Submitted my novel as a novella - Part 1

Part I 

Bream Street: circa 1946 

It was perhaps the first time he felt this freezing sensation. Age had run into his iron bones and most days he couldn’t get out of bed. Not that anyone would notice, living alone all these years and he’d left retirement too late. It was only the fishing in Satara Bay that had kept him going, his beach cottage central to everything, and his blue-aproned chums. He couldn’t bear that terrible noise again in his head; a bell was ringing pulled by a string. He didn’t want this to happen tonight. Not tonight at the Grand Master’s presentation. How many years had it been? Seven, he recollected, seven slow years waiting for the position of Vice-Grand Master. All eyes would turn on him. Stan the Man, they jokingly called him. But when it came to his carpentry skills, they almost bowed in gratitude. 
   He dressed in his Masonic regalia, closed his case after a quick check on the contents. It was only 6 o’clock, so he thought he’d take a leisurely detour to the Esplanade Hotel, have one or two pints for Dutch courage. 
   The terrible noise started again, more than one bell. He was still cold. Winter that silent oppressor. 
   He sat in the beer garden looking out to sea. He couldn’t make out the demarcation line of the horizon with a rising mist coming in, the edges of sky and ocean near the Heads melding into one landscape. 
   He hummed an old Irish tune. When he finished his second pint he started walking towards the shops, past the diggers’ hall, the housie-housie shed and finally turned into the front yard of the Masonic Lodge. 
   ‘Nice evening, Stan,’ said an old friend, slowly ascending the steps with a wooden cane. 
    ‘How’s the back?’ asked Stan. 
   ‘Oh, you know,’ he replied, knocking out one of his legs to keep moving, ‘can’t complain.’ 
   The ceremony began at 8 o’clock with a three-course meal. After two new Apprentices had been initiated into the Kingdom, it was time for the presentation. This time, Stan could hear an orchestra of bells where there was none. He managed to be bold and so stood behind the microphone, a little wobbly at first. It was his duty to swear allegiance to the brotherhood; to wear the colours of Vice-Grand Master with pride. 
   A growing tiredness overcame him, and giving his excuses he left the Masonic hall alone. A thick fog covered the sleeping town, and at almost midnight, intervals of rain began spotting the pavement and the blue of his coat. He hurried home. 
   When he arrived on the landing of his front door, he sensed someone was there in the shadows. There were no street lights and something made him look behind. Silhouettes and shapes in the gloomy night, then a heavy army of three men dominated his bent frame. He moved his arms out to stop them, but their wild punches struck. He could not fight them off. 
   In some distant terrain, Stan the Man knew that all the bells had stopped.