Mammon



  Mammon

  By

  Robin P Gilbert

  Copyright © 2011, Robin P Gilbert

  License Notes

  eBooks by Robin P Gilbert

  The Serendipity Trilogy

  Double Negative

  Single Positive

  Nothing Neutral*

  (* Forthcoming in 2012 )

  Other FREE eStories by Robin P Gilbert

  Elysium

  Looking Back on the Summer of ‘87

  Mammon

  Speckledom Recitals

  Brightly Falling

  Tales from the Gateway Worlds

  The Magic Moonstone

  The Belar

  More coming soon!

  The vast car park balanced atop the rugged coastline offered an ideal location for the Spring marketplace. Hordes mingled among the stalls and the tables and the yawning car boots, sifting trash, seeking treasures, controlling children with their newly acquired toys and inconsiderately muscling aside anybody weaker than themselves. It was survival of the fittest; Darwinism ruled.

  Beyond the bustle, silently resplendent upon a grass verge, sat a beautiful new car. The windscreen momentarily reflected blinding light as the sun split the grey, threatening cloudscape and illumed the tumultuous sea. The car’s owner, a retired spinster, had proven herself more adept at discerning treasure from trash than most and had already acquired, without shame or thought of enlightenment some prized curiosities.

  She smiled easily, almost wickedly as she fell in behind the steering wheel and placed a box of early edition Dandy magazines, purchased for $5 from a poorly dressed young man, on the passenger seat. From within could be seen the brown eye of a 1920’s Happy teddy bear staring madly at the dashboard. Beneath it sat a pristine collection of Matchbox toy cars in their original boxes and a steal at $1 each. Beneath that a packet of ten penny blacks, four margins, purchased from an old man with arthritis for 50c each, haggled down from $2.

  Today had been most productive, she thought, the profit margin amongst the highest of the year! Rain spotted the windscreen as she pulled onto the road and began the comfortable drive home.

  The magnificent edifice gleamed brilliantly in the morning sunlight and so detracted the eye that the expansive yet crumpled shed running alongside it and drenched in shadow went largely unnoticed. Surrounding it stood regiments of bronzed pots each overflowing with colourful flowers, labelled, structured, very pretty yet somehow unnatural, too ordered. Up and over it climbed Virginia creeper neatly trimmed at the guttering and burning with igneous rage. All these served to conceal its unexpectedly frequent use and dispel thoughts of any possible wealth within.

  From a wooden door at the shed’s distant end, lock heavy and snug in its frame, the elderly lady emerged. She glanced habitually, surreptitiously around, before exiting, locking the door and meandering upon clouds of delight toward the backdoor of her Edwardian abode. Once ensconced she gratefully accepted tea from the maid, slipped easily into a luxuriant leather armchair and congratulated herself on another successful gambol.

  A well deserved catnap was followed by a sprightly stroll into town where she pushed open the creaking door of an op-shop (for animal welfare, not that it mattered much to her), its happy bell announcing her arrival.

  “Hello, Joyce,” a plump old lady greeted her jubilantly, her expression partially obscured by precariously balanced spectacles. “You’re on this afternoon then, are you dear?”

  Joyce nodded, smiled sardonically, removed her hat and shuffled out of the ill-fitting, inexpensive coat she wore when she did her voluntary shifts. “Been busy?” she asked reluctantly, hoping Mrs Deems’ hearing aid might deflect the words, making conversation unnecessary.

  “Same as usual, you know,” Mrs Deems replied sweetly. “Can I make you a cup of tea before I go? I brought in some homemade biscuits this morning, if you’d like some.”

  “No thank you,” Joyce replied, eager to begin her sweep of donations, to cream off the good stuff for herself. She would reimburse the till, of course. A pitiful amount, but a reimbursement nonetheless.

  “It’s no trouble, really, and I don’t have anywhere to be. Anywhere to be, you know, in a hurry, if you know what I mean, so I can stay for a cup of tea and a chat, if you’d like. Would that be nice?”

