Big Shout to Malmy Hatchman

He said all this quite rationally. It was his life, I suppose, thirty-five years in the making. He perched at the edge of his pleasure gardens on Shudehill and told me how these Manchester souls had guided his hand, whispered to him – the breath they left behind brushing his cheek and alerting him to their presence. The delusion had consumed him like a looming, fungal edifice feeding off his loneliness and the broken dreams of all those crowding in around us. It would suck him dry; that much was obvious. His eyes never left New Manchester’s loveliness. There was a febrile excitement about him and he repeatedly wiped his hand over his mouth in agitation.

I never let on what I’d discovered out of respect for the old man and he knew I never would because I, too, had been seduced. The underground city tormented me every day.

My jealousy spurred me into sending my assistant out on a daily basis to find Hatchman, making spurious excuses to venture down below. I prostituted and defiled New Manchester, stealing bits piecemeal and incorporating them into my soulless edifices. Mine were built to order for dead-eyed speculating whores in thrall to their venality. There was no trace of Hatchman’s soul, his passion and visceral genius. He saw and never said a word. I tipped him generously, both out of shame and also fear that the holder of the key would withhold it forever.

So the years passed.

I was promoted and grew sleek in my prosperity. Hatchman however, diminished to the point where I grew alarmed – he could barely manage the arduous climb to my chambers and would have to sit, gasping and bent forward, face over his knees.

And then I didn’t see him for a few days. I could barely concentrate on my work. A shuffling foot would send me spinning round in my chair, only to startle a colleague: ‘… Sorry Fenton. Didn’t mean to spook you, old boy.’

I kept prevaricating, telling myself all was well, but I knew there was only one thing to do even though it felt monstrously profane. I would break into the vault.

It was an interminable day as I waited twitchily for dusk, when the building was deserted except for some cleaners on the lower floors. It was easy to slip down to the cellars unseen. I rapped on the trap door out of form’s sake rather than with any real expectations and of course there was no answer. I tugged at the iron ring, realising what a racket I would make if I was forced to break in. Unexpectedly, it opened.

I’d rather not dwell on the rest. I don’t know what you would have done.

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