Catalyst

by Mark Eklid

  After a couple of days shut away, with the phone turned off and the world unaware of where he had gone, Hardstaff reasoned it would be safe to either drive south and get on a ferry or head for one of the quieter airports and catch a flight to his place in Italy. There he would stay, live a carefree Tuscan life and try to forget all about his crumbling empire in Sheffield.

  But on the day before he planned to make his move, Hardstaff found himself marooned in a sea of white. It was soon so thick on the ground that it was pointless to attempt to drive away, even in the Range Rover. The radio told him that the airports were closed and even the major roads were impassable. He fumed with the frustration of his extended isolation and when an environmental expert was interviewed on the news programme, speaking about how the severe weather snap was unquestionably another sign of the damage of climate change, the radio was sent flying with a crash against the thick stone cottage wall, never to crackle to the sounds of the airwaves again.

  For five more days, Hardstaff remained in his secluded hiding place, snug but most definitely stuck. The constant orange glow from the wood-burning stove was his only companion as he wiped away condensation from the windows and peered for signs of a reprieve, only to be greeted time after time by the same leaden skies and the occasional further flurry of snowfall.

  His only contact with the outside world came through a small television. Hardstaff had never been a big TV watcher, dismissing the vast majority of its content as ‘frivolous shite’, but it became his routine to switch on for the regional news programme every evening. The weather dominated the bulletins and he was lifted by suggestions that what they irritatingly referred to as ‘The Big Freeze’ might be about to break, but that was not all he was interested in.

  There appeared to be no developments in the Swarbrook Hill collapse fallout, which Hardstaff regarded as helpful for his chances of getting away, once he had the chance.

  But he was concerned that there was still no announcement of the mysterious death of a certain well-known local café owner. Surely Hughes must have done the job by now?

  As he came to terms with his imposed solitude, re-reading every book in the cottage and working his way steadily through the contents of his drinks cabinet, a sense of calm contentment also descended over Hardstaff, the likes of which he had not experienced for many years. The control he had wielded for so long was not his anymore but surrendering it no longer felt such a wrench. He was beginning to look forward to his Tuscan retirement.

  On the sixth day, Hardstaff awoke to bright sunlight bursting through the gap at the top of his curtains. He peeled them back to reveal the confirmation of clear blue skies for the first time in what seemed an age. The temperature was up. The lines of snow on the branches of trees and on top of walls were thinning, eroding the thick carpet on the ground with drips of melting ice. The thaw had come.

  He smiled. About time. The freezer was almost empty and the stock of tinned food was running low. He would not have been able to stay in isolation for much longer and now nature had done him a favour, for once. He spent the rest of the day preparing to leave for good. If the forecasts were accurate, he might be able to set out the following day.

  Hardstaff turned on the TV to watch the news for what, he hoped, would be the last time. A diet of reports from closed schools, interviews with worried pensioners and stories of communities chipping in was starting to annoy him. But he wanted reassurance that the weather had turned for the better and so he turned on the TV to play in the background as he tried to create a palatable meal from the last of his dried pasta, a small tin of baked beans, two frozen hash browns and the remains of a jar of pickled onions.

  His culinary creation was soon interrupted.

  ‘Your headlines tonight,’ announced the woman on the sofa who was wearing a dress in a green, white and black pattern that looked like it was based on a failed test card experiment from the 1970s.

  ‘One top council official resigns and two others are suspended in the Sheffield new homes site scandal.’

  Hardstaff, about to pour the pasta into a pan of boiling water, stood with his arm suspended in mid-act as he listened to the list of the rest of the top stories before putting the packet down to turn up the TV volume.

  Alongside the woman on the studio sofa was a younger man of Asian heritage who sat as stiffly as if he knew he was not meant to be in the camera shot but had been caught out by the timing of the start of the programme. He clenched the pad of paper on his lap with both hands as he faced the camera.

  ‘Our top story tonight is news of the first council officials to be implicated in the Sheffield new homes site scandal and among them is the long-serving council leader, Cranford Hardstaff. An internal inquiry was launched last week to look into allegations that key council officials knew the planned site of the one hundred and thirty million-pound Swarbrook Hill project on the city boundaries was the historic dumping ground for thousands of tonnes of dangerous chemical waste and this is the first confirmation of the people who, it seems, will be the focus of that inquiry. Michelle Rogers is at Sheffield Town Hall for us. What else can you tell us, Michelle?’

  The reporter, her cheeks glowing red under the camera lights, appeared grateful that the producer had decided to come to her so early in the programme. With the temperature plummeting under clear skies, plumes of steam from her breath rose into the frigid air when she began to talk. Two boys made rude gestures at the camera over her shoulder as they passed by.

  ‘As you said, Ravi, Sheffield City Council announced they were to launch an internal investigation into the revelations surrounding the Swarbrook Hill development eleven days ago. Nothing more has been made public about this process since until the council issued a press release today to confirm that council leader Cranford Hardstaff…’

  Stock video footage of Hardstaff at an official function was cut in to the report as soon as she mentioned the name, which did nothing to lift the mood of the man himself, watching in his cottage.