  “No, honestly, Mrs Deems, I don’t want any tea. I have lots to do. See you tomorrow?”

  The dear old lady struggled to hide her disappointment. “Oh. Alright then,” she whispered and waddled out with her coat over one arm, her handbag over the other, fearing her prolonged presence might attract more unwanted asperity.

  There was a young man in the corner of the shop, scanning the used books.

  “Do you need any help?” Joyce asked, staring intently.

  He stood, turned, smiled in a way that unsettled the old lady but made no reply. He left shortly afterwards without buying anything.

  Despite a strong urge to flip the OPEN sign to CLOSED, Joyce retired to the kitchen, which doubled as a storeroom and began to examine the contents of the newly deposited boxes with meticulous care. A few interruptions slowed her, but she left with a satisfied smile and a box under her arm containing two valuable china collectables bubble wrapped and safe. She deposited a miserly 50c in the cashbox on her way out, humming as she walked, oblivious to the young man watching her from a doorway across the street.

  Dinner was interrupted by the incessant ringing of the telephone. Joyce huffed, dabbed her lips with her napkin and snatched it up. “Yes?” she snapped, but an eerie silence replied. “Who is this?” she asked impatiently.

  “I have something of yours,” said a thick, muffled voice, it’s tone ominous.

  Joyce was understandably surprised. What could it be? The thought of who it might be never occurred to her, so material was the world in which she lived. “Go on...” she said.

  “I’ll bring it to you. I know where you live.”

  The line went dead.

  Nobody arrived that evening, or the next. During the intervening forty eight hours, Joyce had realised her purse was missing, and, despite her initial anxiety, had calmed, knowing the message was valid. But despite herself she was unable to dismiss it’s menacing tone. On the third night, amid a torrent of rain, there came a gentle tap at the door. Alone in the house, Joyce answered it herself.

  She greeted the stranger on her doorstep with an impatient, “Do you have it?” before a brief wave of recollection washed over her. There was something familiar about the young man. And his clothes too, sombre, untidy, poor. He was the young man from the spring market who had sold her the Dandy magazines. The young man from the charity shop. “You,” she added, annoyed with herself for sounding so unrefined.

  The man stood quietly outside, rain running from his black hair, dripping from his lashes. “May I come in, Mrs Evans? The weather’s terribly inclement.”

  Astonished at the man’s elocution, she stood agape, briefly, then swiftly recovered, stood aside and swept with an arm. “But stay there,” she said, pointing at the first marble tile in the hallway. “I’ll get some newspapers.”

  The man smiled. “As you will,” he said, stepping inside.

  Joyce hurried to the kitchen, grabbed paper and returned. To an empty hallway. The front door was closed. She checked the dressing table, expecting to find her purse, assuming the wretch too shy, too intimidated by such opulence. But the purse wasn’t there nor anywhere else in the hallway. She opened the door and looked outside but there was no sign of anyone loitering in the driveway. She shivered, returned inside and decided to call the police, something she had until now refrained from doing for want of prying eyes in her garden shed. To her amazement she found the man sitting at the dinner table eating her dinner. “I say!” she exclaime
d. “Do you mind?” The horror of it! That such a lowlife considered himself worthy of eating at her table!

  “Some people have food, but no appetite; others have appetite but no food; I have both. The Lord be praised!” the young man spoke with his mouth full, which further infuriated Joyce. Seeing her standing, staring so aghast, he concluded his quotation with, “Oliver Cromwell.”

  “Well, Mr Cromwell, please return what’s mine, and... and go.”

  Charlie smiled at the woman’s ignorance but said nothing. Instead, whilst staring directly at her, he popped an entire new potato into his mouth and bit down pleasantly. Butter ran down his chin which he wiped away with the cuff of his sodden raincoat.

  Mrs Evans huffed, whispered, “Right!” turned on her heels and marched to the kitchen with every intention of calling the police. But when she reached the kettle, above which rested the walkabout’s cradle, she realised the telephone itself sat on the dining table. Where she had left it. She stood there