This one was sparked by seeing a newspaper photograph of all those suddenly empty shops along the King's Road. Er..that's it, pretty much. Enjoy.
Empty (992 Words)
“Well?” Mr Gascone said, “Fred?” In the pause he scanned the security guard’s name badge in a manner that indicated Nathan Gascone certainly couldn’t be expected to remember a mere name, even if Fred had been with the firm fifteen years.
“He didn’t do any damage, Mr Gascone, honest.” Fred, sweating in his nasty powder-blue uniform, felt as though he were pinned facedown on a photocopier set to ‘reduce’.
“You should have called the police, let them handle it. It’s their job. You’re nothing more than an early warning system and you can’t even do that right. And how do you know there’s no damage? He’s probably pissed everywhere.” Gascone’s phone shrieked and he snatched it out of his pocket. “What? No, don’t. I’ll be right there. Bloody Health and Safety nazis.” He marched out.
Fred sagged, blowing out his cheeks. The phone had probably saved him from being fired, which, the way things were, he dreaded. Though the thought of another day working for Gascone made his ulcer flare like Mount St Helens.
He’d been watching the monitors out of the corner of his eye while he did the embroidery he hid in a drawer when anyone was around. He had checked, hand hovering over the phone, before going down. Once, he’d been up for taking on intruders. Now he was older, and heavier, and if he ever forgot the three robbers who’d pitched him seven foot down onto concrete, his hip reminded him on cold mornings.
But one poor old sod, muttering in his thorny beard, Fred could handle. He armoured himself with a mug of strong, heavily sugared tea.
When he got to the room, the tramp was running his hands over the walls, head cocked, as though looking for a secret passageway. “Come on, mate,” Fred said. “You can’t stay here. Private property, see.”
“It was empty,” the tramp said, turning wide, surprisingly bright blue eyes on him.
“That’s right.”
“They move in,” he said, his hands whispering over the plaster.
“Yes, well, I’m afraid you can’t, old son.”
“They move into the empty places. But you’re here, aren’t you?” The tramp nodded.
“Yes I am. You want a cuppa? Then I’m afraid you’ll have to go.”
“Tea?”
“Here.”
“I don’t often get tea.” Close to, he didn’t smell as bad as expected: damp, and not completely fresh, but no acid reek of urine or alcohol.
“There’s a hostel up the road a bit,” Fred said.
“Oh, no. It’s all right.” The tramp finished the tea, and handed back the mug. “I’ll be off then.”
That had been easier than expected. “Where will you go?”
“The next place. This one’ll probably be all right now, so long as you’re here. You won’t leave it empty, will you? They love places like this. The emptier it was before, the more likely they’ll move in.” On his way out, he paused. “That one,” he said, pointing. “It’s just the sort of place they love.”
It was an empty shop, For Sale signs obscuring the windows. It had sold ugly vases and mass-produced artwork, pink glittery pencil cases and obscure dvds. A downmarket Aladdin’s cave. “Now you’re not going to break in, are you?” Fred said, but the tramp was already shuffling away.
Fred shook his head. Where did they all come from? He was sure there hadn’t been this many nutters around when he was a kid. There hadn’t been so many empty shops either; nor so many shops selling stuff that was, frankly, crap. The building he guarded had been one too, only bigger, and with more expensive crap. Gascone had bought it to sell on. He bought buildings the way other people bought bad vases.
Fred had written up the tramp in the log book. He hadn’t expected Gascone to come in and check it, but as the market got tougher, Gascone was getting more obsessive and even less pleasant to work for.
On his way home Fred passed the other empty shop, and on impulse peered in the window, to see if he could spot the tramp.
There was nothing except some dead post and a long dark streak on the dusty floor. Fred wondered if he was in there, listening for ‘them’, the ones who liked empty spaces. He felt a hard shudder twist up his back.
The next couple of nights he found himself, every now and then, raising his head from his embroidery and listening; for what, he wasn’t sure.
Two days later Gascone had bought the empty shop; even in a recession the man couldn’t stop grabbing.
“Well at least it’s close,” Fred’s supervisor said. “There’s no-one to cover it and His Lordship won’t budget for another guard. Just keep an eye on the place.”
“Was there anyone in there?”
The supervisor glanced behind him; a gesture common to Gascone’s employees. “They found a body. A tramp. Himself had it hushed up so they wouldn’t arse around with enquiries, maybe delay a sale.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah.”
Fred couldn’t concentrate on his stitching that night. His gaze kept going to the window. Finally he got up and looked out.
Big surprise, there was Gascone, swaggering down the road. Didn’t the bloody man ever sleep? Fred straightened his uniform – but Gascone unlocked the door of the empty shop over the road, and went in.
Fred stayed at the window, his tea growing cold. Eventually Gascone emerged. He seemed to stagger slightly.
Fred, his heart pounding, straightened the log book, emptied his mug, and waited. He heard the door open, heard Gascone’s feet on the stairs; moving uncertainly. Moving like something that wasn’t used to having feet.
They move into the empty places, he thought.
The feet were closer. Fred unfroze, grabbed his coat and his embroidery bag, scooted down the service stairs, and out into the clean and chilly dawn. He didn’t look up to see what might be staring down from the window after him.
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