  ‘… has been suspended from his duties until further notice, pending the outcome of the council’s inquiry. Senior Scientific Officer Yuvraj Patel has also been suspended, while it has been confirmed that Helena Morrison, the council’s Head of Planning and Regeneration, has handed in her resignation.’

  The camera shot returned to the chilly reporter.

  ‘This announcement adds fuel to the suggestion that certain council officials knew more about the history of the proposed housing site than they had been prepared to share with their council colleagues. It may be some time yet until we learn of the outcome of the council inquiry. The issue is, as we know, also likely to be the subject of a wider government investigation as well as possible police action, but we should stress that, as yet, no charges have been brought.’

  ‘Bloody right you should,’ growled Hardstaff.

  ‘With me now is Martin Bestwick from the Sheffield Environmental Action Network, the organisation which first broke the news of the dangerous contaminated waste buried on the site where hundreds of new homes were to be built.’

  The reporter turned slightly to her left and the camera shot panned back. The chunky blue woollen hat, topped by an exceptionally large pom-pom, looked almost comical on Martin’s head, but Hardstaff was not laughing.

  Under any circumstances, that man was the last person Hardstaff wanted to see on his TV screen. For him to be invited to pass judgement at this moment of his public humiliation was close to unbearable. Yet there it was again, the face he had come to despise. As if that was not bad enough, the sight of it this time sent Hardstaff into a fury far greater than it ever had before. It was worse than having to listen to him spouting his eco-mentalist bollocks on the television again. Worse than being taunted with reminders of the damage inflicted in the last few weeks. Worse even than the fact that he had taken on the great council leader – and had won.

  Worse than all of that. Bestwick was obviously and most definitely not dead.

  Hardstaff r
eleased a primal scream that might have shaken the foundations of a less substantial building and would have startled people in a radius of hundreds of metres, had there been anyone that close.

  He stared at the screen, incredulous.

  How is this man still alive? I hired someone to kill him. What more does a person have to do to wipe this smug little self-righteous bastard off the face of the earth?

  ‘Martin, the fact that the council has taken these steps has been greeted as a sign that the authority is prepared to get to the heart of this controversy. How do you feel about it?’

  Martin nodded sombrely and the pom-pom on top of his head shook.

  ‘We certainly welcome the news, Michelle. The more we probed into the background of this scandalous betrayal of public trust, the worse it became and these are three names we fully expected to see mentioned in connection with the cover-up. The steps the council has announced today are in line with information we have received since we launched our call for a full public inquiry. So while we support the council’s internal findings, we will not be completely satisfied until the full extent of this dreadful episode is completely out in the open and action is taken to make those responsible pay for what they have done.’

  ‘Do you think that should include criminal proceedings?’

  ‘If inquiry findings point towards that as appropriate, definitely. These people are public servants who were supposed to act in the best interests of the people who pay their wages and were meant to keep them safe. What we have seen here is that certain officials appear to have been motivated by more selfish aims and have been prepared to recklessly endanger public safety. Don’t forget, we are not only talking about the hundreds of people whose health would have been put at risk if they had bought houses on this site, we’re talking about the hundreds of thousands who would have been affected by what would have been a major ecological disaster.

  ‘If it is found that these three individuals took decisions knowing the likely consequences, then we think the judicial system has a duty to make them pay. What we have seen today with the naming of these three officials is that the culture of corruption in the city council goes right to the top and so while we are encouraged by the steps the council has taken today, we fear this is only the tip of the iceberg.’

  Hardstaff watched silently, each word feeding his anger like a steady trickle of petrol on burning tinder. He jabbed at the power button on the remote control and the screen went blank but he could not tear his eyes from the TV. It held him, trance-like, petrified. He was so enraged that his body had shut down. Had anyone been with him, they would surely have taken cover for fear he was about to combust.

  ‘And can I just add one more thing, Michelle?’

  Hardstaff knew he had turned off the TV but there was Bestwick’s face again. It leered at him in extreme close-up, filling the picture so completely that it seemed he might pop the membrane of the screen and emerge into the room itself.

  ‘Stick that up your arse, Hardstaff! I told you I’d ruin you. How does it feel, loser?’

  Hardstaff blinked. The TV was turned off. Of course, he had not seen that last part. The little bastard was inside his head.

  He’s taken everything and now he’s taking my sanity.

  Trembling, the broken council leader grabbed hold of the TV, jerking the cables from the back of it until it was untethered and he could carry it. He opened the door and cast it as far as he could. It landed with a soft whump on the snow-covered grass.

  Hardstaff closed and locked the door behind him. He was panting, even though the effort had not been so great.

  On the stove, the pan of water had almost boiled dry.

  32

  It took the rest of the night and the remaining two-thirds of a bottle of scotch for Hardstaff to calm himself. The more he drank, the more clearly he began to see again and the more he saw, the more deeply he resented the man he held responsible for his fall.

