by mark mctighe
Wass.
By Mark McTighe.
Text copyright ©. 2013 Mark McTighe
All Rights Reserved.
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Leopold Dix Series:
Becwethan
Wass
Table of Contents.
Prologue.
1. Life with father.
2. Whittaker’s Tower.
3. Oscar.
4. Shaft.
5. Call.
6. V.
7. Wake.
8. Father.
9. Think.
10. Peter Sasse.
11. Scarlett.
12. Rufus.
13. Plans.
14. Horsham.
15. Hideaway.
16. From the dead.
17. Analysis.
18. Pour.
19. Wass.
20. ICU.
21. Miss Sharpe.
Prologue.
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee; blessed art thou ........ A monk swimming....... He could never get past the swimming monk. Where was he going and why? Had Mary been distracted by him? What was he wearing? Was it a cassock or is that just for priests? He lay in the damp bed thinking about the swimming monk, he was probably doing front crawl. No he wouldn’t want to get his face wet; it was almost certainly breaststroke. As he shifted his buttocks a strong acrid smell of urine rose from beneath the covers. He checked his Swatch; was it ten past twelve or two o’clock? Whatever, it was the middle of the night. He lay on his back, open mouthed, the damage to his nasal passages preventing any meaningful intake of air. His mouth was uncomfortably dry; a constant reminder of them, of what they’d done to him.
The dream came fast and real, the same dream and most nights; “hey Wass you stink, what’s your Christian name? Urine, Urine Wass?” Jamie forced a guttural chuckle; Pete and Oscar fell about laughing. The dormitory was empty apart from the four boys; it was the end of term and most of the school had already left for home.
Jamie had an idea, “let’s get the bed wetting petty thief ...... In the locker.” The three boys, each one significantly more powerfully built than Wass, surrounded him then bundled him into an old wooden locker. There were 20 to choose from, standing empty alongside the 20 beds; lockers that served as wardrobes during term time. “You’re a piece of shit Wass; small, insignificant, shitty brown greasy hair; and Christ you stink.” Jamie was enjoying it, playing to his audience of Pete and Oscar. “You’re crap at sport Wass and thick, bottom of the bottom set. Jesus where do you go from here?” Jamie signalled to the other two to pick the bottom up, he’d got the top, “to the door”. They stood the locker up at the top of the worn stone staircase. “Bon voyage” Jamie whispered as he calmly pushed it over. Over and over it went. Not a slide but a cartwheel, an accelerating cartwheel of splintering wood and unforgiving stone.
They just left him there, no remorse, no worry about the injuries they’d inflicted. He was never able to breathe properly through his flattened nose, but the most indelible injury they’d left him with was an acute fear of small spaces, a lifetime of debilitating claustrophobia.
The bed was very wet, the plasticised sheet preventing ingress to the mattress beneath, a pond liner full of stagnant water.
1. Life with father.
The job provided an ‘out’. A way out from the life of thankless service he gave his father; respite, yes the permanent ‘on call’ offered him respite; sure it was extra money, but it meant he could drop everything and respond to the call whether it was real or imaginary; an escape valve for the times he’d had enough at home; could do no more or was struggling to accept the torrent of criticism.
Wass worked for ‘All Office International’, an American outsourcing specialist; a list of ‘Blue Chip’ clients as long as your arm, principally London, City of London. They provided every service you could imagine; post room, IT support, canteen, security, building management, office furniture. If you wanted to cut your overhead and reduce costs then All Office International would come up with a compelling solution. They owned recycling plants, incinerators, generated power and manufactured office supplies from cartridges to staplers and pens. Wass had done 20 years in the building management division. He held ‘on call’ keys for over 20 buildings. He was the one they’d wake up at night; complain to; complain about. His day job was to oversee four office blocks and he was getting a fifth on Monday.
“I thought you were supposed to be good with your hands. You said you’d fixed the bedroom window. Well it’s still knackered, and anyway that’s not why I sent you to that expensive school. You were supposed to come out with a proper skill, a money earning skill and now that my pension’s buggered how are we going to manage on your paltry wages? The kitchen needs tidying, washing up, and where’s the Sunday paper?”
