Minus Life

An Unfortunate Discovery

An Unfortunate DiscoveryThe following morning, when his shift was due, he got the phone call from his Superintendant. “Take the night off, Bremen, it's quiet.”

Bremen, who had emerged from the shower and stood pressing a towel against his damp hair, frowned at his chief, whose image flickered grey-green in the centre of the room. “What was that, boss?”

“It's quiet. We don't need you to come in, so take some down-time. Go out for a meal, or watch a movie. Take some recreationals, but don't come in. Not tonight. I'll see you next Friday.” He smiled, leaned down behind his desk and, a moment later, returned, dangling Bremen's mask by the strap. “And you left this, you dumb bastard. Perhaps it might be better for you to stay indoors. I'll send you some sushi.”

“I don't like sushi.”

“Rat burger then.”

Bremen froze in the act of drying his hair, and his eyes bored into his chief's. “What did you say?”

“Bremen, I read your report. I've deleted it. You weren't anywhere near that kiosk, you understand me?”

“No, not really chief.”

The man ballooned his cheeks, exasperated, “Jesus, you really are as thick as everyone says.” He leaned forward, filling the room, face hard, unflinching. “I'll spell it out to you, so listen up. You went to the barracks and found it had all been a mistake. A nuisance call. You came straight back to the station, signed off, and went home. Nothing else.”

“But I didn't. I spoke to the—”

“I know what you did, Bremen. And so do they.” He smiled, without humour. “You understand my meaning, Bremen?”

“I think so.”

“Good. Now, you sit on your fat ass for the next three days and you never, ever mention any of this again to another living soul, you understand?”

Bremen nodded and his chief's face disappeared, leaving Bremen to stare across the room to the door. He should go straight out, get down to the station and speak with the chief personally. But something prevented him from doing just that.

Just who the damned hell where 'they'?

Some hours later, Bremen called up the duty sergeant, whose face fell when he saw who was calling. He leaned on his counter, covering his face with a grey, gnarled hand. “What the hell do you want, Bremen?”

“The call log. I want to know where the call about the fire came from.”

“Why?” He dragged his hand away and he appeared tired, resigned to another tedious night full of rapes and fights and killings. “I thought the Super told you to back off?”

“No, he told me not to mention it again. I'm doing just that, sarge. I'm not mentioning it, I'm asking. That's all.”

“You're a f*****g i***t, Bremen, and besides, I can't help you.”

“Because it's deleted.”

“Perceptive. As far as this station is concerned, last night didn't happen. None of it. Now leave it alone, Bremen.”

“I saw a man shot, and I spoke with the owner of the kiosk. Now he's dead and I want to know why.”

“I'm not telling you.”

“It was on the news, saying it was a terrorist attack, but I know it wasn't. I saw it all.”

“No. I'll tell you for the last time – you didn't see anything.”

“Just the number, sarge. The number of the caller.”

“I can't remember.”

“Can't … or won't?”

His eyes grew cold. “Bremen, have you got some sort of screw loose? How close are you to retirement? Three years? Why not just do as they say and forget about last night, suck in your gut and dream of holidays in the sun, eh?”

“Who are 'they', sarge? I keep hearing about them. 'They' this, 'they' that. Enlighten me.”

The sergeant looked left and right, “Government. Okay? That should be enough for you to realise this is not some f*****g tea-party, Bremen. What happened last night no longer concerns you.”

“I spoke to the bomb disposal guys.”

“You did what? When?”

“Last night. They told me, it wasn't a fire. It was a bomb. They'd been called to deactivate it, but got there too late. The explosion took out one of the floors of the building. They found two more and managed to make them safe.”

“Jesus, Bremen. I don't want to hear this.”

“Too late, I've just told you. Now, give me the f*****g caller ID.”

Two hours later, he'd managed to locate the origin of the call. Sitting on his sofa, his third cup of coffee next to him, he simply stared in disbelief.

The call originated from the private residence of Wilson Frement. From that point, Bremen thought it best to forget it all, at least for the time being.

But, as with everything, he didn't.

He waited until dark, then dressed in black polo-neck and dark grey jeans. A dirty brown leather jacket completed his garb and, as he considered his reflection in the full-length mirror, he pulled on a woollen cap and grunted in satisfaction.

He drove through the night to the area around the Manchester barracks, settling the vehicle in a deserted side street. The night pressed in all around, silent and sinister. Huge, towering buildings loomed over him and from every darkened window and closed door he expected black-clad government agents to emerge at any moment and drag him away. He shivered, pulled his coat closer and, keeping himself close to the wall of the opposite building complex, crept down to the corner. He took a quick glance down the main road.

Manchester barracks stood quiet. The government agents had gone. The news reports made no mention of any bomb going off there, another curious omission in this ever more bewildering case. Checking again, he slipped into the road.

Here, in the more open space, he was conscious of being exposed. He was in a square, the centre dominated by a large fountain, decorated with a massive bronze statue of fighting men, commemorating some long forgotten conflict. Around the perimeter, other nondescript buildings stood, impressive corporate headquarters. He realised, with a jolt, this was the beating heart of the city, albeit well away from the centre. Here, the men in grey suits beavered away unnoticed, earning their fortunes, whilst all around the world gasped for breath and starved.

Something moved behind him. He span, dropping to one knee, reaching for his gun. A collection of refuse bins rattled and moved and he froze, holding his breath, waiting.

He let out a long sigh as a cat slinked out from between the large, plastic containers, gave him a disgusted look, and disappeared into the night. Bremen glanced down at his gun hand. It was shaking and he laughed, forcing himself to calm down. What would he have done anyway? He couldn't remember the last time he'd fired his service weapon, save for the bi-monthly practise sessions. 'Three bulls out of twelve shots, Bremen,' Cosgrave had said the last time, pulling a face, serious as a corpse. 'Not good enough. I'll have to tell the Super.'

Holstering the automatic, he peered to the upper storeys and decided to try his luck around the back. So he dashed across to the furthest corner and crept towards the rear of the building.

He believed it would be alarmed, but something about this almost deserted edifice gave him cause to doubt this assumption. So when he came to the shuttered rear entrance he didn't hesitate in stooping down, gripping hold of the underneath and hauling it up.

The aluminium concertina screeched horribly and he stopped, panting, listening out for any sign of alerted security guards racing to investigate.

There was nothing. No alarm, no guards, only the stillness of the night.

He took a deep breath and strained every muscle to bring the tired entrance door fully open.

He peered into the darkness and took a sniff of the stale air. The stench of abandonment and decay, proving, if he needed any proof, no one used this place any longer, perhaps not gracing it for years.

Fishing out his old Zippo lighter, he tried three or four strikes before it sparked into life. He held it out before him, swinging the flame from left to right as he made his way deeper into the interior. The feeble light managed to penetrate some of the surroundings, but not much. The place seemed to be filled with packing crates, and the floor littered with sheaves of paper, smothered in dust which blew up as he padded across, causing him to stop every few paces to cough.

He needed no more proof. The place was deserted.

He closed the lighter cover and waited. Plunged in darkness, he took a moment to allow his eyes to adjust. He turned and groped his way towards the entrance again but before he had taken two steps, he heard it. A low metallic thump, from deep below in the bowels of the building.

Of course, he cursed himself. The basement. Didn't the bomb disposal people tell him they had defused an explosive device in the lowest levels, or was he imagining that? As he stood, mouth open, listening, the whirr of metal cables told him exactly what was happening.

A lift. It was travelling upwards. And if it was working that meant someone must have activated it.