The Hat Factory - a longer story for Remembrance Sunday

 

It was an estate agent’s nightmare. Never had Nigel needed to dissuade a client from selling a prestigious property. The penthouse covered the entire top floor of the converted hat factory and featured a stunning roof terrace, complete with outdoor kitchen and mammoth, party-sized hot tub. The indoor kitchen was a cavernous temple to industrial décor and the master bedroom incorporated a huge waterbed, whirlpool bath and walk-in wardrobe. There were his and hers washbasins in the ensuite, but the ‘hers’ basin was rarely used, and its toothbrush holder remained empty. Simon, the owner, preferred it that way.

Simon’s property development company had transformed the hat factory into luxury apartments and awarded Nigel the contract to sell them all, bar one. Nigel smashed the brief and cleaned up on commission, whilst Simon enhanced his already colossal fortune. In the process, mutual respect had turned into a sort of friendship, which was why Nigel could not stand by and let Simon sell the penthouse he had retained for himself. Not at a time like this.

Nigel prided himself on his negotiating skills. They had landed him the contract with Simon’s firm and usually served him well, but today they appeared useless. He couldn’t work out what was going on. Normally Simon was supremely logical, as befits a committed capitalist, but today was the exception. Today, something other than reason was driving him.

Nigel decided to give it one last go.

‘Look, mate. Trust me. Don’t do this. You know as well as I do that the market has tanked, on account of the government getting us involved in that poxy war in wherever-it-is. Bless their cotton socks. At least they had the decency to wait until I had sold all the apartments for you. Anyway, I digress. The market will recover, Si. It always does, you know that, but in the meantime, you’d be mad to sell. Just hang fire for a year, then you can clean up. If you sell the penthouse now, you’ll never make a profit.’

‘I don’t care about making a profit.’

‘Who are you, and what have you done with my mate Simon?’

‘I know it might seem strange...’

‘Damn straight, it does. Look, Si – I know what you’re worth, and I know you don’t have to sell. Not unless there’s something big going down that you’re not telling me about. You’re not in trouble, are you, my friend?’

‘No, it’s nothing like that. I have my reasons, Nige. End of chat. I’m sorry you won’t make as much commission as you would if I waited...’

‘That’s not the issue, Si. I just don’t want to see you make a wrong decision.’

‘I’m not. It’s the right decision, but I can’t tell you why.’

‘I never had you down as a man of mystery.’

‘I’m not, normally, but there’s a first time for everything.’

‘Alright, pal. I give in – but don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

 

Simon recalls the first time he saw the old hat factory. Its feet were planted firmly in the khaki waters of the canal and its red brick façade was studded with buddleia which had taken root in its crumbling cement. Each window had been shattered, presumably by missiles launched from the towpath opposite. Simon imagined how the panes would have presented irresistible targets to the local youngsters. Inside, pigeons ruled the roost. Their droppings littered both the factory floor and the machinery, which had been left in situ when the factory closed. The entire tableau was encrusted with grime and blurred by decades of dust.

If Simon had a poetic soul, he might have imagined, as he walked around the factory floor, the hats created in this venerable old building. The bowlers, once compulsory for businessmen, which were tipped politely when greeting a lady. The slouch hats used during World War Two, when they ran out of pith helmets. The fancy confections worn to theatres, cocktail parties and restaurants in a more elegant age. But Simon is not poetic. He has a good imagination, but it is deployed solely for commercial purposes. What he sees is a prime waterside location that, whilst derelict, appears structurally sound. He imagines how the windows, once restored and fitted with toughened glass, will flood the high-ceilinged apartments with light, ensuring that they are fought over by upwardly mobile, style-conscious buyers. A basement gym, landscaped grounds and dedicated parking spaces will seal the deal. Simon calculates the return on investment and concludes that he can afford to create a huge penthouse apartment and keep it for himself. He imagines the ultimate bachelor pad. Then he gets to work.

It takes Simon five years to wrangle with the planning authorities, browbeat the contractors and drive the project to completion, but finally his vision is realised. The timing is perfect. The property market is booming, unemployment and interest rates are low and there are plenty of conspicuous consumers who want to boast of an address in this prestigious new development. Simon cashes in, then moves in. It amuses him to think that his customers, now his neighbours, imagine they are special, because they own an apartment in the newly converted factory, when in reality, they are nothing compared to him. He finds it satisfying that, in his penthouse, he is literally above them all. The king of his own castle. On his first night in his new home, he celebrates alone on his roof terrace with an ice-cold bottle of Krug. He traces the route of the moonlit canal, which scythes its silver way through the town and out into the countryside. He has never felt happier.