  Less than a month ago, he had no idea who Bestwick was. Even after the incident where he had raked up the business with the tree felling yet again, Hardstaff regarded him as no more than a buzzing pest who needed swatting away, but he had underestimated his enemy. Though he could not have known from the start that this undersized environmentalist carrot-crunching fanatic was actually a dangerous revolutionary intent on bringing about his downfall, Hardstaff had not acted quickly enough to crush him. He had let him grow too powerful and, when he had decided to take decisive action, he had made the mistake of trusting others to do it for him.

  Wesley Hughes had let him down. Hardstaff was paying the price for that.

  There was no doubt that, had Bestwick been standing in front of him that night, Hardstaff would happily have torn him apart until all that remained was a small pile of fleshy waste for the foxes to gorge on, but that was not an option. He had missed his chance. It was too late.

  The realisation of defeat consumed him and the drunker he got, the more painful his sense of loss became.

  The bright light of morning stung his eyes as Hardstaff roused, flat out on his front with his face fixed to the pillow by a clammy pool of cold dribble. It had been after two when he had finally stumbled to the bedroom and collapsed, fully clothed, on to the bed rather than in it.

  Closing the curtains had also been beyond him and though the sunshine through the window warmed his skin, his feet and fingers were numb with cold.

  Hardstaff rolled on to his back with great effort, turning his head away from the painful light, the large dome of his belly rising and falling with each breath. For a few scrambled moments, he was not even aware of where he was or how he had got there but as his awareness dawned and memories of the previous night flooded his mind again in a dreadful rising tide, he almost craved a return to that brief blissful state of ignorance.

  ‘Oh, god!’ he groaned.

  He pawed at the duvet over the other half of the double bed and pulled it over himself to try to get the deep chill from his bones but his toes began to cramp through cold, forcing him to writhe with all the grace of a stranded manatee until he could flatten his feet against the floor and ease the pain. With the duvet still wrapped around him, Hardstaff attempted to stand on legs that, from the shins down, seemed to belong to someone else, and slowly shuffled towards the door.

  The main room was frigid. The wood-burner, which he had forgotten to stoke, had burned itself out. Hardstaff headed for the kitchen area and stopped briefly, confused as to why there was only a tangle of unconnected leads where the TV had been.

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ he said to himself as he remembered and carried on his way to fill the kettle so that he could make coffee. Black coffee. The last of the milk had long since been used.

  On the counter he saw the almost empty jar of pickled onions and his stomach churned. He threw it into the bin.

  After a shower and three coffees, Hardstaff reached a decision.

  Today was the day he left all this behind, as planned, and headed for Italy. The snow ploughs had cleared the main road the day before, the snow in the cottage grounds was much softer and more yielding now the weather had broken and it would be far easier to dig out the car and clear two lines of tracks on the driveway. His bags were packed and ready to load into the boot.

  This was not the future he had imagined for himself but it was the way things had worked out. Hardstaff told himself he had to swallow his pride and cut his losses. It was his best option.

  Before tackling the task of shovelling, he thought it might be a good idea to get the fire burning again, so that he could warm and dry himself before he set out on his long drive.

  The temperature outside was hardly lower than it was inside the cottage but it was a crisp, clean cold. Hardstaff gulped in a large lungful of the fresh air and was invigorated by it, feeling its refreshing properties through every fibre of his hungover brain.

  He retraced what had become a well-worn path through the snow to where he stored the logs for the fire and took one off the
top of the pile, standing it on the flat stone ready to chop, then picked up the axe from where he had left it the last time.

  Hardstaff lifted the axe, his hand snug around the shaped dark wooden handle, and felt the weight of the thick steel blade, dense dark grey until it tapered towards the shiny silver of its keen sharpened edge.

  A man could do serious damage with a weapon like this, he thought to himself. Serious damage.

  He gazed down at the log, which would soon be split into four parts, helpless to resist against the force of the blade, and, for a moment, he saw the head of Bestwick where the log had stood. Beseeching eyes begged for mercy, though their desperation betrayed the knowledge that he knew he would receive none. Hardstaff raised the axe and brought it down with retributive force. The wood cracked and splintered, the two halves rocking gently on the flat rock as they fell.

  Hardstaff glistened with the immense satisfaction of the blow. He stood up one of the halves of the log and rained the axe down on it again. The thrill of it surged through him and he brought out another log to split. Then another and another until he had far more kindling than he needed for his fire but he now had so much more than that on his mind.

  ‘Why not?’ he said out loud.

  Before he headed to Italy, he could make a diversion to Sheffield, find where Bestwick lived and take the revenge he so completely deserved.

  Hardstaff caught the glisten of the sunshine on the edge of the blade in his eyes. He wanted to smash it down on that head right down the line of that stupid centre parting so that it split his thick skull and spilled its worthless contents over the floor of his dingy hovel.

  He would find the address from the text message he had sent Hughes, overwhelm the little fucker as soon as he answered the door and use the axe to give him what he had been asking for. The police would not have a clue who had done it and even if they did, he would be safely hidden away in his Tuscan villa in no time.