Seven Degress (The Seventh Wave Trilogy Book 2)

by Lewis Hastings

  “They are in there now, no doubt plotting something else dark and devious. Right, time for a cuppa. Would you like one, Dad?”

  Francis ambled back down the dimly lit, threadbare corridor towards the kitchen but was distracted by the letterbox slapping closed.

  “Oh wonderful, someone has written to us. I wonder, is it the tax man? Or the dentist? Or….”

  He looked out of his entrusted viewing device once more. Obsessive now, compulsive perhaps, he couldn’t pass it. Resembling a bored businessman in a foreign hotel, staring out at the other dwellers and wondering who they were, where they were going, what they had been up to in the night?

  He made a mental note to seek wise counsel for those thoughts before continuing his monologue.

  “It’s the Reader’s Digest Mother, telling me I have won a million pounds. How truly delightful. I shall put it with the others.”

  He placed it on top of a neat pile of unopened mail.

  His day unfolded. Hours blended into one another until the afternoon arrived.

  Looking through the distorted tube, he saw the young male walking from the old shop towards his car. He was carrying the bag again. This time it was empty. Last night, when he arrived home, it was full.

  “Lighter this time around old son. Much lighter. I could tell by the way you were struggling with it. Your friend too. His was just the same. I don’t much care for the look of him, truth be told.”

  Ted had made a careful note in his kitchen, in his much-prized diary. He had come downstairs for a drink of water. Three minutes past one. a.m. Not four, or two. But three.

  “And he had a friend too. They looked the same. The same origins anyway. One was older. You’ve had a much harder life, haven’t you?”

  He wrote down the description of the accomplice. Constable Brown would need that.

  “Bloody Peugeot, French rubbish. You want to get yourself a Rover. Proper car that. Do you remember when you got ours, Dad? You said it was so fast you could catch pigeons in it! Pigeons! I ask you. Daft beggar. With respect. Tea time. Don’t mind if I do.”

  The locals thought that Mr Francis was just an old fool who had lost his once pin-sharp mind, a nice old man who would have passed the time with anyone if they had only stopped to talk to him.

  He only went out twice a week. Once to do his grocery shopping, the other to go to church. He always remembered the shopping, Mother had written down the exact route using the bus to town; he’d used the same list too, since 1982.

  Those that knew him thought it was a miracle that he continued to survive. He confounded his critics and the welfare state, so independent was he that he had, for all intents, disappeared off the radar. A remarkable man indeed. But by Sunday had forgotten where the church was.

  Constantin had first noticed the old man two days after he had arrived in the street. His hawk-like features immediately attracted his attention. The old fool considered the net curtains in his bedroom to be a shield from the outside world but Constantin was a hunter too – a heroin-paranoid, cynical, troubled man with few friends and, the old man had noted, none of them female.

  ‘I can see you.’

  The Romanian would engage in his own monologue, casting his watchful eyes up and down the street before entering his home. When he left, he scanned, left and right, right and left and for good measure he looked up to the rooftops. And, when his scan was complete, he would do it again. It was his obsessive behaviour that alerted him to the equally alert and elderly man across the street. The house with the now-faded green door.

  “Yes, old man, I can see you. There you are again.”

  Constantin considered him a nuisance at first, but as the weeks passed by he became more wary.

  “A man of your age should not be so interested in my activities. Go about your own business old fool. Leave me alone. Or I will upset your day. Trust me on this? I will upset your day.”

  The two carried out their singular conversations behind closed doors – a neighbourly joust with no victor.

  Until now.

  Now he had pushed the boundaries a little too far. Constantin knew that the slightest deviation in his behaviour would have the authorities looking for him once more. He simply could not go back into that place, that prison again. He would never see her if that happened and now, this new boy had come into his life. He would never see him either.

  “Tell me Con-stan-tin, what is it to be?” he asked out aloud.

  “Choices, choices.” Either way, he could not afford to let the actions of a man twice his age ruin his already fragile life.

