by David McLeod
‘Not the clothes, the home visit — fool.’
‘There’s some famous quote about knowing your enemy, or keeping them close or… well, I don’t know. I just think it wouldn’t hurt to know what we’re dealing with.’
‘My view is that enemies are better off exterminated, which is something else we need to discuss; we should start making plans for the disposal of the kid,’ Vince replied.
‘You don’t have a clue do you? We may not have to dispose of the kid. Do you really want the murder of a kid on your conscience? We could threaten or bribe his mother into silence or burn their house down, or… fuck knows what else. The more we know about the whole situation, the more we can use it to our own advantage.’
‘What do you think we’ll find?’
‘How the hell should I know? That’s what I want to find out!’ Scott shook his head, and he finished with, ‘idiot!’
They checked in on Joshua to make sure he was secure, and then without talking, they got into the car and pulled out of the garage. The shopping trip was a little uncomfortable for both of them as they tried to work out boys clothing sizes. It seemed like an impossible task, so in the end they enlisted the help of the store assistant. She seemed very competent in deciphering Scott’s — my nephew's this size — hand gestures. After the mall, it was off to the Costello residence.
Vince drove, and as they passed from neighborhood to neighborhood, Scott tuned out his surroundings as his thoughts drifted back to his childhood and how his life had become what it was today. For as long as he could remember, he’d been obsessed with fire; in fact, one of his earliest memories was of his father setting a fire and lighting it. He’d grown up in a fairly rough area of the Valley; their house was average size and middle of the road in terms of looks — which was funny because it was, in fact, in the middle of the street. One thing it did have that set it apart from the other homes in the area was its open fire; in winter, it proudly roared and crackled away in the main living area of the house. He had watched as his father crumpled sheets of newspaper into little balls, then using a variety of thin sticks, he’d carefully construct a small wigwam frame over the dry paper. Then, with a quick shake of the matchbox as if to wake up its occupants before sliding open the drawer and exposing the red tips of the matches, he’d select one at random, pull the match out, then slide the box closed again.
Scott watched in awe as his father, with a flick of his wrist, scraped the head of the match down the side of the box, and created fire. The wonderful fizzing noise and burst of bright red and yellow light instantly aroused the young Scott’s two main senses which were quickly enhanced by the beautiful aroma of ignited phosphorous. His father then held the small flame to the rolled up newspaper in the heart of the wigwam; the flame took hold, and slowly the blue flame turned yellow and began to turn the paper charcoal as it jumped over to the frail wooden frame.
With the fire started, his father then added a couple of larger chunks of wood to each side of the flaming frame and sat back on his knees to watch as the flames licked around the wood. Young Scott’s last two senses were excited as he felt the comforting heat from the fire, and he breathed in and tasted the small plume of smoke as it slipped around the room and up his nose. Scott was instantly hooked.
It’s easy to blame the parents for the way the child turns out; the frequently heated discussions that surround nature versus nurture have been around for decades, but the truth of whether this was the moment that turned a young boy into a firebug was never of any doubt to Scott. Nature had created a firebug; it was in his very being, his core; nurture never stood a chance. Sure, this was his first real exposure to fire, but the firebug was already there — screaming to get out.
It didn’t take him long to obtain and perfect the household fire starting chore, but being restricted mainly to winter weather meant there were long periods of time when he couldn’t start fires. To offset this though, as the summer months came around so did the lighter nights; these, in turn, meant more freedom — more freedom to experiment outside the confines of his home.
Oil drums were his next big thing. Setting fires in empty oil drums was fun. Although they were relatively hard to find, Scott discovered that if he trawled the neighborhood thoroughly enough, a good sixty percent of the time he’d find one. Thick, oil-coated drums filled with paper and card burnt fiercely; flames leapt from their gaping mouths and gave off thick black clouds of smoke — marvelous!
Setting fires became an addiction; he was good at it — and very careful. Fires were started at his school, in his neighborhood, and as Scott the boy became a teen and the teen became a young man, fires would repeatedly occur around his life…but no one knew it was him… until Tims came along.
Scott had tried several times to remember exactly how he met Tims, aka Harrison, but the reality was that often fate takes hold of two people, and they are just destined to collide.
Tims told him there was good money in this type of work, and to prove it he got Scott to do a couple of little jobs for a few hundred dollars. Scott didn’t really care about the money; all he wanted to do was create fire. His career advisor at school harped on about finding something he was good at and trying to make a career out of that; so in a way, Scott was living his dream. It was just a shame he had to work at the local tire-fitting shop as a front.
But Scott never forgot how he’d met Vince. According to Tims, there was a new megamart called Europorium coming to Bakersfield. The company was big in Europe, and as they had spread around the different states of America, they had a reputation for swallowing small and large businesses alike. In the paper, Scott had seen the unfinished building that was to be its new home; it was a gargantuan site, somewhat near the size of a small Mall, and in many ways it was a shopper’s dream.
