Retribution - A Dish served Cold

Chapter Eight

John spent the morning in his workshop manufacturing two drive wheels for a model of the Duchess of Hamilton, one of the fastest steam engines and most streamlined trains on Britain's railways. He grinned at the thought of its massive power relied on one man with a shovel.

While he worked, his mind wandered to Angela and where it might lead. After living on his own for so long, he was not sure a long term relationship was possible. But she appeared to understand him, and sex with her was great. "Well," he muttered, "I'll enjoy her company for as long as it lasts."

Relaxing with a cup of tea, he stared at the ceiling. "Give me a break, Jackie. Remember you left me. Angela's okay, and she wasn't better in bed than you, different but not better. Will it last? I don't know. We will have to see." He finished his tea and returned to his lathe.

He checked and tested his portable welding and cutting equipment during the afternoon and readied his tools for the task ahead.

***

With a full rucksack on his back, the dark deepened as John cycled calmly to the building site. The mausoleum appeared as a large black shadow that merged with the night. A strong wind stirred the long grass, and trees swayed. Sometimes the moon broke through the clouds giving a glimmer of light. He stopped a few metres from the stone structure and listening.

The sound of a woman's panic-filled voice sliced through the night air. "Jesus Christ. Someone is coming."

Johns mind raced. My days of sex in the open air are long gone. I prefer a comfortable bed. Having removed his rucksack, his cycle, he laid in the deep grass. He walked towards the granite structure, making a great deal of noise and whistling Silvia's mother, a tune he heard most days on his radio. In broad sweeps, he moved his torch beam from left to right. For an instant, he caught a glimpse of a boy and girl vanishing into the dark. Well, that confirms the old Chinese proverb – girl runs faster with dress-up than a man with trousers down," he laughed.

His bike remained hidden, but he lifted his rucksack and walked to the steel gated entrance. A quick assessment told him the door still functioned but needed two new padlocks.

He opened the door wide to allow fresh air to circulate, but the stench of human detritus made him gag. To help, he breathed through his mouth. With a piece of wood, he shoved most of the rubbish outside.

Ready, he dropped to his knees and examined the rust-covered floor panel. That's good. Whoever did this job was in a hurry. He assembled his cutting torch from his rucksack, lit and burnt the spot welds holding the cover. A crowbar lifted the lid on the cavernous space below. From inside, using one padlock, he secured the entrance.

John sniffed the stale, humid air wafting from below. After so many years, was the air breathable? Using his lighter, he lit and dropped a burning piece of paper into the void before him and watched as the paper burnt to ash. He fitted his headlamp, shoved the torch inside his jacket and lowered his body into the undercroft.

He sat on the dry earth for a few minutes and allowed his eyes to grow accustomed to the dark. His mind returned to the priest, and even now, it made him want to vomit.

Ready, he stood and made his way across the earth covered floor. His torch gave enough light, so he did not have to worry where he placed his feet. He remained in the middle of the stone pillars supporting the arched roof for height and safety. His pulse raced as he heard a sound behind him. He whirled around, but there was nothing there. Be jumping at your shadow next. A team of archaeologists had investigated the undercroft years ago and deemed this a place of limited interest. What none of them discovered was the Victorian drain pipe that breached the ruins. At some time, a shoddily repaired rupture had reopened. John had, at the time of his initial investigations, wandered along the excess water drain. The discovery of a reinforced concrete wall of significant length forced him to check with the borough architect. They agreed it was the bank vault's outer wall but took no action as it did not impede the flow.

As he walked into the blackness, rats scurried out of his way. Twenty minutes later, John rubbed his palm along the wall. Perfect, he said out loud. John smiled to himself. Now I must convince the brothers to rob a bank.