  For Constantin – the criminal, there was only one answer.

  The latest shot of heroin was taking effect, and with it his paranoia grew to a new level.

  ‘Strike now. Deal with him. Go on, deal with him now. He has no one – and no one will miss him.’

  He shook his head, blinked furiously, trying to counter the effects. His skin was flushing, itchy, his mouth drier by the second.

  The biggest problem for Constantin – the addict was how short term the pleasure had become and how quickly the post-euphoria low reminded him why he should stop.

  “Come, Dorin, we have to visit the old man across the street. He needs our help. I wish to give him a gift. He has deserved this.”

  Gabor was fascinated by the dichotomy that he was witnessing. One moment his teacher was conspiring to demolish bank vaults with explosives, the next, offering a charitable hand to an elderly and lonely man.

  “Constantin, you are a nice man after all.”

  “Thank you, Dorin. Let us talk to our friend. You might learn something from our visit.”

  He pressed the doorbell. It was a pointless act. Francis had left the terraced home, catching the local bus to the supermarket where he would once more purchase the same groceries that he had purchased for as many years as he could remember. Many of his peers couldn’t manage half of what he did. He only wished he could remember who they were.

  Constantin shuffled from toe to toe. “No answer. A pity. The old man asked me to look at his oven. He told me a week ago that it did not work. We cannot have a neighbour without the means to cook his meal, can we Dorin?”

  It was entirely rhetorical. He knew the answer before he had asked the question.

  “Come on, we can get around the back. The old man told me it was OK.”

  They walked through an alleyway six doors away and disappeared into a different place, one full of conservatories and poorly landscaped gardens, of budget water features and wind chimes. Of overly large satellite dishes and a pungent mix of spices, bombarding the olfactory system with hints of turmeric, onions and chilli, and pepper and cardamom.

  Gabor felt hungrier than he had done for weeks. They had existed on frozen microwaveable meals, barely enough to keep a flea alive. The notion of burgling one of these homes, in order to gain a decent meal suddenly seemed entirely appropriate.

  Six houses along from the alleyway they found the old man’s home. The grounds were larger than he anticipated however the once-immaculate vegetable garden was incredibly overgrown, nettles had overthrown runner beans and blackberry brambles fought for space alongside noxious weeds of at least a dozen varieties.

  Unable to open the gate, they climbed over the wall, loosening the top and crumbling course of bricks before rolling clumsily into the undergrowth. They walked slowly, unsure of what lay under their feet. A garden fork stood defiantly in what was once a fruit garden. It had been there since the end of the Vietnam War. One delicate push and it would have snapped, its perished wooden handle exhausted from years of exposure to the elements, now almost dust, held together by time, goodwill and the ceaseless forces of nature.

  A lot like Edward Francis.

  Gabor tripped and fell, right arm outwards to break his fall. He clattered through what remained of a glass cloche – built by Francis many years before and designed to aid the growth of vegetables. Its glazed canopy simply gave way, the glass pane almost vapou
rising as it shattered beneath him. He survived the fall with only his pride injured, Constantin giggling at him as he tried to right himself.

  He held out a hand, which the younger male took. As he stood up, they both began to laugh. It was the moment that the teacher had aspired to, but he knew he had to retain an air of superiority. The real opportunity would occur when the time was right.

  “Come on! He could be home any moment!”

  Gabor, brushing the debris from his forearm, turned back and asked, “Do you really think he would find us in here? We could be here until the war ends – like those Japanese soldiers!”

  It took twenty minutes of skin-tearing activity to reach the kitchen door, also a faded Prison Green, it could tell a hundred stories, probably more.

  It was the oft-used entry to the home, when it had been a gathering point for the local neighbourhood, keen to share in idle gossip over a cup of tea or to purchase some of the highly prized vegetables.

