Beyond The Veil
The skeleton of a block, wrapped in plastic. LUXURY APARTMENTS COMING SOON bellowed the sign out front, above the legend IF YOU LIVED HERE– YOU’D BE HOME BY NOW!
The taller of the two men sneered at the sign as they entered the gate, “If you lived here, you’d be complaining about the noise. Builders crashing and banging all bloody day.”
“If I lived here I’d wonder why there’s no fuckin’ walls” muttered the shorter. The bag he carried was heavy, he wanted to be done with this. Still, it could be worse. He could have had to carry the whole thing.
“You’d think there’d be some security at night” ruminated the tall one looking around suspiciously. His partner just looked at him, his face blank. He couldn’t be bothered to have the conversation. Their boss owned the site. From a certain point of view, their boss owned the town. It wasn’t exactly an Einsteinian leap to figure out that the lack of security on the night of their visit was by arrangement. But the short man was used to being the brains of the operation, and had learned a long time ago when it was worth bringing his partner up to speed, and when it was better to let things lay.
“What I really don’t understand is why we’re only hiding the one piece. Surely it would make more sense to be disposing of the whole thing?”
This time he answered before he could stop himself, frustrated. “We’re not fuckin’ hiding it, are we? The whole point is it’s going to be found. We’re delivering a message.” He cursed himself. The tall man’s face was covered in confusion now, and he knew he was going to have to explain the whole thing. “Look, it’s simple. Mister Cartwright owns this site, right? Do you think he’s stupid enough to be building luxury flats here, now, in this economy? Of course he fuckin’ isn’t. It’s a cover. An excuse to get the Mullens in.” He inspected his friend’s face for signs of enlightenment. None were forthcoming. He sighed, a deep, heavy sigh, and continued. “The Mullens are very good at moving things, okay? That’s what they do. Building sites all up and down the country, and all across Europe. Trucks going back and forth all the time. Blokes and equipment moving about constantly. Mister Cartwright has done a lot of business with the Mullens over the years.” Still no glimmer of understanding. “So let’s just say that business relationship has soured somewhat.”
He turned, scanning the area for a good spot. There was a little shed in the corner, presumably the foreman’s cabin. He strode over to it, his taller companion trailing behind him, befuddled. “Hold this a minute” he said, handing him the heavy bag, before going to work on the padlock on the shed door.
“Now, I don’t know what the exact issue is, but Mister Cartwright has recently lost his professional respect for the Mullens. If I were to speculate, I would guess that it’s a financial disagreement of some kind, though it could be territorial. Either way, it’s my understanding that this particular building job was arranged purely to get old man Mullen’s favourite son, big Sean, to come to town for a little chat with Mister Cartwright. That little chat happened earlier this evening.” They were standing in the cabin now. He gestured for the bag.
“How did it go?” asked the taller man, handing it over.
“The chat? Tell you what, why don’t you ask big Sean yourself?” said the shorter man, taking the head from the bag, holding it by the hair, and thumping it down, unceremoniously, onto the foreman’s desk.
“Oh. OH.” Said the taller man.
“Right, let’s get off then,” said the shorter man. “The King’s Arms should still be open, let’s grab a pint”.
David Wynne
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