 

A few months later, Simon is crashed out on his waterbed. He often parties hard when off-duty, but this Saturday night was full-on, even by his standards. The occasion was the launch of a swanky new restaurant in Manchester, where the focus was on the clientele, rather than the food. The place was awash with models, musicians, footballers and the flotsam and jetsam of reality TV, plus a sprinkling of wealthy entrepreneurs like himself. Mindful as ever of his gym-crafted six-pack, Simon gave the elaborate cocktails a swerve and stuck to vodka shots.

As the evening progressed and the booze kicked in, lines were snorted with diminishing discretion. Overpriced canapés missed mouths, smashed to the floor and were slipped on. Simon rekindled an old flame, with limited success. They tried to make it in the ladies’ toilets but were too far gone to negotiate her shapewear. In the end they gave up, giggling, and did a line off the cistern, after which Simon decided to escape. It was all getting a bit too messy for his liking. He messaged his driver who was parked nearby. Minutes later he was asleep in the back of the car. Maybe things would have turned out differently, had he left the party earlier. Or maybe not.

Simon does not like curtains; nor does he need them. It’s not as though anyone can see in, and he loves the way the sun pours through the windows and skylights. There is no sun now, though. When he wakes, the windows are black. Simon cannot understand why he has woken. He always sleeps soundly, especially after a heavy night, and the penthouse is insulated from the outside world by elaborate soundproofing. All he can hear is the faint hum of the Sub-Zero & Wolf refrigerator. He closes his eyes and tries to zone out, but his head throbs from his earlier excesses and sleep eludes him. He curses as he remembers that he was in no fit state to put his customary glass of iced water on the bedside table when he got home. There is nothing for it; he will have to visit the kitchen and rehydrate. He sits up, then freezes, his headache forgotten.

The figure at the foot of his bed is translucent. The corner of the wall-mounted plasma screen is clearly visible through his torso. He looks straight at Simon and smiles politely, which cracks the dried blood that coats his face. His hair is plastered to his skull and his uniform hangs loosely on his spare frame.

Simon closes and reopens his eyes, but the figure remains there, glowing faintly in the darkened room. Simon chastises himself for breaking too many of his rules at the party. In particular, he tells himself, he should not have snorted cocaine with his ex. As he recalls what they did in the ladies toilet, his thoughts go into freefall. Why didn’t he stick to using his own nose candy, like he usually does? Leanne could have got that stuff from anywhere. She has some proper dodgy mates. Also, it could have been cut with anything - local anaesthetics, maybe even laundry detergent. That’s why he’s seeing things in the middle of the night. Either that, or she could have spiked his drinks in some sort of weird revenge plot – stop!

Simon tells himself to get a grip, banish the hallucination, grab some water and sober up. He tries to call out, but his parched throat can barely muster a croak.

‘Alexa! Turn the lights on!’

The room remains dark. The translucent figure continues to stare at Simon. Then he holds out his right hand. In it is a grubby hat, the colour of the water in the canal below. Its brim is turned up on one side. Above the brim, in the centre, is a single, ragged hole.

‘Can you repair this for me, mate? I copped a sniper’s bullet in Burma.’

Desperate to be rid of his unwanted imaginary friend, Simon decides to play along.

‘Of course. Just leave it on the chair.’

Instantly the figure vanishes. Simon smiles to himself and repeats his request to Alexa, this time in a slightly stronger voice. The lights come on, and he pads through to the kitchen for some iced water and a sleeping pill. When he wakes the following lunchtime, he barely recalls his bad dream.

 

Simon banishes the remnants of his hangover with a green smoothie, a bacon butty and a long soak in his outdoor hot tub. He whistles softly to himself as he returns to his bedroom to get dressed, a towel wrapped around his waist. As he opens the door to his walk-in wardrobe, he removes the towel and throws it over the back of his chair. Then he sees the hat on the seat of the chair and stops whistling. The brim is turned up on one side. There is a hole in the centre.

Simon lurches into his wardrobe and dresses haphazardly in mismatched clothes. He decides to take the hat down to the communal recycling centre, then reconsiders and tells himself to man up. He has never been one to sweep problems under the carpet. True, he is unaccustomed to encountering problems he cannot explain, but no matter. He decides to tackle the hat head on, as it were. A quick Internet search yields the contact details for a local milliner. He makes an appointment for the following day.

