The Stone Man - A Science Fiction Thriller (2 page)

Of course, it didn’t have a name then. I’d like to tell you that I was the one who came up with it, but I’m afraid that would be a lie. As you may know, I was one of the people who
really
brought it into the common parlance worldwide, but I’d actually overheard it being used on a random local radio station as Paul and I raced through Sheffield later on (obviously, more on that to come) and thought it perfect, but I’d never actually intended to rip it off. By the point I was in front of the cameras, I’d used it so often that I’d forgotten that it wasn’t a common term at the time.

It stood at around eight feet tall (to my eyes at least; the Home Office can give you the exact measurements) and it made me think then, as it does now, of the ‘Man’ logo on a toilet door, if someone were to make one out of rough, dark, greyish-brown stone and then mutate it so the arms were too long, and the head were more of an oval than a circle. The top half of its body was bent slightly forward as well, but the biggest departure from the toilet picture was that this figure had hands, of a sort; its arms tapered out at the ends, reminding me of the tip of a lipstick.

The most intriguing thing was, there was also an extremely quiet sound emanating from it. The best way I can describe it is as a bass note so low as to be almost inaudible. They still haven’t figured that one out.

Now that I was closer, I could hear what one of the ranting people was saying. It was the woman, stood about ten feet away from me on the inside of the circle of gathered people. Based on the distance between the crowd, herself, and the Stone Man, it looked to me as if she was the reason they were hanging back from the hulking figure, and not swarming forward to touch and prod it.

She was patrolling back and forth in front of the Stone Man, wide-eyed and breathing heavily. If she wasn’t keeping the people around her at bay deliberately, she was still doing a damn good job of it. The mass of bodies on the other side of the Stone Man seemed to be getting an identical treatment from someone else; I couldn’t see them clearly around the bodies of the woman and the Stone Man itself, nor could I hear what they were saying over the general noise, but it sounded like a man.

The woman was about fifty, well-dressed, and clearly at the end of her rope. She was very red-faced from her efforts, and sweating. Her smart white summer blouse and beige skirt were in sharp contrast to her flustered appearance, giving her a temporary air of great visibility. The people on the very inside of the circle looked uncertain, wondering if this was some kind of show (which was probably another reason that they were hanging back, not wanting to either spoil or become part of a public performance) and some of them were smiling nervously at each other. As I drew within clear-hearing range, she was taking a moment to try and get her air back. She’d obviously just finished her rant, and was now struggling to compose herself before continuing, deciding that an attempt at a more rational demeanour might better help her cause.

She closed her eyes slowly, and took a deep breath, lifting her chin. She reminded me slightly, in that moment, of Yoda, just before he tries to lift Luke’s X-Wing out of the swamp. When she started speaking again, her eyes remained shut.

“I’m not crazy,” she said, quietly but decisively, her voice shaking slightly. “I’m not making it up. I’m not some loony, and I’m not the only one here that’s saying it. This isn’t a, a … I don’t know, some kind of bloody
play
or anything, this is what’s happened. It’s real. Any of you who were here earlier, did you see anyone bring this thing over? Look, look how much it
weighs,
for God’s sake!” she suddenly cried, shouting this last part as her composure gave way and she struck at the Stone Man, first with her purse and then with her balled up fists. She moved up close to it and began to push against it with her shoulders and full body weight. It didn’t move a millimetre. I always remember the crowd’s seemingly subconscious reaction when she first hit it; everyone responded in the exact same manner, without really noticing that they’d done it. They’d all flinched away slightly.

I think at that point someone might have moved in to calm her down, but I didn’t see if they actually managed it because that was when the young guy—the one who’d still been shouting at the people on the other side of the circle—suddenly flung his arms in the air and pushed his way out of the crowd. I could see him clearly now, dressed in a dark hooded top and overly baggy jeans. The people parted to let him out, perhaps relieved—the human urge to treat public displays of volume as if they were contagious coming into full effect—and I broke away from my side of the circle to pursue him. I’d seen enough for now, and I wanted to find out what the shouting was about without having to deal with any interference. More and more people were arriving and joining the circle, and I knew that if I was going to speak to him, it would have to be now if I were ever to stand a chance of getting back into the crowd and regaining a decent vantage point.

I dashed around to the opposite side of the pack and saw that he hadn’t gone far, stomping along with clenched fists and shaking head. He’d pulled the hood of his top up over his head as well, so I couldn’t get an idea of his facial appearance from the angle that I was approaching at, but it was clear by his body language that he wasn’t happy. I could at least see that he was shorter than myself, and of slight build. I decided to open a dialogue by appealing to his righteous anger; in my experience, angry people warm to you very quickly if you agree with them. Running around him so that I was several feet ahead, I stopped, looking past him to the crowd, pretending that an idea had just occurred to me. Waiting until he drew near, I tutted loudly.

“What the hell is wrong with all those idiots, eh?” I asked him, speaking as if I was just making conversation. I probably wasn’t very convincing; small talk has never been something that I’m comfortable with, as I say.

