing the abundance of machinery that lay before him, he wondered where all this was leading. He sat nervously and waited in the rear seat of the Nissan. The vehicle had been deliberately parked in front of a powerful spotlight, giving the impression he was about to be interrogated by these hoons.
Eventually forced to exit the car, Marlow stood motionless in the middle of the yard awaiting his next instruction. The Traffik leader pressed two nearby buttons resulting in the sound of machinery starting its repetitive motions. The conveyor belt had commenced its laborious journey, while the compactor’s hydraulics demonstrated the power of the ram used for crushing its intended scrap. Indigo then stepped forward to brief his captive on the plant’s operation and to explain his intention for bringing him here. The four lackeys remained in the background, waiting in anticipation of their next directive.
‘Mr Marlow, let me explain a few things. What you see here is a car recycling plant where parts are disassembled, decontaminated and classified into three zones depending on the intended market they are destined for. In other words, before breaking the car up for scrap metal we need to eliminate any contaminant parts, including the removal of liquids and gases. Therefore the likes of plastic parts, the wheels and battery must be removed. We then collect the oil, anti-freeze, brake fluids and petrol, in addition to extracting the air conditioning and airbag gases.’
Marlow pondered over the recycling lecture. He wasn’t interested in the operation of some blasted decontamination process.
Indigo continued. ‘Now for the interesting part, Victor. Once we’ve discarded all the nasty bits our car is ready for crushing. The compactor you see to your right is particularly nasty. Our intended vehicle is placed on the loading ramp, which in turn is transferred to a crushing platform. This little gem has the ability to crush both vertically and horizontally. The hydraulic rams are extremely powerful and are capable of compressing a car into a square cube. Once our compact packet is small enough it is taken to the steelworks for furnace scrap.’ Indigo obviously enjoyed seeing the startled look on the Keeper.
Marlow simply glared at his captor in disbelief.
‘Ah... such an efficient tool. Victor, I don’t know what your reaction is to all this, but I get goosebumps running down my spine. It excites me no end. Do you feel the same?’ he taunted the Scorpio leader.
‘Go to hell!’ retaliated Marlow.
‘Now let’s see. We’ve often told that things come in threes, so let’s recap for a moment. We’re had our educational bit, our interesting bit and now it’s time for our fun bit. Victor, you’re going to provide our amusement tonight by getting crushed.’
‘That’s fucking insane!’ screamed a terrified Marlow.
‘Oh, you think so? Tell me, Victor, was the torture and murder of my two men displayed for all the world to see insane?’
‘I’ve already told you that was the work of the Piedpiper!’
‘Defiant to the end, aren’t we? Your regional head will not escape the clutches of Traffik. Pity you won’t be around to forewarn him though.’ Indigo leered at his nemesis.
‘You can’t do this!’
‘I’m afraid you have no choice. Your time is up, Victor.’
‘I’ll give you anything. Name your figure!’ yelled the Keeper in one last attempt to save his own skin.
‘No amount of money will compensate for what you’ve done. However, I’m a fair man, Victor, so I’ll give you a choice.’
‘Anything, just name it!’
‘Very well. Either you’re crushed alive or take a bullet to the head first. Your call.’
Marlow remained silent.
‘Okay, enough of this shit. I’ll make up your mind for you,’ Indigo said. ‘We’ll use the gun.’
Marlow squirmed and let out a series of hallowing cries.
The Traffik leader continued with his theatrics. ‘I’m going to count down from five and then pull the trigger.’ He commenced calling the numbers. ‘Five, four, three, two, one,’ taunted Indigo and then deliberately fired into the night sky.
The reaction, predictably, was a pitiful sight. Marlow collapsed to the ground amidst the sounds of uncontrollable whimpering. Indigo had spared him, not out of pity, but through sheer revenge in seeing his sworn enemy suffer the ultimate humiliation.
He looked down on his captive, pondered for a moment and then declared, ‘Before we all indulge in the main course, I believe an entree is in order. Tell me, Victor, which hand do you write with?’
Marlow remained silent and continued to lie on the damp ground.
‘Come now, the answer can only be one of two. It’s either left or right,’ teased the Traffik leader.
Still the Scorpio leader persisted with his defiance, refusing to cooperate.
