Thursday 10 December 2015

Manical Digger

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Before the roar of the engine had drowned out the dawn chorus, Tom had been staring at the ceiling, watching more of it reveal itself from under the cover of night. Now, like those who had just been sleeping, he was listening to the drone of the machinery and the crash of concrete as the mechanical digger set about demolishing the side of the hotel. But something felt wrong, he didn’t know what time it was, but it felt too early for builders to be going about their work, surely workmen don’t start before sunrise.
 Tom joined the other guests in the solitude of their bedroom windows watching the digger claw and scrape at the ancient structure, The digger reversed and then whirred forward, the hand reaching for another chunk of masonry, sending another cloud of dust billowing into the air. The driver was attacking parts of the building randomly like a waitress scooping balls of ice cream into an elaborate sundae. There was no rhyme or reason and it was getting perilously close to the block where Tom was housed. What on earth was going on? 
Tom looked through the gloom at the driver’s cab, but it was haloed in mist and dust, providing perfect cover for whoever the manic operator was. 
Glass tinkled and Tom’s room shook as another chunk was taken out of the hotel and then another and another. It was like the digger was trying to catch flies, missing and then trying again. Tom jumped back as the bucket crashed into the building narrowly missing his window. It was time to act. He pulled on his jeans, grabbed his card key and ran down the stairs and out into the cold morning air. There, a startled-looking night-porter and the newly arrived receptionist were staring at the ongoing destruction. Other guests were joining them.
“It’s one of your lot,” the porter said to Tom above the buzz of the digger. From here it sounded like a swarm of angry bees coming in for the kill. 
“What?” 
“One of your lot, look what he’s doing? That’s priceless that is, irreplaceable. That stonework dates from the Seventeenth Century.” Veins were bulging on the man’s forehead, tears building in his eyes. 
“Have you called the police?” Tom asked. 
“Of course I bloody have,” the porter said. 
Tom stared at the cabin again and now he could see the crazy, sleep-deprived face of Alex, his hands working the levers, a wild grin watermeloning from ear to ear. 
“Alex what the fuck?” Tom screamed, but the clank of machinery drowned out Tom’s voice. “Alex” he yelled again. 
Tom jumped on the caterpillar tracks and hauled himself up to the cabin. He opened the door. 
“That’ll teach you for going to bed, for leaving me on my own. Well if I am not sleeping, then nobody is. That’ll teach you all for…” 
“Alex,” Tom interrupted the monologue, “Stop!” There was silence.
Alex looked around straight at Tom, Tom saw a vast empty space where his eyes were and then saw a flicker of recognition.
“Tom,” Alex smiled, “you’ve come back for a drink, can you believe the rest of them left me there? I knew you’d come back. C’mon let’s go to the bar, it’s my round.”  

2 comments:

  1. Oh I love the surrealistic atmsphere of this story. It reminds me of the surrealistic dreams I sometimes have at night... Was it Tom's dream or is Alex mad? Who knows? Superb:-) I love it and the language as usual. What a great juxtaposition here: 'The driver was attacking parts of the building randomly like a waitress scooping balls of ice cream into an elaborate sundae'. There will be a couple of lines to be nominated at the end of the week*)

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  2. Petra Goláňová13 December 2015 at 10:17

    My FLs:Tom looked through the gloom at the driver’s cab, but it was haloed in mist and dust, providing perfect cover for whoever the manic operator was. ....

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