“They’ve had a lift malfunction at the Gherkin, I’m on call so I’ll see you later Dad.” Wass surged for the front door frantically gathering his keys and jacket.
“Oi, get the paper on the way back” an unforgiving, barking command.
The car door closed, he was on the inside his father sealed on the outside, a moment to breathe, draw a deep breath through his dry open mouth.
Wass rarely gave his father much thought, he just functioned around him; provided, cooked, ran errands, fixed bloody windows. He usually just thought about something else but this time..... This time he’d really got under his skin. He’d spent an hour fixing that window for him and he couldn’t even bring himself to say thank you. ‘Yes’ he thought, ‘unpleasant man; I never asked him to send me to that school, to send me away from home; he wasn’t doing me any kind of favour he was freeing up his weekends so he could play more bloody golf; drink too much with his golf buddies; play cards and lose money to his so called golfing mates. He always put himself first and me last.’ Wass turned his head and reversed off the short driveway. A final glance up at the house and he could see his father had positioned himself to be seen; hands on hips, staring, glaring out of the bay window at him. ‘How long is he going to live? Too long’ he thought.
The drive from Kilburn to Hampstead Heath took minutes; it was early and it was Sunday. He parked the car on a single yellow and got out. He could kill an hour or so here then get a second breakfast at Café Rouge.
2. Whittaker’s Tower.
The contract had been signed last Thursday. Wass’s job that Monday morning was to conduct a full review of the building survey completed a week before; firm up on the maintenance issues and capital spend requirements that had already been identified; plan works, with the minimum disruption, for the next twelve months. He needed full access to all 14 floors, ‘it’s going to take at least 2 weeks to complete the report’ he thought, and that was assuming there were no tricky developments with other clients.
Wass worked his way from the bottom up. The underground car park was on two levels. It was full of some impressive motors. Wass had always liked cars and knew most of them by sight. There were a couple of BMW M5s and an M3; but it was the Vincent Blackshadow that caught his eye, classic British motorbike and not much change out of thirty grand for a really good one. This was obviously a really good one. ‘Well at least someone’s got taste’ he thought. Next to it and parked in the only reserved parking space was a white Porsche 911 turbo. CEO emblazoned on the concrete wall in front; ‘no doubt who that is then.’ He had to smile at the crassness, it was the big dick syndrome on steroids; comical. It sent a shiver down his spine, the juxtaposition of motoring bling an
d motoring icon.
It was on the third day that Wass ventured up to the Director’s suite; floor 14 of course. He came out of the lift and into a reception area. Wass was confronted by a stunningly beautiful woman; perfect physique, perfect teeth, hair; immaculately dressed, everything pinned into place, precision itself.
“Hello, can I help you sir?” She smiled a warm comforting smile.
“Yes, Simon Wass, I’m the new building manager”. His cheeks coloured violently.
“Yes of course Mr Wass, we are expecting you. Could you start in Mr Whittaker’s office?” She gestured towards a partly open door.
Wass smiled and moved into the office.
Twenty seconds after entering the office and Wass was almost certain it was him. His body went rigid and he started to sweat profusely. A bowler hat with ‘Oscar’ embroidered on the rim sat on a side unit, a gimmick from some city bash. This meant it wasn’t just any old Whittaker, it was Oscar Whittaker and there couldn’t be many of them. He scanned the golf photographs looking for a face he could recognise. It was difficult, he looked too fat, too bald, perhaps the smirking smile, the slightly upturned sneering mouth. Yes that looked familiar to Wass. The answer lay on his desk, an incongruous battered old ‘flip up lid’ address card holder. He pulled the arrow down to the letter S, constantly glancing at the partially open door. He placed his left hand on top of the lid to silence the mechanism as he pressed the open button. The first name told him everything he needed to know....... Peter Sasse. It was him, it was his Oscar Whittaker.
“I’ve finished in here” Wass poked his head around the door. He was shown the next office. He just stood behind the door and shook, a full body tremble and then he heard the voice.