The milliner lives and works in a modest terraced house. The tiny front garden is crammed with bedding plants and two luxuriant hanging baskets drip water on either side of the porch. Simon knocks and the door opens almost immediately, as though the old lady has been waiting behind it. She ushers him into her front room. Ornaments clutter every surface, along with hats of all descriptions, in various states of repair. A ticket is pinned neatly to each hat. A fluffy cat is curled up on one of the velour armchairs. Simon’s skin prickles.

The face of the milliner is scored and creased from decades of close work. The creases deepen when she sees the hat and smiles.

‘Well, if it isn’t one of those old slouch hats! Where did you get it?’

Simon deflects the question. ‘What’s a slouch hat?’

‘It’s a soldier’s hat, dear. Our boys wore them during the war. Other countries wore them too. The Aussies were rather fond of them – but this one doesn’t come from Australia. This is a local hat, no doubt about that.’

‘How do you know?’

‘They used to make them up at the old hat factory, by the canal. You know, the one they’ve done up all fancy? My mother worked there for forty years, and I followed in her footsteps. Until they closed it down, of course. So, I know what their hats look like, and this is definitely one of them. How did you come by it, dear?’

‘It’s a family heirloom, but I’d rather not go into detail if you don’t mind. Let’s just say it has sentimental value.’

‘I understand. I suppose the hat’s story is a painful one, given the bullet hole. I’m sorry for prying.’

‘You reckon it’s definitely a bullet hole?’

‘I believe so. Did you want me to repair it?’

‘Yes please. It would help my family a lot.’

‘Then it’ll be my pleasure. I’ll make it as good as new. It’ll help me as well. It’ll bring back happy memories of my old mum – and the hat factory, how it used to be.’

Simon congratulates himself on deflecting the old lady’s curiosity. Two days later, he returns to find she has delivered on her promise. The hat is pristine, and the hole has disappeared. He praises her skills, refuses her offer of tea and pays her a generous tip, praying he will never have cause to return to her cluttered house with its musty smell and clashing floral patterns. It makes his flesh creep.

That evening, he foregoes his customary glass of red at dinner and sticks to iced water. At bedtime, he places the hat on the chair, then settles down on his huge waterbed and waits for something to happen, but nothing does. No translucent figures, no voices. He tries his best to stay awake but eventually sleep claims him. When he wakes the next morning, the hat is gone.

After that, there are no further apparitions and soon Simon can once again sleep through the night. He feels mild irritation at an unsolved problem - he hates loose threads – but he refuses to dwell on it. Simon isn’t the type to dwell, particularly as he is about to embark on a major new development project. It never occurs to him to share the experience either. Sharing makes him uncomfortable and besides, who would believe him?

 

The new development project is straightforward, compared with the renovation of the hat factory. Simon’s team can handle most of the work and soon the boss is looking for a new challenge. He hears about a rundown country estate owned by a widow. Some digging reveals that she needs to sell in order to clear her late husband’s debts, and Simon is ruthless. He turns the screws, negotiates a knockdown price and tells the widow she’s lucky to sell at all in such an unfavourable economic climate. Then he goes home, hits the gym, eats a superfood salad and glugs a jug of iced water while watching Netflix. He’s tempted to toast his success with champagne, but he has a busy day lined up tomorrow. Mind-altering substances will have to wait until the weekend.

The soundproofing throughout the penthouse ensures there is never any noise from below; neither from the apartments underneath, nor from the narrowboats which chug along the canal. That’s why Simon is confused when he is woken by vague murmuring and shuffling sounds. It just doesn’t make sense to him. He can’t fathom how the noise has reached him in his insulated eyrie. He barks at Alexa to switch on the lights, then blinks as his eyes adjust to the glare. His throat is unaccountably parched, despite the copious quantities of iced water he drank earlier. He reaches for the glass on his bedside table, but it’s not there. In its place is a note, which reads:

 

Go out onto your roof terrace. Look down. They’re waiting.

 

Simon staggers through his huge kitchen. His legs will barely support him. He grabs frantically at furniture and appliances as he passes, to save himself from falling. Outside, the night is cool, and the moon is bright. Simon walks slowly towards the edge of the roof terrace, like a man condemned. He reaches the balustrade that surrounds the terrace and protects him from falling into the void. He looks over.

Below, the canal traces its silver, meandering, moonlit course, through the town and on into the countryside. Alongside, the towpath glows with diaphanous, uniformed men standing two abreast. The queue stretches into the far distance. It appears to have no end.

Every single person in the queue is gazing up at Simon. Their expressions are hopeful, beseeching. Each man clutches a hat in his hands, and every hat is damaged. Some have only one bullet hole, like the one repaired with love by the old milliner. Some have two or more. Many are riddled.