‘The Demolition Man’

(This story is fiction and resemblance to anyone living or dead is coincidental)

The last bricks were tumbling into the yard that had belonged to the old Victorian public house called “The Stragglers Barrel.” The chief demolition man, Bruce Hardy stood with his big club hammer hanging down at his side and pondered as he caught his breath. He was getting wet and the heavy, incessant rain was seeping down his neck. This stormy weather had persisted for several weeks and the ground couldn’t take much more.  London had certainly changed beyond all recognition. It was not the town he had grown up in. Now it was all stark glass and concrete. The human scale had gone forever and he was glad he had only any ten years to go to retirement. He thought the clever architects and woolly minded planners had taken away all that his father and grandfather had fought for in two world wars. If they could see it now they wouldn’t just turn over in their graves they’d burrow further down!

His attention was diverted as the digger’s steel bucket clanged, metal on metal and scooped up a big pile of bricks in the yard. As the area was cleared away he spotted the disturbed edge of a circular manhole cover. The cover had been buried under weeds and debris and had clearly been hidden for many years. His curiosity kindled, he grabbed a crowbar-forced the cover off and appealed for his workmate to fetch his portable helmet lamp. Once he had this item in place he shone its powerful beam down the shaft and saw there was an iron ladder going down two or three metres to what appeared to be a solid floor. He quickly stepped back from the edge as a sudden rush of foul air escaped. 

After a few minutes Bruce announced he was going down to investigate and pulling on his protective face-mask he started his descent. It was fortunate he was a lean man and only average height, for a bigger man would have struggled in the narrow confines of the shaft. He reflected that Victorian workers would have been thin and undernourished anyway. He knew the dangers of methane gas and “choke damp” and was not inclined to explore very far, just to assess if this shaft linked up to other main sewers in this area of Wapping. They were very close to the old docklands and in the confines of the shaft his mind was whisked back in time to the days when muddy scavengers hunted the Victorian sewers for coins and anything saleable. Once his feet touched solid ground Bruce followed the low tunnel as it stretched out towards Whitechapel. His brain told him to stop and turn back but his curiosity urged him on, just a few yards more. Just ahead he saw another tunnel going off to his left. He decided to follow it. He had to crouch through this one and luckily it only ran a short distance before returning to the main one again. Now he could stretch to his full height. Around him the walls were covered in slime, so he had to keep to the centre and was grateful for his hard hat. Then behind him he heard the sound of rushing water and had to pick his feet up as the ground became wet and slippery. He now realised he hadn’t rejoined the main tunnel at all but had entered another one. The filthy water was getting deeper and swirling around his ankles. He had to get out of it fast. There was another tunnel going off to his left and he took it as most of the excrement flowed on. This tunnel was drier and the air was fresher as he realised he had found a ventilation pipe. Stopping for a moment he noticed a small wooden door cut high into the red brick side of the tunnel and reasoned it had been provided for the workers to rest up in. Wrenching the door open he clambered inside and found himself in a brick built hut that contained a wooden table covered in a thick layer of dust and two simple chairs. He knew he was lost, nevertheless he was glad to get away from the toxic waste and screeching rats. Sitting down he saw a wooden chest in a corner and got up to investigate. It was not locked and contained various items of cheap garish jewellery and female clothing. They’d been thrown in like trophies. There was also a crude woollen balaclaver, a bone handled cut-throat razor and a diary. Bruce was convinced no one had been in this hut for a good many years. Blowing the dust off the black leather cover of the small book he saw the strong scribbled writing of a man’s hand. It was a list and each item contained a date alongside a woman’s name. In all there were twenty names and alongside each was a tick denoting success. Placing the diary on the table Bruce dug down into the chest and produced an ornamental Victorian surgeon’s case containing scalpels. There were dark stains on several of the blades and Bruce thought it might have been dried blood. Once he got back to the surface he would show this case, and the diary as evidence of his extraordinary find. “Surely there could be no connection to those wicked Whitechapel murders so long ago!” Outside the hut he heard the sound of more rushing water and knew he couldn’t afford to linger much longer with the flood level rising or he’d be cut off. It was time to turn back. Grabbing the surgeon’s case and the diary he stuffed them into his shirt and hurriedly redid the buttons, threw the door open and jumped down, wading out into water that almost came up to his waist. The shock almost overbalanced him and he had to force himself forward against the strong surge.