‘Very well, then you leave me no choice, Victor. Others will have to make up your mind for you. Since most people are right-handed we’ll assume this to be your preferred side,’ declared the Traffik lord and master.
Indigo snapped his fingers and then spoke in a foreign tongue. His lackey stepped forth with a machete and what appeared to be a small towel. He then lent down and proceeded to straighten Marlow’s arm, in addition to extending and fanning the fingers on his right hand. A diamond clustered gold ring was removed from the index finger. Marlow suddenly snapped out of an apparent preoccupied state of mind and his immediate reaction was panic. He wriggled and screamed on sighting the machete. Indigo assisted by holding the arm while his lackey brought down the blade in one swift action.
The damage was immediate. All four fingertips were severed, their ends becoming airborne through the sheer force of the downward thrust. Like pebbles tossed in the air, they landed nearly two metres from the hand. Marlow’s scream was unrelenting. A towel was wrapped around his hand to lessen the outpour of blood.
Marlow’s howls were beginning to irritate his captor. It was time to press on with the finale. Indigo deliberately fired a further bullet into the night air and now all was in readiness for his so-called main course. He continued with the theatrics.
‘No, on second thoughts a bullet is not appropriate. Too damn quick and takes away the entertainment v
alue. I’d prefer to see you suffer till the very end. Value for money, some may call it. Wouldn’t you agree, Victor?’
The prospect was beyond comprehension. Marlow continued to crouch on all fours clutching the blood-soaked towel. No words were forthcoming, only the sound of moaning and sobbing could be heard. He had been reduced to a pathetic and appalling state.
The Traffik boss then instructed two lumbering thugs to step forward and place the man in his MG. With the Keeper and the deceased bodyguard in their respective seats, the sports car was then pushed forward until it rested on the crushing platform. Marlow’s piercing eyes reflected a look of insanity. He again appeared to be in a preoccupied state of mind as if oblivious to his imminent fate.
Indigo immediately programmed the controls to commence the crushing processes. The sound of the mechanics began its laborious routine, much to the delight of the crazed observers. Like music to the ears, reflected the Traffik leader, who was going to make sure he witnessed every minute detail. The powerful hydraulic rams then began their downward thrust, drawing closer to the rooftop.
As if on cue with the pending destruction, Marlow suddenly snapped out of his trance. Shock was now replaced with the sound of unrelenting screams. Any chance of escaping via the driver’s door had now passed, for the groaning mechanics had commenced crushing the car. Metal quickly began to crumble. In a frozen time frame Marlow’s look was one of utter desperation. This horrific sight was not seen as such by Indigo, who relished the moment with a passion. Marlow was still visible from the shoulders up, his head now being forced forward from the above pressure. The face of the Scorpio leader began the transition of mutilation. Slowly but steadily his skull was becoming rearranged. Cabin space was forever diminishing as his head finally gave way to the immense descending impact.
Marlow’s cries of anguish finally ceased with the crushing of his skull. Blood gushed out of his mouth as the distorted head began to flatten out. The hydraulic rams crushed all before it, the dominant sound of straining and twisted metal eclipsing any possible sound of human life. The body of Victor Marlow had disappeared from sight, with the roof now flattened to door level. On the completion of the downward thrust the hydraulics would then commence their horizontal procedure until the car was reduced to the size of a cube no larger than a standard refrigerator.
Contrary to Indigo’s earlier explanation, this little demonstration was devoid of any decontamination procedure. But he was not concerned with that. The Traffik supremo had succeeded in eliminating his sworn nemesis. The Keeper’s existence was now erased. He had been struck off the list, so to speak. Focus would now turn to the capture and destruction of the Piedpiper and when he was also executed the ledger would then be square.
~ * ~
F
or goodness sake, Hamish, would you get a move on!’ I insisted.
‘Sorry, Tom, I slept in. Shouldn’t be long.’
‘Very well, I’ll see you in ten minutes,’ I said and then hung up the phone.
Today a visit to the shire offices was in order to possibly learn more about the site affectionately known as the central star well. It was hoped that the Lands Department or their appointed sub-contractor could explain why one of the traffic lights was submerged to such an extent. On this particular morning I was in a restless mood, anxious for an answer and impatient for Hamish to get his act together. Finally, with the arrival of my Irish sidekick we set course for Williams Street.