“Fuck ’em,” he muttered, not looking at me as he went to walk past. From this new angle I could see that he was in his early twenties at most, with crew cut hair and a face that was only just seeing off the last ravages of acne. His cheekbones stood out, giving him a drawn, wiry look. He started to fish a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket, and seeing the opening I pulled out my lighter to accommodate. I don’t smoke myself, but I often find that carrying a lighter has its uses, especially in this job. He stopped—still not looking at me—and clearly wasn’t really thinking about what he was doing, still lost in his fury as he fumbled out a cigarette and put it in his mouth. I flicked the wheel and a plume of flame appeared. Lowering his head towards it, he gave a non-committal grunt of thanks as he took a drag on the cigarette and let out a sigh that was more of a hiss. Straightening, he clenched his jaw and looked back at the crowd, still shaking his head. Whatever they’d done, they’d really managed to offend him.

“Ah saw it. Ah fuckin’
seen
it, man,” he said, staring angrily at the crowd, shaking his head gently. He paused to take another drag, let it out. “
Twats
,” he said, drawing out the
s
longer than was necessary.

“What, the statue thing?” I asked, pointing at it, the head still slightly visible above the growing crowd of people. He nodded, not turning around to look, inhaling again instead. The cigarette was calming him, steadying him, soothing his ego. I decided it was safe to press on. “But … haven’t they all seen it as well?”

He suddenly whirled round to face the same direction as me, face screwed up in disgust at my stupidity. He looked like a rat that had smelt something it didn’t like.

“No, ya fuckin’ …” His words trailed off, as he realised that not only did he not know me well enough to talk to me in such a manner, but also that I could probably pound him fairly comfortably. I’m not a big guy, or even a tough guy by any stretch, but it was clear that taking down this spindly specimen wouldn’t prove to be too much of a challenge. He looked me up and down quickly, and his angry eyes dropped slightly, although his expression didn’t change. “No … all those arseholes
seen
the fucker, man. Ah saw it
first
.” He stared at me, waiting for me to comprehend. I shrugged slightly, confirming that comprehension wasn’t coming anytime soon. His face screwed up further.

“
Ah
saw it
turn up
. No one else was looking. Nah, ac'shully, dat woman was looking, she was looking, but she fuckin’ …” He paused for a moment, waving his hand in the air dismissively. “She fuckin’
blah blah
blah
and no-one give a fuck, but ah was
tellin
’ them that ah
fuckin’
seen it, and they all just standin’ there like
errrrrrrrrrr
and ah’m tellin’ ’em and
tellin
’ ’em and they don’t fuckin’
geddit
. Fuckin’ jokers, bruv, jokers.” He took another drag, and wagged a finger at the crowd. “And some of ’em start
laughin
’, man, fuckin’ bitches … fuckin’ nearly
battered
’em, man,
boom
,” he finished emphatically, punctuating the word with a short, aggressive air punch that said that he meant it, unaware of how ineffective he probably would have been. His anger was so genuine that I suddenly wanted to know what he had to say, despite my normal loathing for this kind of chavvy little twat.

“Look,” I said, reaching into my bag for my Dictaphone, “tell me. I want to know, I’ll listen.” He saw the Dictaphone and started to back away, staring at it.

“Fuckin’
what?”
he said, drawing out the
t
in the same way he’d done with the
s
. Though my first instinct was to smash him over the head with the Dictaphone, I merely waved it dismissively, smiling.

“I write for the paper. Just want to get an idea of what happened. Won’t even use your name if you don’t want me to.”

He didn’t reply at first, just carried on staring at the Dictaphone with that screwed up face of his, smoking. He turned to look at the crowd for a moment, and then faced me again with a snort and a little shake of the head, gesturing me towards him. I bet Straub still has the recording. I'll never forgive her for taking that Dictaphone off me. I bet it’s valuable, too; it’s probably the first eyewitness account of the first human sighting. 

*** 

(Faint sound of crowd noise.
By now, there are around three hundred people in the background, plus constant traffic sounds from the cars driving past Millennium Place. The first sound is a large post-exhale intake of breath from the interviewee. I can be heard telling him that it’s now recording, and then asking if he wants to give his name.)

“Nah, bruv, nah …”

(There is a long pause whilst he possibly considers what he’s doing, but then thinks better of it, clearly keen to be heard. He’s smarting, still angry and feeling humiliated with that brand of indignation that only the young can muster.)

“Ah was on da phone, like, just talkin’ an’ that, and dere, over dere like?”

(The sound fades as he turns away to gesture to where the crowd is standing.)

“There were no one dere, right, and maybe like … some people dere, and dere, and over dere, and dat’s it—”

(“How many people?”)

“… thirty … ’bout thirty innit, like spread out? But ah was the only one near dere ’cos ah was on me phone, like. So ah fuckin’
saw
. Dey’s like, like …”

(He pauses, holding his hands apart, seeing it again.)

“Right next to me … it was like, cold, like fuckin’
freezin’
. And ah’m like, fuckin’, shiverin’ an’ dat, and everyone else is like la la la, fuckin’ warm, and it’s all sunny but ah’m lookin’ round tryin’a see where the fuckin’ cold’s comin’ from, but dey’s just … nuthin.”

(He breaks off and takes another drag on his cigarette. His hand is shaking.)

“And then ma phone is just like WEEEEEEEEE in ma fuckin’ ear! Like ah can hear Donna and then it’s just this fuckin’ …
noise
, like the speaker’s fucked, and ah’m like fuck dis an’ hang up like, and then ah look and just like, dere—”

(He gestures to a spot about two feet in front of himself, implying distance.)

“—it’s
dere
, and it weren’t dere before, man, it weren’t-fucking-dere, but it’s not dere properly, like ah can see
troo
the fucker.”