The Flats

The icy wind howled through the row of Poplars that bordered the playing field, stealing small branches and twigs as it passed. Gathering its fury, driven on by a stabbing rain, the wind crossed the field, tossing aside with contempt, the dustbins at the far end as it reached the tarmac of the flats car park. There, it became channeled by the vertical concrete monoliths that were the Headly Estate, its force increasing as it sought escape from the dark tunnels and passages between the tower blocks. As it crossed the car park, the wind and rain whipped the figure that knelt, head bowed and naked, in the centre. The figure did not move despite the onslaught, seemingly oblivious to the storm. The loose branches that had been carried across the field flailed his back, for the figure was that of a man, but he paid them no heed. A loose dustbin lid spun across the tarmac like a stone skimming a pond, and struck his thigh, but his expression did not change and he did not flinch. The dustbin lid bounced off from the impact, rolled a few more feet and then came to rest will a loud ‘thunk’ against the side of a Ford Escort; the only vehicle parked there. Its alarm began to sound, triggered by the impact, the noise of the siren adding to the cacophony of the storm. In the far distance another siren could be heard, its wail sounding mournful as it rose and fell, carried on the wind. A brilliant white flash of lightning cracked the night sky apart, lighting the car park and the man for a second like a discotheque strobe light.

Lenny Marsh did not hear the sirens, could not feel the storm; he swayed a little when the full force of the wind struck him, but his staring eyes were fixed on the ground in front of him and his hands rested on an object that lay at his knees. The car alarm stopped and the distant siren sounded closer.

On the tenth floor of ‘Ellis Block’, the door to flat 10b was wide open. Exploratory gusts of wind and rain made their way into the hallway. The threadbare carpet had been lifted by the wind and lay in a sodden crumpled heap, halfway down the hall. There was a strange smell in the flat - a mix of stale tobacco smoke, mould, cooking smells and of something else; a taint, an odor familiar yet strangely out of place. A television blared from an open doorway, the flashes of light from its screen illuminating the hall. There were no lights turned on inside the flat. Another shaft of lightening accompanied by a deep growl of thunder cast new shadows into the hall, reflecting briefly from a patch of white that protruded from the bundled carpet. The siren sounded closer.

Around the short landing, doors began to open. Inquisitive heads peered out, whispering to one another. There were four flats to each level, flats A,B,C and D. On the bottom floor were flats 1A to 1D. The lifts (when they were operational) ran up the centre of the blocks and the flats were arranged around them. A narrow walkway allowed the residents to walk right around each level and there were two short passages into the middle to give access to the two lifts. The passages were daubed with graffiti and had a smell of urine and dog fasces. It was the same on every level, except the very top level. All four flats of the top level were let to a Yardie gangster and his friends; it had taken a considerable amount of pressure to complete the arrangement with a pliable housing officer. Nobody visited the top level unless they had business of the kind that kept the residents there in a kind of life style that those below could only dream about.

The one block of garages that were never vandalized housed the fleet of BMWs that the top floor residents drove. There was no graffiti or unpleasant smells on the top floor. This was an oasis of style and expense, but very few people had seen it and of those who had it was a select few who were allowed to carry away those images, never to be recounted. From this high viewpoint the flashing blue beacon of a police car could be seen as it intermittently broke through the raging storm.

Another crack of lightening found one of the Poplar trees, splitting its trunk, and the tree fell in two smoking halves, on half fell into the children’s play area that was at that far end of the field. As it fell it destroyed the small slide, finally resting across the merry go round, dislodging it from its middle bearing and braking some of its timbers. The storm raged on. The siren was much louder now.

The Police car slid into the car park, its wheels seeking a grip on the shiny surface. The two officers took the scene in with one experienced glance; the Headly Estate was their beat and the called there at least three times every week. They made a mental note of the immobile figure of Lenny Marsh, recognizing him at once despite his appearance in the darkness, sent a message over their radio, and drew up at the opening of one of the passages. Leaving all the lights of the patrol car on, but switching the siren off now, they left the car and headed for the lifts. Already a new siren could be heard as a second police car raced to join them. One of the officers punched the ‘UP’ button. There was no response, just as there had been no response two nights before - the last time they had called there. On that occasion it had been a long climb up to the top floor, but it had been rewarding and the next day both officers had been happy to book their summer holidays in Mexico. They only had ten floors to tackle this time and pulled open the door that led to the stairs. One officer shrugged and said "Fuck" as he opened the door. They were in no hurry.

Reaching 10b, one of the officers spoke into his radio again, and then they both stepped into the hallway. One policeman stepped into the room from which the television could be heard, switched it off and turned on the light. The other policeman had turned on the hall light and was pulling the carpet away from the bundle on the floor. As he did so he uncovered the body of Kylie Marsh, at least he thought is was Lenny Marsh’s wife; it was difficult to tell with most of her face blown away. He only saw the remnants of the face for a moment or two because he ran back down the hall and threw up violently onto the landing, the canteen fry up he had just eaten now an orange tinged slick. In the other room the second officer was looking at another body. Like Lenny and his wife this body was also naked, but black. Marvin ‘J’ Kool (which by deed poll really was his name) lay sprawled across a blood soaked couch. Most of his chest was missing; bits of flesh decorated the wall behind him and a patch of ceiling above the couch bore a neat pink pebble dash effect. The officer grimaced but unlike his partner this was not the first violent death that he had seen, "Marvin" he muttered to himself "what have we been up to then ? Been a naughty boy haven’t we ? Shouldn’t mess with Lenny’s missus, old son".

His partner came back into the house. Avoiding eye contact with the body in the hall he stepped into the room, saw Marvin, and began to retch again, dry heaving retching now because his stomach had nothing more to give. A second police car arrived in the car park, drawing up beside the Escort. The officers radioed their arrival to the two in the flat, then got out of their car and began to walk towards Lenny. At last, Lenny moved. The storm had passed now, leaving in its wake an eerie silence. The only sound now was a dripping gutter over one of the garages and the occasional crackle from the police car radio. Lenny looked up. The policemen walked towards him. Lenny picked up the object that lay in front of him. He pressed the two barrels of the sawn off shotgun into his mouth. One of the policeman dived though the air towards Lenny, shouting "No, Lenny, no!" as he moved and managed to get a hand onto the shotgun.

Upstairs in the flat, the experienced officer was radioing details into base and had sent his younger partner down to meet the second car. He was making his way across the car park as they arrived. Just as Lenny pushed the shotgun into his mouth so the young officer was a foot or two behind him. The shotgun made a loud boom as Lenny squeezed the triggers. Both barrels emptied into his mouth, blowing the back of his head and most of his brains all over the both of the officers. The young officer fell to the ground. A few stray pellets had caught him though none were dangerous but he knew nothing of that; it would be some months before he knew much of anything. The officer who had been in front of Lenny stood with a puzzled look on his face, holding Lenny’s spent shotgun in one hand. His partner looked on and said in a rather drawn out way, "Oh fuck."

From somewhere in the flats a baby began to cry. From the top floor of the late Lenny March’s tower came the sound of thumping reggae music. In the far off distance there was the sound of an Ambulance siren.

(c) Mike Houghton 2005