Time's Echoes

Hank spotted the familiar London Underground sign flickering in the distance as he drove alongside the brooding expanse of Clapham Common. 

He paused at the junction outside the tube-station’s cavernous entrance, turned right down Nightingale Lane and swung into the first driveway on the left.

The apartments above Clapham South’s station offer four off-street parking spaces, however Mr Merrill preferred Hank to park outside his ground floor office.

Hank pulled up and the van’s brakes screeched like an enraged raptor, announcing his arrival with a raggedy fanfare of grinding metal.

Heavy drapes fluttered behind a mullioned window and a silhouetted head peered out like a curious stagehand spying on a restless audience. 

The concierge had been expecting Hank’s monthly visit and had left his evening free to cleanse the building of unwanted sonic resonances. 

Hank approached the entrance clutching his noise extraction equipment and detected the deep rumble of a train departing from an underground platform. 

Somewhere beneath six floors of breeze block and concrete, late night commuters were disappearing into a labyrinth of tunnels under the crumbling metropolis.

Hank punched the entry-phone with his thumb and loose mortar cascaded over the bricks in the doorway like a delicate avalanche of dandruff.

“It’s Hank from Sound-Vax.”

“Mr Homadus,” said Mr Merrill. “You’re late again.”

“It’s been stop-start-stop-start on the road all day,” he said. “You wouldn’t believe it.”

“No, you’re right.” The door release buzzed like a furious hornet. “Better come in.”

#

It’s hard to believe that just a few years ago scientists didn’t believe that sound left any residues. The greatest peril to civilisation is now threatening every city on Earth. The whole world’s rotting with it, yet all they can afford is a few people like Hank Homadus patrolling round the city with their Sound-Vax kits. 

“Where do you want to start this evening?” said Hank, extracting his tubular sound probe and a backpack that comprised a metal cylinder and safety harness.

“We’ve had reports of fragmenting plaster in flats three and six on the ground floor.”

“Hmm, can we gain entry or do we---”

“We’ll be fine,” said Mr Merrill, frowning. “But they’ll be grumpy.” 

“Why?” said Hank, slipping his arms through the shoulder straps. “Am I that late?”

“I told them six thirty.”

#

City finance workers occupied most of the apartments; couples without children who scampered back and forth from the banking district. They spend little time in the building and their daylight hours are engaged with brokering stocks and shares and accumulating piles of cash. 

It was in everybody’s interest to allow the sonic removal work to go ahead as soon as possible to avoid the long-term deterioration of the building’s fabric and its inevitable collapse. The elimination of the unwanted sounds was necessary to preserve the integrity of the block’s structure.

Mild signs of subsidence had been detected in the foundations, the roofing materials exhibited tiny lateral cracks and the walls on the upper floors appeared to be twisting in opposing directions. It was as if the block was tearing itself apart or was being torn asunder by disembodied forces beyond the comprehension of rational understanding.

The prospect of owners making immediate sales and rapid departures was looking remote and therefore Hank was required to ensure they all retained the value of their property. None of the owners would benefit from withholding payment for Hank’s essential services; he had become a vital part of all their lives. Hank offered all the property underwriters a modicum of reassurance until a better solution materialised. 

#

The building was unoccupied most weekdays and access was straightforward, however evenings could be awkward. The residents resented the managing agents because they’d ignored the issue for a decade and Hank was their whipping boy. To the disgruntled tenants, he represented the agent’s incompetence and procrastination. Hank was therefore a necessary intrusion to be tolerated for the greater good.

#

The couple left the office and wandered down the corridor to their first appointment. The marble lined walls echoed with the incarcerated remnants of chattering voices: departing guests bidding their hosts farewell, the screams and shouts of furious wives and angry husbands. Booming ripples of rumbling trains wafted about the ground floor; reverberations from years of underground transportation trapped in the foundations. Soaring around the upper levels and under the ceilings were the confined screams of overhead aircraft slamming engines into reverse thrust. All around, there was a dissonant tsunami of aural detritus that arrived and departed like toxic waves on some godforsaken shoreline. 

Mr Merrill rapped his knuckles on flat three’s door and rattled the brass letter box.

“I’m coming!” said a high-pitched voice. “Hold on there.”

The door opened a couple of inches to reveal a metal chain and a panda-eyed female.

“Sorry we’re late, Miss Tivoli, we---”

“Mr Merrill, thank goodness.” The chain clinked and Miss Tivoli opened her door.

“You’ll have to excuse the mess,” she frowned. “I’ve had to move out of my bedroom because of the racket.” An immediate buzz of voices exploded to life inside the narrow corridor and she pointed towards the bedroom, covering her ears. 

“They’re coming from in there.”

“You’ve closed all the windows?” asked Mr Merrill. 

The young woman nodded, sniffing away a tear as she lowered her head.

“Please stand back,” said Hank, raising his forefinger to his lips. “And keep schtum.”

Hank powered up his Sound-Vax, adjusted his pre-cast ear protectors and shuffled, crab-like, towards the troublesome room. He raised the funnel ended probe and selecting the ingestion control turned the power to Mach 2. 

At first, there were no visible signs of anything happening except that Hank was wrestling to steady his apparatus. He’d braced his feet and knees, and after a minute started shaking like a man possessed. Mr Merrill and Miss Tivoli backed towards the exit as a cacophony of polyphonic noises ripped around the apartment. It sounded like a hundred tempests fighting to escape by any means necessary. 

The meter on the side of Hank’s backpack indicated seventy per cent ingestion and Hank turned up his control mechanism to Mach 3. Within thirty seconds the shrill top end sounds had disappeared, after a minute more the lower midrange voices diminished and then with a mighty whoosh the bass and sub-bass frequencies ceased to exist.

Hank stumbled and with a hollow clunk his heavy backpack collided with the solid party wall. He wiped sweat off his moist forehead, closed the seal on the metal tank and reset his probe to minimum again. 

“I’m guessing we’re finished here?” asked Miss Tivoli, lowering her hands. 

“So, where to now, Mr Merrill?”

“It’s flat six next,” he said, shaking his head. 

“I need a fresh tank,” Hank said, catching his breath.

“We haven’t got all night, you know?” 

Hank gave a quiet snort. “You’re joking, right?”

Mr Merrill pursed his lips. “I’ll put the kettle on.”

“My usual,” said Hank, smiling. “Black and two.”

“I’ll meet you at flat six in five, yeah?”

“So what’re your plans for tonight?”

“Have you got all night?”

The End