MONOLITH

CAFFEINE NIGHTS PUBLISHING

SHAUN HUTSON

MONOLITH

               
Fiction to die for...

Published by Caffeine Nights Publishing 2015

Monolith Copyright © Shaun Hutson 2015

Jingle Bells Copyright © Shaun Hutson 2015

Shaun Hutson has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998 to be identified as the author of this work

CONDITIONS OF SALE

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, scanning, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher

This book has been sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental

Published in Great Britain by Caffeine Nights Publishing

www.caffeine-nights.com

www.caffeinenightsbooks.com

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN: 978-1-907565-69-4

Cover design by

Mark (Wills) Williams

Everything else by

Default, Luck and Accident

Also by Shaun Hutson
:

ASSASSIN

BODY COUNT

BREEDING GROUND

CAPTIVES

COMPULSION

DEADHEAD

DEATH DAY

DYING WORDS

EPITAPH

EREBUS

EXIT WOUNDS

HEATHEN

HELL TO PAY

HYBRID

KNIFE EDGE

LAST RITES

LUCY'S CHILD

NECESSARY EVIL

NEMESIS

PURITY

RELICS

RENEGADES

SHADOWS

SLUGS

SPAWN

STOLEN ANGELS

THE SKULL

TWISTED SOULS

UNMARKED GRAVES

VICTIMS

WARHOL'S PROPHECY

WHITE GHOST

Hammer Novelizations

TWINS OF EVIL

X THE UNKNOWN

THE REVENGE OF FRANKENSTEIN

                            This novel is dedicated to my wonderful daughter Kelly.

It's not enough and it never could be but it comes with all my love as ever.  Thank you.

Writing a novel can be great but it can also sometimes be like pulling your own teeth out with rusty pliers so here are some people who supplied anaesthetic this time around.

              A huge thank you to my agent, Brie Burkeman, who has shown faith in me that I honestly don't deserve.

              My publisher, Darren Laws who has similarly displayed patience and encouragement far beyond the call of duty. A big thanks to everyone at Caffeine Nights obviously.

              Thanks are also due for different reasons, to Cineworld Milton Keynes and all the management and staff there (Mark, Adam, Tammy, Mel, James, Barry, Alun, Dani, Phil, Phillip, Kirsty and everyone else I've forgotten or who doesn't work there anymore!) and also The Broadway Cinema in Letchworth.

              Extra special thanks to Rod Smallwood and everyone at Phantom Music and, of course to Steve, Bruce, Dave, Nicko, Adrian and Janick. Still the best.

              My biggest thanks go to my Mum for so many reasons.

              Thanks is too inadequate a word to say to my daughter, Kelly who has just about managed to help me keep my sanity. She has taught me so much about so many subjects I probably should feel inadequate and ashamed but all I feel is an incredible sense of pride in her and everything she does. Even if she has stopped me drinking milk!

              A special word of thanks too for Craig Hogan of course.

              And of course to you lot, my readers who have stuck by me from the beginning. For your patience, your support and your faith I thank you.

              Let's go.

                                                                                                                Shaun Hutson.

MONOLITH

Shaun Hutson

‘When you have eliminated the impossible, what remains,

no matter how improbable, must be the truth …’

Arthur Conan Doyle.

PROVOCATION

LONDON; JUNE 1933

The window exploded inwards showering glass in all directions.

Seconds later another impact against the large expanse of glass caused more of the crystal shrapnel to erupt inwards, spraying the interior of the building.

Two more bricks followed, each one shattering more glass.

The little man on the stairs had heard the first crash and that was what had woken him, by the time he heard the second he was already out of bed and heading for the top of the stairs. Despite the fear he felt he knew he had to get down to the scene of destruction, to see exactly what was going on and, if possible, to prevent more of it.

He had felt fear like this before and he swayed uncertainly on the narrow wooden steps, dreading what might await him but knowing he could not hide from it.

He had hidden too much during his life already.

Either run or hidden. Those two methods of existence were becoming much too large a part of his way of life and he’d hoped that they had ceased. The sounds from below him now told him that they had not.

He wiped his face with one shaking hand and advanced further down the stairs, ears alert for more sounds. When none came he swallowed hard, wondering if the ordeal was over. Hoping that it was.

He rubbed his hands together now, large liver spots visible on the thin flesh of both. A legacy of his advanced years. He moved with surprising assurance for a man in his mid-seventies though, just the occasional pain of an arthritic left knee slowing him down.

He stood at the bottom of the stairs listening for interminable moments then moved towards the door opposite him, selecting a key and pushing it into the lock. He unfastened the door and waited a second before he opened it.

Even through the gaps in the frame he could feel a cool breeze blowing and he shook his head and clucked his tongue as he realised what must have been done inside the shop itself.

Sure enough as he emerged into the area beyond the door he felt the breeze more strongly and saw that it was indeed coming through the shattered front window.

There were several bricks or lumps of concrete lying on the floor and he knew they had been used to inflict the damage.

A quick glance around the inside of the shop told him that nothing had been stolen. That had not been the motive behind the attack. The glass display counters were untouched. Whoever had broken the windows had done so in a display of pure anger and aggression but not coupled with a desire to rob him too. He wasn’t sure whether he should be thankful for that or not. At least if they’d robbed him then the ordeal may be over but, he reasoned, once the windows were replaced again then they could repeat their frenzied attacks again and again. It would become a cycle of destruction and renewal.

As it had been before.

He wandered over to the broken window and peered out into the narrow street but it was silent, wreathed in blackness as it stretched away on either side of him. There weren’t even any lights glowing in any of the other windows that he could see through his thick spectacles. The night sky was the colour of burned wood, pure black apart from a sprinkling of stars but there were clouds gathering to the East, buffeted by an increasingly strong breeze.

He sighed and ambled over to a cupboard near the front door of the shop. From inside he pulled out a broom and he began to sweep up the broken glass, pushing it all into a pile so that it could be gathered up and collected more easily.

The task caused him to stop for breath on more than one occasion and once he actually leaned against the nearest glass counter for a moment to regain his composure, feeling a little dizziness.

This wasn’t right, he told himself. He shouldn’t have to endure this. No one should. And yet the overriding emotion he felt wasn’t anger but sadness. Of course there was annoyance at the stupidity and ignorance of those who would cause such damage but he also felt sadness that people found it necessary to act like this against him.

When he’d collected all the glass together he put it carefully into a cardboard box and carried it to the rear of the shop. He’d dispose of it later he told himself, after he’d contacted the police. Not that they would be able to do anything. After all he had seen no one attack his shop, he could identify no one, give them no names. Was it even worth bothering the forces of law and order?

There was a way to fight back, a way that only he knew.

Perhaps that time had come.