Some Things Must Remain a Mystery - Part One of Three

Some Things Must Remain a Mystery

The first time Alan saw the strange device was in an old junk shop. He’d been wandering the back streets of the City the night after Diana had left, trying to come to terms with his sense of loss. As he walked, he’d become more and more cross with her and the cruel way she’d ended their relationship.

He’d done everything she asked of him.

Hadn’t he stopped seeing his mates for her sake? Hadn’t he abandoned his usual casual gear and bought and worn the clothes she had prescribed? Didn’t he wine her and dine her exactly how she seemed to expect? More to the point, hadn’t he got himself into serious debt trying to keep up with her demands? And after all that, she’d just packed her bags and dumped him.

What hurt most was that she’d not told him face-to-face but just left a message. No … that wasn’t the worst, it was the nature of the message that was worst.

“Dear Alan. I’m sorry but this isn’t working. We’re too different in education and background. It’s not your fault; you can’t help your upbringing after all. My friends all said I was a fool to take up with someone like you and I wouldn’t listen, but they were right. Good looks aren’t enough. I still think you’re cute but we’re just wrong for each other. You’ll soon find someone else, someone better matched to you, I’m sure. All the best. Di.”

She thought she was so superior. The snooty cow! The supercilious, stuck-up bitch!

It was at the very point that Alan came to this realisation that he spotted the tiny, high-walled alley to his left and the strange, old junk shop that was the sole edifice interrupting its otherwise blank walls.

There are still a few places like it in parts of London, possibly old but now self-consciously presented in a retro fashion to look like ‘The Olde Curiosity Shoppe’ or something similar. Alan was a cockney and so not particularly impressed with those who tried (and often succeeded) in making his town seem like a second-rate theme park for the sake of American tourists. So far as he was concerned, anything that attracted those kinds of cultureless invaders should be hidden well out of their sight and knowledge, and even demolished if there was no other way.

But, he had nothing else to do so he walked the few yards up to the shop and peered in the window. Or rather he tried to peer in but the small panes were so blackened by grime that all he could make out were amorphous shapes and a back-drop of flickering candle-light.

He pushed open the door and heard a bell, faintly ringing at the back. Once inside, he was assaulted by an odour so sour and musty he immediately turned to leave. He halted only because someone spoke.

“Good evening, young sir,” a cracked and quavering falsetto challenged, “Can I help you?”

“Er … I don’t think so. Not really, I only wanted to look.”

The voice, still disembodied in the shadows, gave out a laugh that was more cackle than chuckle. “Then have a care, young man. Sometimes looking proves far more costly than buying.”

Alan stared ahead and as his eyes accustomed themselves to the gloom, he began to make out a tiny figure, less than five feet tall, shuffling towards him.

“Nevertheless, I have lots of things a handsome chap like you might want or need,” the old woman wheedled. “Things that can’t be got anywhere else, not for love nor money.”

Holding his attention with a piercing glare, she fumbled around behind the counter and brought out a small bottle. “How about this? It’s a love potion – very rare but most effective. I used to swear by it in my younger days.” She gave out a brief snigger that owed more to menace than humour and sucked air through her blackened teeth in a wheezing rasp.

“I’ll make you a special offer, dearie; let’s say twenty four pounds and thirty three pence. A bargain that is, though I says it myself.” Alan backed away though the thought crossed his mind that such a concoction might indeed be just what he needed, especially given his current lack of luck with women.

The old crone rummaged again and this time presented him with a small doll. “Here’s a pretty thing. This you can use to torment those who’ve displeased you. Just tie a piece of the person’s hair to it and you can make them into your puppet for one whole night.”

That sounded interesting and Alan asked, with an inexpertly affected show of indifference, “How much?”

“Twenty four pounds and thirty three pence – same purpose, same price.”

Alan fingered the doll gingerly but she wasn’t finished.

“The problem with this, my sweetie, is that it has a tendency to lose itself and wander. It has been known to fall into the hands of its previous victim. Never a good thing, that.”

Alan dropped it on the counter as though it burned him and the witch chortled again in an alarming manner.

“Or there’s this.” The old crone held up a small dull, metal container, a bit like one of those old fashioned things with a long neck, used to dispense lubricating oil.

“What on earth would I want with that old thing?”

“This is one of the most ancient talismans on earth, my dear. Over the millennia, it has passed through the hands of emperors and empresses, kings and queens, and great magicians and sorcerers.” She stroked the thing fondly. “Aye, indeed. It was often the means by which its owner achieved their eminence in the first place. It is a wondrous but perilous thing. By rights, I shouldn’t show it to you at all as only the truly wise are able to avoid its snares and entrapments.”

“Oh, give over!”

But as Alan studied it, the thing seemed to improve in his sight till he thought it was a quite attractive object in a strange sort of way. Despite himself, and contrary to his initial judgement, he began to admire it.

In an effort to hide his growing interest he said sarcastically, “So how much is this great icon of virtues, then?”

“Just a little more than the other items but exactly as much as you can afford.”

“And exactly what is that, do you think?”

“Twenty four pounds and thirty three pence … and a kiss.”

Alan laughed, though there was a nervous edge to it. He now actively wanted the thing and he opened his wallet and took out its single occupant, a twenty pound note. Then he emptied all his pockets onto the counter and reckoned up the value of the coins – it came to four pounds and thirty three pence exactly.

“Bloody hell,” he said.

At this point, the witch grabbed him in hands that now seemed firmer and stronger and Alan was subjected to a kiss that reached right down into his soul, leaving him dizzy and breathless. And then, as if in a dream, he felt himself being propelled out of the shop and pushed into the alleyway.

Slowly, tentatively and with a groan, he levered himself off the cold, damp cobbles until he stood on his own two feet again. He looked around but there was no sign of the bauble that had so taken his fancy and, after unsuccessfully going through his pockets, he sheepishly realised he had been duped out of every penny he had on him.

Angry now, he hammered on the door of the old junk shop but all light had been extinguished inside and his pounding seemed to make a hollow, forlorn sound. He kept it up for a minute or more, until he felt just foolish enough to desist, and then he hung his head in shame and walked away.

“Right royally stuffed by two bleedin’ women in the space of just two days,” he murmured to himself as he began the long walk home to his lonely flat. “How bloody typical.”

To Be Continued