Entering the administration building the reception area was the height of activity. Numerous people were gathered in their various queues waiting for their particular enquiry to be addressed. Hamish groaned at the mere sight of so many.
A long U-shaped counter encompassed the large room where multiple overhead signage served to direct the general public. I browsed the choice for the appropriate area. Water, Engineering, Environment, Rates, Building Permits, Lands ... ah ... Lands Department, that should serve us nicely and very few people in the queue. A rather distant and somewhat subdued-looking fellow was serving a young couple in front of us. His expression almost bordered on boredom. He spoke quietly and only when necessary, his eyes appearing above the spectacles at all times. Watching and waiting, I couldn’t help but think this chap was obviously not in line when personality was handed out.
Taking three steps forward it was now our turn to be served by Mr Glum. He looked at us with his piercing, steely eyes complete with a protruding bottom lip and then yawned to complement the welcome.
‘Can I help you?’ he commenced with a further yawn.
‘Good morning, lovely day, isn’t it?’ I purposely responded to encourage some life out of the old bugger.
‘For some of us it is, but I’ll be stuck in here all day.’
‘That’s a shame,’ I replied, nudging Hamish in the side to stop his antagonising noises. I continued. ‘We need some assistance please.’
‘In what way?’
‘It’s regarding the traffic lights on the corner of Pitt and Williams Street.’
‘Oh, what, have they malfunctioned again?’
‘No, nothing like that. But one of the light poles has been erected considerably lower than the other and we were curious as to the reason why.’
‘Perhaps a shorter pole was inserted,’ he sarcastically answered and I swear there was a slight twinkle in his eye as he laughed inwardly at his own satirical humour.
‘I doubt it. The variance is substantial, possibly upwards of a metre and half.’
‘Which set of traffic lights are you referring to?’ he asked.
‘The right one on the north side of Pitt Street.’
‘If you’re facing north, I presume,’ he persisted in his pedantic way.
‘Yes. The ground is level so why the difference?’
Why would you need to know this?’ he queried with a puzzled look.
It was Hamish who responded to Mr Glum. ‘We belong to a city club of traffic light watchers who travel to numerous sites. We are a voluntary surveillance team that ensures all is working well and we report back any anomalies.’
I daren’t look at Hamish in fear of laughing.
‘How strange. Most people curse the damn things.’
‘Not us, we have a passion,’ added Hamish in a serious tone.
I began to feel the pain in my stomach muscles churning away from holding back the laughter. This guy was both grim and gullible.
‘I’ve never heard of such a group,’ declared Mr Glum.
‘That’s understandable because we generally concentrate on the city sites most of the time,’ stated Hamish.
‘So can you help us?’ I cut in to get back to the subject in question.
‘Just one moment while I check on my computer,’ he offered and commenced tapping away as if playing a piano. In his meticulous and methodical way he browsed through a number of site addresses, stopping occasionally to ponder and then to recommence his search. Following what seemed to be around eight attempts to extract some relevant information, he paused and looked up above his spectacles.
‘Interesting. This particular site has a history of rework and always pertaining to the same problem.’
‘Which is?’ I asked impatiently.
‘Unstable ground appears to be the culprit. On one occasion, following a torrential downpour, the tarred road partially gave way beneath the traffic light. It sunk nearly two metres,’ he volunteered.
‘When did this happen?’ questioned Hamish.
‘According to this report, October 1988.’
‘Anything more recent?’
‘Yes, in April 2001 there was a recurring problem, with rain again blamed for a further depression. It’s rather puzzling as to why this erosion repeats itself.’ He frowned, scratching his head as if seeking for the evasive answer.
‘Who carried out the work on that occasion?’ I queried.
‘The shire sub-contracted the work to Fletcher and Haines, a local affiliate for the Board of Works. I suggest you have
a word with them. They may be able to provide more details on the work carried out.’
‘Yes, I’m aware of Fletcher and Haines. They’re situated on Anderson Street.’
‘Correct, I believe them to be your best source.’
‘Just out of curiosity, what was at this site before the installation of traffic lights?’ I asked.
‘Prior to 1986 there was nothing other than the road itself. The intersection back in those days was broader as a result of a narrower footpath.’
‘Well, thank you for your time,’ I concluded, believing our discussion had exhausted its limits.
‘Yeah, thanks, I’ve had an exciting time,’ added Hamish to the raised expression of the public servant.