  The two males had no interest in the history of the home, nor for that matter its occupant. Gabor was now along for the ride, unaware why he was here, navigating through dense undergrowth and slashing himself upon the wicked thorns.

  Intent upon kicking the door inwards, the older male tried the door handle first. It was open.

  He turned the resistant handle and pushed the door into the kitchen.

  “Hello?”

  He was out.

  “Why are we here, Constantin?” Gabor felt uneasy, something deep in his psyche was sending signals that he didn’t feel comfortable with. For some reason he was able to justify demolishing a bank building, but entering the home of an elderly male seemed morally wrong.

  “To give the man what he deserves. He is alone. With no one to watch over him. Do you not think this is right that we should pay him this attention?”

  Half an hour away, Ted Francis had missed his bus. Now, faced with the option of waiting among strangers in an exposed bus shelter or walking home, he chose the latter.

  “Be good for the legs. Won’t it?”

  He began the walk which took forty-five minutes, fifteen longer than it did the last time it had happened.

  “I’ll put it in the diary. Mum will be most amused. Bloody buses. They should bring back the trams.”

  Constantin told his student to search the house to make sure the old man had not fallen and hurt himself.

  “Go upstairs. Check the front bedroom. It is where he sleeps.”

  “You are a kind person. Different to how I thought,” Gabor commented as he walked along the hallway towards the front door.

  The older male said nothing as he quietly searched the kitchen. He observed that the old fool spent most of his time here, even sleeping in a large, old, wing-backed chair. He doubted much of the upstairs was used these days, only that front bedroom, the one that he looked out from behind those grey net curtains.

  Looking around the room, it was much like a museum, a time capsule of a working class family. Such a shame. He had always despised his history teacher, an insipid little man with no interest in his pupils. And as he despised his teacher, he also loathed his subject. What was in the past should remain there.

  He saw a large box of cook’s matches on the faded table cloth. On a shelf he noticed a candle, half burned but just enough life for another winter’s evening. He picked the candle from the shelf and placed it next to the matches, then continued his search until he located the electrical fuse box.

  With a simple flick of the main switch, the old system was rendered almost useless. He doubted that the interfering inhabitant would remember where the box was, let alone remember how to use it, but as a precaution he removed a couple of fuses and placed them into his pocket.

  He heard Gabor walking back down the staircase and joined him in the hall.

  “Anything?”

  “No, it is strange. It looks as though no one has been in those rooms for a hundred years. The old man sleeps in the front, perhaps? There is a black wedding dress in one of the bedrooms, it is like a person, an old lady. It made me very scared!”

  The dress was hanging on an aged wooden mannequin in the larger of the rear bedrooms and had been in situ for decades. It was crafted from lace and dated from the early 1900s, its sombre colour an indication that Francis’ mother had married a widower. To wear white was practically forbidden by the society of the era.

  Although they had shown great resilience in the Francis family, death had often been a feature of the household.

  The dress had unsettled the younger male. He had closed the door on it as quickly as he could, a shudder running involuntarily through his body. It was as if the bride had returned to the room and was watching him, challenging him.

  “What are you doing in my home, young man? Come on, speak. Answer me!” She fixed her intense eyes upon him.

  He ran down the stairs, not daring to look behind him.

  Gabor shook as he spoke to his partner.

  “It was horrible. A ghost. Yes, an old woman ghost. I want to go.”

  “What are you talking about? Ghosts. Stupid boy. Come on, control yourself. We go when I have fixed this cooker. Not before.”

  “Good. I am frightened. Please. Let us go soon.”

  Constantin looked through the spyhole. Nothing.

  “Wait!” He was looking again. There was the old man. He could see him in the reflection of a house window, leaning against a wall. Tired but near enough to home that he would soon become a problem.

  “Come. We must go now.”

  Gabor went first, eager to rid himself of the disquieting feeling. He almost ran from the property and into the overgrown garden. He knew Constantin was two paces behind him.