He had read about their method of trading. The experience started at the parking lot with attendants at every entrance equipped with portable GPS terminals to guide you to the next available slot — so no endless circling of the lot or frustrating waits. For the disabled, obese, or downright lazy, there was free valet parking — just call fifteen minutes before the end of your shopping experience and your car would be there at the door waiting. In the store, aisles were wide enough to drive cars through; experts were on hand for any manner of products you had in mind to purchase; there were computer and electronic gurus in attendance to assist with PCs, laptops, TVs, MP3s, cameras, and all manner of whiteware. Fashion designers were on hand to help you choose the perfect outfit. There were also Dermatologists, Jewelers; the list went on and on
To keep the males amused, the big sport events were projected onto forty-foot walls near the bar area, and of course, crèche and arcade facilities were available for children of all ages. Already there was a buzz of anticipation around town. People wanted to work there, and people wanted to shop there — a simple and effective business model for everyone involved — except of course, if you were a competitor or local small business owner.
Scott didn’t know if it was one of the three big area marts or a collection of smaller retailers that had indirectly hired him; all he knew was they wanted the job done well, and they wanted the job done ASAP. He had been given free reign over what to do, but they wanted it to be irreparably damaged. Ideally, they wanted construction to go back to the beginning, or indeed, cease altogether.
It was a big job; in fact, it was the biggest Scott had been contracted to do. Paradoxically, it was a chance for him to make a name for himself while remaining unknown. The envelope Tims had given him was thorough enough with basic blueprints and satellite images of the site. All gas, electric, and other main utility points were marked as were all entrances and exits. There was security, but even at this progressed stage of construction it was rudimentary. The construction workers had portable cabins dotted around the site, so the company’s security guard patrolled these checking a door lock here and a window there, and since the building was still bare and open concrete walls, he effectively onl
y looked out for taggers.
Scott had done several drive-bys to check on the site both by day and at night. During day-time hours, there was the hustle and bustle of the hard-hatted construction workers going about their business. Steel girders were moved around by huge whirling cranes; continual lines of concrete trucks dropped their loads, and then shuffled off to get a refill. By night, the tableau was totally different. The dark gray concrete structure loomed cold and lonely beneath the shadows of the oppressive cranes that stood guard at each corner. The portable cabins looked like abandoned shipping containers dotted around the site, and during Scott’s visits, the only creature that moved was the security guard — on the hour — every hour.
With his plan set in mind, and his truck already loaded with the gear he needed, Scott checked his watch again, started the engine, and set off to the job. Arriving at his chosen vantage point on a bank to the rear of the site, he killed the truck’s headlights, coasted to a halt, and then turned off the engine. He reclined the driver’s seat a few notches and scanned the scene to ensure that nothing was out of place or unusual. As his eyes grew accustomed to the dark, the only thing different from the previous night was a dark sedan parked on the roadside leading to the eastern side of the site. It didn’t really look out of place, but Scott watched it for a while before he slipped out of the truck and moved to its rear. He checked his watch again, three A.M. precisely.
Looking down at the site, he crouched low and waited for the guard to make his way clockwise around the building, circling and checking the odd cabin as he went. In some strange way, Scott admired the guard for his diligence — effectively conducting the same fruitless task eight times a night, where many other, lazier, men would have skipped a few times in favor of the TV. But tonight Scott was getting restless, tonight he had a job to do, and tonight the guard was holding him up. Come on, come on – you’ve checked them already — no-one’s been there since they knocked off at seven, so nothing’s changed since the last time you checked, he encouraged himself, not knowing at that point how wrong he was.
As the guard disappeared from view, Scott grabbed his kit bag and hosepipe from the back of the flatbed, looped the coiled length of hose over his shoulder and under his arm, and then made his way down the slope. He cut a small hole in the security fence and crept up to the building. Although well into its construction, the gaping holes that had yet to be plugged with automatic doors meant that access was easy. Once inside, he moved to the left and crouched down in the corner, unfolded the schematic drawing of the site, and flicked on his flashlight; its beam quickly illuminated his present location. He already knew the route he was going to take, but he raised the light and ran the beam low from left to right to help to get his bearings and see if there were any obstacles he might potentially trip over. Comfortable that the coast was clear, he clicked off the flashlight and waited for his eyes to welcome the dark.
A tiny scraping noise, like nails on canvas, followed by a sharp click broke the silence. Immediately, the hair on the back of his neck stood to attention. It was such a slight sound and could easily be explained a number of ways: the settling of the new building into the Californian soil, the structure’s concrete cooling, any bit of the debris around the site resting or moving in the breeze that channeled down the huge corridors, maybe even a small animal. But for Scott, there was another explanation; instinctively, he knew he wasn’t alone.
He remained crouched and silent as his eyes tried desperately to pierce the darkness, seeking movement to confirm his suspicions, while secretly hoping it was just some form of paranoia. He waited patiently for more than two long minutes with no further sound as his mind sought rationalization. It’s just big game nerves taking hold of me; I need to calm down and trust I’ve done my homework right, he told himself. After seven at night, no one aside from the guard comes to the site. The guard runs his security route as regular as clockwork and doesn’t stray from his set course. No, it just has to bet one of those inexplicable noises, a bump in the night, a… but before he could finish, the scrape and click sounded again, only this time very much closer.