“Victoria my office stinks of piss;” loud, aggressive, ‘unchanged’ Wass thought. ‘The white Porsche; Whittaker’s bloody Tower, fat, overindulgent; shit he still rates himself, just as much as he did at school.’ The door opened and Oscar Whittaker looked in, looked through him and turned to Victoria; “where’s David? Get David, I want him now.” Wass could feel his trousers getting warm, especially down his right leg. He flushed, held his clip board in front of his groin and walked to the emergency exit. One flight down and he still felt red, hot, he’d got a spare pair of trousers in the car, he’d make his way there.
3. Oscar.
Wass had been unable to sleep for the last 72 hours. Sure he could lie in bed and try to rest. The problem was he never felt rested; fidgety, twitchy. He was sure sleep would come tonight. Wass was struggling to eat as well, he was even finding it difficult to breathe. Perhaps he should go to the doctor.
He lay as still as his aching legs would allow and remembered. ‘It would have been December 2009’ he thought, ‘yes, it was just before Christmas there were decorations everywhere.’ Wass had driven the Luton van up to the school and followed Mr Wilson home from the annual school reunion. He’d withered in the years he’d not seen him; still a hulking great man but now fat and stooped; sports master and discipline master. Mr Wilson hadn’t stopped the bullying and he could have. In fact he was just as much a bully as Whittaker, Horsham and Sasse. He’d regularly beaten Wass; the ‘Jack Bat’; the cane; a physical and verbal bully; you could see he got a pleasure out of it.
It was the first time Wass had taken things into his own hands, not spur of the moment, well planned retribution. ‘Beetroot Wass’ Mr Wilson always called him and every time it had the desired effect; Wass would suffer one of his red hot flushes eventually turning purple; then sure enough Mr Wilson would point it out to everyone. Wass still suffered the constant flushing; frequently and for no apparent reason. ‘All Mr Wilson’s fault’ Wass thought.
It had been easy to steal the Taser from the security division of ‘All Office’. They were always being loaned the latest models for trial purposes and no one knew he’d got it.......... Into the house of the lonely man, deploy Taser, chloroform and into a locker in the back of the Luton. That was the difficult bit; dragging Mr Wilson to the tail lift then squeezing him into the metal enclosure; exhausting. An hour later and the house was locked up, fridge empty; suitcase packed; passport gone, and they were on their way to London. Wass remembered the man’s ability to humiliate absolutely; ‘first bench presses, then dips on the parallel bars, “come on beetroot, you’re dipping like my Great Aunt”’. Wass remembered every single word. ‘Why? What had I ever done to him?’ Wass arrived late at the ‘All Office’ recycling plant in Essex; it was remote, through the back of an industrial estate and backing onto some common land; very remote. Wass told Mr Wilson exactly who he was, exactly what he was going to do. He remembered how Mr Wilson had remained strangely silent, Wass had expected him to start pleading, start shouting; anyway that only started when the crane dropped the locker into the crushing machine. It came out the size of biscuit tin, still dripping, he couldn’t bench press his way out of that. He unlocked the security office and removed the CCTV tapes, he wasn’t stupid.
It had been a gratifying feeling. He stopped at a small bridge on the way home and threw the beetroot biscuit tin in, the water would flush him away, that felt special.
His heart rate was dropping and Wass was close to sleep; ‘would have been 18 months later, around June 2011’ he thought; ‘yes, close to Dad’s birthday’. It was Mr Mullen this time, acting Headmaster of what was supposed to be a Catholic school. ‘The teachers were his responsibility’, Wass thought, ‘a responsibility he’d abdicated’. Wass had been punished relentlessly for reports that he’d wet the bed; run after run after run. ‘The pain in my legs’ he thought, ‘excruciating; they never had a chance to recover before the next punishing run. Up at 5.30, an hour of running regardless of the weather; it was so cold and wet. That’s why I caught pneumonia; spent a week in hospital; it could have killed me.’