  Had Gabor looked back, he would have seen his partner in the kitchen, deliberately placing the matches and candle within the half-light of the sash window. The last thing he did was to open the oven door and turn the dial on the timeworn appliance as far as it would go.

  He followed Gabor through the scrub, over the wall and into the alleyway.

  They exited separately and walked down the street away from their own flat and Francis’ home.

  ‘Goodbye old fool, so nice to have met you.’

  Constantin shuddered; not the actions of guilt, but the response to his body countering the impact of a Class A drug that controlled and consumed him completely.

  A hundred steps from home Edward Francis paused in the street, looked around and sighed. He leaned on a wall. He hadn’t felt this tired in a long time. It was now that he wished he had children to care for him. His sister’s lad would be a fine strapping young man by now.

  His thoughts meandered as he leaned against a faceless property. He began to revert back to his own halcyon days, memories of his sweetheart flooding back to him.

  “Such a pity, she was a lovely girl. Should have married her then you fool. Yes, quite right, I should. I wonder if she’s still around. Next time I’m at the coast, I will track her down. Yes, I shall do just that.”

  He had been there for at least half an hour when he picked up the shopping bags, wincing as the weight cut into his almost transparent flesh and shuffled the last twenty steps, placed his key in the mortice lock and turned it. The lock was sixty years old and still reacted as if it were brand new.

  “Thing of beauty that lock,” he said to no one but himself.

  He looked up the street and then back down before entering and quickly closing the door behind him.

  He wound the bell for old times’ sake.

  ‘Three full turns – and a half. No more and absolutely no less.’

  He walked slowly along the hallway and into the kitchen. Out of routine, he awkwardly turned his left arm to turn on the light switch.

  “Nothing. Come along. Let’s be having you. Father, that bloomin’ fuse box is playing up again.”

  The ambient light had faded quickly, leaving Francis to squint as he looked around the kitchen. He knew the fuse box was there somewhere.

/>   “Where are you?” He scratched his head vigorously. “Where…are…you?”

  He pointlessly opened cupboards. The worn out box was in the void under the stairs and Francis would never find it.

  “I smell gas. Silly old fool. I must have left it on when I went out. I don’t know what has become of you, Edward?”

  His eyesight, although brilliant for a man of his age, had begun to worsen in low-light conditions and soon he was using his hands as a guide. He saw the outline of the candle and the matches.

  “Good man. Clever idea. Just in case.”

  He removed a single, slender wooden match, its bulbous, trademark red tip, waiting to carry out its singular duty.

  “Soon have the place nice and bright.”

  The potassium chlorate in the match head was blended to react perfectly to the friction of the box’s striking surface, itself containing a fine blend of chemicals and powdered glass. The action would cause the red phosphorous on the strip to ignite the white phosphorous and sulphur, allowing the match to burn.

  A simple, everyday routine, like so many brilliant inventions, and often overlooked.

  The process was always over in a heartbeat; the remnants tossed away, forgotten.

  Francis looked through the kitchen doorframe, along the hallway towards the front door. His eyes focused upon the doorbell, then the letterbox, the frame and the door itself. In a millisecond he scanned, his brain absorbing countless pieces of information.

  And then he saw her once again.

  His mother, Sarah, was walking down the hallway. She was wearing her black wedding gown. Her face was white, but her eyes were as violet and radiant as ever. She was a strikingly pretty woman, so astute and ceaselessly considerate.

  She raised her left hand as if to warn him of impending danger.

  As Francis’ gnarled fingers slid the stick along the box’s striking surface he smiled at her. It was good to see her again after so long. The match did not ignite.

  “You look wonderful, Mother, so elegant…”

  He stopped. Something had triggered a response in his mind. It wasn’t, unusually, the sight of his mother but the recurring smell. What his aging olfactory system was detecting was the pungent aroma of Mercaptan, a chemical added to natural gas to act as a warning to humans that a leak was occurring; so incredibly powerful that it only required one part in a million for Francis to notice it.