​London Bridge is Falling Down Excerpt 2

​The Hollow Man     |     The Hollow Man Series, International Espionage​

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I spent the next morning waiting to talk to the Fishbowl waitress who stayed the night in Sussex Hospital. It was easy enough to get passed the constable stationed at her door. I could be persistent when my sister was in danger and I needed to see how she was feeling after this horrific ordeal.

She slept for hours while I willed her to wake up. I stared at the medicine drip. It started to ping in my head. Drop. Drop. Drop. Thump. Thump. Thump. Pound. Pound. Pound. The constant hammering slowly drove a spike down through my brain, ultimately lodging in my jaw. I needed to get out of there.

I walked the mile back to the pub, curious to see if there was anything I might learn about the bomb, the explosion, or the guy who nailed me in the alley. Away from the sea breeze, the sun hit the ground and shattered like glass against the pavement. The shards shredded the soles of my shoes and blisters bubbled up under my feet.

I stopped in the shade of a shop doorway.

The morning haze had disappeared. I watched a line of clouds drift to the east. The sky was a rare Van Gogh blue, splashing shades of midnight on the window pane beside me. I suddenly wished there was time to visit Queen’s Park, a few blocks to the north through a charming tree-lined neighborhood. But, it wouldn’t be the same without Zita.

I slipped on sunglasses and kicked my feet against the brickwork to revive the circulation before continuing along Edward Street. I cut through the grounds surrounding the Royal Pavilion. The increasing force of the channel winds brought ashore cooler temperatures. By the time I reached the top end of East Street, the odor of charred wood, tarpaper and over-cooked meat was overwhelming. The stench grew for three blocks until I saw what remained of the Fishbowl.

Yellow plastic tape surrounded an area well back from the crime scene but I still managed to step in a bit of caramelized soot. The thin crust popped as my shoe crunched down into its soft insides. The thought struck me that it might have once been something human. I didn’t want to know for sure, my imagination was enough. I smudged the sole of my shoe in the dirt to be sure I was rid of it. We commit these bodies to the ground; earth to earth; ashes to ashes; dust to dust.

The frame of the door I kicked open last night still hung at an odd angle, barely holding on to the shell of its frame. Overhead beams had fallen across the dark opening, pointing the way to secret sorrows and their friends locked within the black interior. Dead souls were calling me, coaxing, taunting. Set the tortured hearts free, they said. I saw myself inside the fire last night falling into an updraft of hopelessness, ascending.

A voice broke through the whistle in my ears.

“Step back, lad.”

I gasped as my body settled back on flat feet. The policeman put a hand on my shoulder. My eyes went to the ground to be sure it wasn’t fading away.

Watery sludge oozed like flowing lava through cracks in what was left of the front wall. A heat bubble flared across the surface as it ran past my feet. I dragged a shoe back to avoid it. Window glass scraped the sidewalk under my sole. Bits of glass were scattered everywhere, reflecting the sun’s rays back toward heaven.

“Do you mind if I look around?” I asked without turning in the policeman’s direction.

The fire had been intense. An eight foot mirror against the north wall was blistered and sagged to the left like a lazy eye. The remains of exploded whiskey bottles sat in pools of their own despair. At the far end of the bar, the dart board and the throwing lane were completely gone. What was left of the tables and chairs could be swept into a small pile of ash and washed down the gutter.

“Yes, I certainly do,” he said. “Now, unless you can add an ounce of sanity to this situation, I’ll ask you to move along.” The man stared at the side of my face.

“Did anyone tell you about the man running away as the fire started?”

“Do you mean this one?”

I glanced at the pointing finger and saw a composite sketch of a man tacked to a police call box. The constable and I realized at the same time the drawing resembled a guy who looked a whole lot like me.​