Mr Mullen had married the French teacher; second marriage for both of them; small retirement house on the edge of the school playing fields. This time Wass had just waited until the French teacher went shopping. It’s easy to take people when you’re prepared. It was important to Wass that Mr Mullen feel pain in his legs, just like Wass had. He screamed so much that Wass had had to start the recycling plant’s generators to mask the sound. ‘Just knee deep’ he’d said, ‘you can hold yourself up in the locker if you like Mr Mullen, but your arms don’t look too strong;’ knee deep in acid, ‘we recycle acid here Mr Mullen, acid used for acid pickling, it’s strong stuff.’ The flesh was eaten, he fell to his knees and finally went under. It was what Wass had wanted, wanted for a long time now; wanted him to watch his legs being eaten away. Finally Wass found sleep; it was just like telling a child to think about Christmas or their birthday, exciting and calming at the same time.
Wass had slept, and for the first time in; well he couldn’t remember how long and more to the point he couldn’t even remember his dreams. ‘Yes, I’ll take it easy today’ he thought; ‘get prepared for tonight, firm up on the plans.’
At 5.00pm Wass parked his Ford Fiesta in the City; displayed his ‘All Office’ parking permit and headed off to Whittaker’s Tower on foot. It was only ten minutes away.
The store room was cold and held a selection of desks and cabinets. It was all old stuff and needed scrapping. Wass made a mental note to have the room cleared, sent up to recycling in Essex. Wass had already identified the locker he wanted, the one that most suited his needs; he just wanted to adapt it ever so slightly, beef up the locks; make sure it was impenetrable, from the inside of course. He worked steadily through the evening until he was satisfied that it was fit for purpose. ‘Not pretty’ he thought, but as solid as the ‘Zero Halliburton’ aluminium briefcases that filled offices like these. He sat on a chair and closed his eyes, concentrated on his breathing, giving himself a well earned moment of contemplation. The claustrophobia wasn’t giving him any gyp today; the focus on the task in hand had stultified its effect.
Wass glanced at his watch and sprang to his feet; adeptly twisted the locker on its corn
er, flipped it back and wheeled it on the trolley through the now empty car park; towards the elevator. He glanced at the Swatch again, 9.35...... He pressed 14.
The doors opened on the 14th floor; a ping; a sliding sound; Wass wheeled the unit out, over the metal floor plates and onto the luxurious carpet within. It was silent, dark; except for the blade of light from the partially open office door of Oscar Whittaker.
“Who’s that?” The cocksure voice demanded; opening his door, “who’s there? What do you want?” As his eyes rested on Wass; “you’re disturbing me. It’s too late to be moving furniture and I’ve just spent a fucking fortune replacing all that crap. Take it away.” He turned and disappeared through the open door way.
The sweating had started, running down the inner sides of his biceps. The walls moved closer, the space restricting, constricting; mild panic; breathing forceful through his dry open mouth. Wass inhaled deeply, pushed the open door and walked into the office.
“I’m Simon Wass”. Oscar Whittaker looked blank.
“I don’t care who the fuck you are, get that piece of shit out of my office.” Wass turned and walked to the metal cabinet. He opened the door and pulled out the Taser. Seconds later he fired; the barbs bit through the cotton shirt and deeply into Whittaker’s skin; the charge immobilised. ‘He’s even wet himself’ Wass nodded his approval. He doused the cloth and held it over Whittaker’s nose and mouth. ‘Now you’re mine, all mine’. There was no need for delicacy or precision, he just ripped the barbs out hard and fast, ‘now the locker’ he smiled; Wass was getting a taste for it.
4. Shaft.
It was impossible to avoid the CCTV and right now his face should have been all over it. That’s what clients like this paid for; cameras on every floor, remote recording. It’s just a pity that in the recent transition to ‘All Office Security’ something had gone wrong. A system malfunction or perhaps a disgruntled employee from the previous contractor; the transmitter had gone missing, the CD burners on site fused. Nothing recorded, total exposure; and ‘All Office’ would need to be able to explain that, Wass would need to be able to explain and he could. He’d be livid in the morning, crap equipment, no backup, ‘yes someone in the security division should lose their job over this’ he thought.