Scott quietly pushed himself back into the corner and held his breath as the dark figure drew nearer. With nowhere to go, Scott knew he was about to be discovered, and by the looks of it, stumbled upon. Since he hadn’t planned on seeing anyone, he hadn’t opted to bring any weapons with him; there were a few tools in the kit bag, but unzipping it would be sure to give him away. The best he could come up with was the flashlight, pretty pathetic if up against a possible gun. Although the dark shape seemed to be coming towards him, it wasn’t heading there directly, it appeared to be taking its time, almost pacing out its steps — maybe he doesn’t know I’m here, Scott thought.
So, armed with just a flashlight and hopefully the element of surprise, Scott went on the attack. Best-guess aiming the unlit beam in the direction of the figure’s head, he waited until he heard the unusual scraping noise again. He clicked the light on, instantly flooding the figure’s face in blinding light. In one quick movement, he jumped up and was about to swing the weapon around to hit the figure’s head when he realized the man cowering under the light was clutching three sticks of dynamite taped together with wires and a small black plastic box.
‘What the f…!’ the startled man yelled.
Stunned, both men stared at each other before Scott broke the silence. ‘Who are you? And what the hell are you doing here?’ he asked.
‘I should ask you the same question,’ the man answered coming out from behind his raised arm.
‘WHO’S THERE?’ echoed a voice from the other side of the building.
Scott clicked off the flashlight and both men dropped down to the ground.
‘You’d better get out of here, or I’ll call the police,’ the guard yelled as he drew closer to the two men. ‘Go and do your tagging someplace else,’ he continued, the light from his flashlight running around the walls and floor searching for the men.
Both men had taken up positions either side of the long corridor and were protected from the guards view by concrete.
‘I mean it – I’ll call the cops if you don’t leave NOW.’ The guard’s voice was starting to waver as he drew near the end of the corridor.
‘Hey, over here!’ Scott called out, drawing the guard’s light and attention, while the man — now without the dynamite — snuck up behind him and hit the guard on the head with a plank of wood, rendering him unconscious.
Both men stood over the guard and stared at each other.
‘Look, we’re obviously here to do the same job,’ Scott said. ‘Let’s get the guard out of the way, do the job, and then find somewhere to talk about it all.’
‘Agreed,’ the other man nodded.
They seemed to instinctively know what the other was going to do, and somehow formed a perfect team. Scott went back to the corner and picked up his gear. Then he stopped to duct tape the guard before making his way to the main gas inlet valve. The other man proceeded to set the dynamite, and then slipped out to get the dark sedan he had parked on the roadside. When he returned, he drove to the back of the building and loaded the still unconscious guard into the trunk; then he drove around to the front to meet up with Scott.
Having attached a length of hosepipe to the main gas draw off valve, Scott carefully positioned the tube to start pumping the flammable gas into the heart of the structure. With the dynamite primed and ready to go, there would be no need for him to waste any time setting up timer charges. He left the building and jumped into the passenger seat of the sedan as he directed his new partner up the hill to the vantage point where his truck was waiting.
They pulled up behind the truck and got out of the car; standing side by side, they looked down at the site. Scott nodded to his new accomplice who pulled a phone out of his pocket. He dialed a number and waited for a moment as the phone connected. If you could slow down time, you would have heard a series of booms as each of the sets of dynamite exploded i
n turn and ignited the gas that had seeped into the building. But from where they stood, all they saw was a daylight-bright burst of flames, followed immediately by a deafening, thunderous roar that came up the hill and hit their chests. It was a truly magnificent, awe-inspiring sight they would both have loved to hang around to watch unfold. However, since they’d been the ones to cause it, they knew they needed to go.
Scott followed the sedan to a side street near the Bakersfield Plaza where they abandoned the car. In a few hours it would be busy, so they parked it in a tow-away zone leaving the driver’s door open and the trunk lid slightly ajar. Comfortable that the guard would soon be discovered, they silently drove across town towards Ming Avenue to find a diner for breakfast, both happily agreeing on the IHOP in Wible Road.
‘I guess we should introduce ourselves,’ Scott started once they were seated comfortably in a booth. ‘I’m Scott,’ he said sticking out his hand.
Reluctantly, the other man shook it, replying, ‘Vince.’
An overly happy waitress arrived at their table and asked if she could take their drinks order. Both opted for coffee and Vince ordered an orange juice. Once the waitress left, Scott continued.
‘Okay, so now that we’ve got the formalities out of the way — who the hell sent you to torch the building?’
‘Who the fuck do you think you are? I should be asking you the same question, what were you doing at my job?’
‘Your job? Your job? What makes you think it’s your job?’
‘Alright, this is gonna get us nowhere. Let’s agree for the time being that the job is both of ours. I take it that like me you were hired to this job, and you’re gonna protect your employer.’
Vince nodded his head slowly.
‘Well, I guess that we’ve both achieved our goal then — and provided we keep the fact that there were two of us to ourselves, we’ll both get paid with no harm done.’
For a moment, Vince thought about what Scott said, and then a big smile crossed his face. ‘No harm except for the Europorium,’ he laughed.