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The Box of Tricks
(c) Alistair Potter
“Truth is what
one believes at the moment.”
- Lady
Caroline Lamb.
Chapter [1]
Dear
Les,
I think
you’ll like this. First, sit down and make yourself comfortable. Now lay the
little metal card on any flat surface. Place your hand on top of it and
wait. Keep an open mind, be prepared for anything, and be ready for a big
surprise.
As always,
your uncle,
Jim Mathers.
Les examined
the card - it was rectangular, about five centimetres by eight, and quite
thin with a uniform silvery finish.
Was his uncle
playing some sort of practical joke on him from beyond the grave? Maybe it
was like one of those ‘shocking handshake’ devices sold by novelty shops? Of
course, the only way to find out was to follow the instructions.
He sat on an
old 1920’s wooden swivel chair, which matched his uncle’s prized roll-top
desk, and cautiously placed his hand on the card.
Nothing
happened and he let out a derisory snort; whatever it was supposed to do it
wasn’t working. He was about to give up when he noticed the light in the
room fading. Quickly it got too dark for it to be cloud obscuring the late
afternoon sun and even the muted traffic sounds from the street below were
dwindling. He fought the growing anxiety in his chest and forced himself to
continue.
A new scene
formed around him. At first ghostly and indistinct, it gradually took on
depth and colour until he appeared to be on the pavement of a busy street in
bright sunshine. As his uncle had promised - he was surprised, though it
definitely edged on terror. He sucked in a good lungful of air and let it
out slowly through pursed lips.
He was still
in a sitting position, just high enough to be at eye level with most of the
other pedestrians. There was an odd smell, then he realised it was the
distinctive pine air freshener lingering in his uncle’s room - it was
strangely reassuring.
There were
many familiar elements; offices, shops, people hurrying by on the pavement,
and cars on the road. But the cars had no wheels; they floated along about
twenty centimetres above the ground.
He remembered
an appropriate line for this type of situation and mumbled self-consciously,
“This ain’t Kansas, Toto.”
The people
around him wore a strange mix of styles; everything from understated
futuristic chic to flamboyant historical garb. All the clothing had an
unsettling newness. They seemed to be aware he was there, in that none of
them bumped into him, but they also completely ignored him.
He wanted to
look in a shop window and as the thought formed he drifted smoothly over the
pavement towards it.
The shop sold
a range of complex and baffling electrical goods, and though most of the
advertising was in a foreign script, some of it was close enough to English
for him to identify one device as a ‘sonic kettle’, whatever that was. He
had a moment of panic when he pressed his free hand against the window and
it passed effortlessly through, reminding him that though everything
appeared to be completely solid, it was just a virtual experience. Nothing
like this existed on earth, and he had a growing suspicion that the metal
card was some kind of alien artefact.
He moved along
the street, pausing in front of other shops; one that sold shoes, another,
cooked foods, and another, computers. Then he heard his name called.
A man, who was
noticeably taller than the other pedestrians, marched directly up to Les and
stopped. He was solidly built and wore a shiny black suit. His dark hair was
greying at the temples.
“Hello, Les,”
he said. “My name is Titus. Sorry I wasn’t here to meet you.”
Les yanked his
hand away from the card; a wave of nausea flowed over him, the scene
disappeared, and his uncle’s room swam back into focus.
It took a good
few calming breaths before Les could gather his thoughts. What had he just
experienced? Was it an elaborate hoax or had he actually made contact with
beings from another planet, or maybe even the future?
He wasn’t sure
how long he had been in the other scene, half an hour at the most, but
during that time the room had actually grown dark. Through its only window
he saw that thick, grey cloud had gathered, and a fine drizzle now fell on
the city.
Rising, he
went to the door and switched on the overhead lamp. Weak light from a clear
sixty-watt bulb spread through the room; the tasselled edge of a dusty
yellow lampshade casting a ragged shadow on the walls.
He stood at
the window. Below him pale orange streetlights flickered on one by one, and
the last of the rush-hour traffic crept by in stops and starts.
His uncle Jim
had died of a heart attack the week before, leaving his belongings and a
small inheritance to Les. This was where his uncle had lived, a simple
rented room in a Victorian terraced boarding house in the centre of
Newcastle.
He stared at a
red lacquered Chinese box sitting on the desk; one of a number of objects
left to him. It had turned out to be the most intriguing. It held three
items; a hand-written note from his uncle, the metallic card, and an
automatic handgun made entirely from black glass.
The gun still
lay on the bed. He went over and picked it up. It was heavy - about what he
imagined a real gun might weigh. He had assumed it was a fancy paperweight
or some novelty item his uncle bought at a street market, but after his
experience with the card he wondered if it might be something more.
Squinting
along the barrel, he aimed at items in the room. One by one he silently
picked off; a framed photograph of his father and uncle in army uniform,
which sat on top of the desk, a wash-hand basin near the window, and a
wardrobe at the foot of the bed. He paused, noticing his reflection in a
mirror on the open wardrobe door. His dark hair was untidy and in need of a
trim, and a shadow of stubble lingered on his narrow chin. He was being
careless with his appearance.
As he took
careful aim at a handle on a chest of drawers, a small green cross of light
formed over the target.
“Shit!” he
hissed as he dropped the gun. It landed with a thud on the threadbare
carpet. He stared down at it, his breath coming in short, quick bursts.
He jumped when
a loud knock came at the door.
A woman’s
voice called, “You all right in there, pet?”
It was the
landlady, Mrs Cartwright.
Quickly
hooking a finger through the gun’s trigger-guard, Les lifted it into the
box. “I’m fine, thanks,” he said; snapping the lid shut just as the door
swung open.
“Sorry to
disturb you,” said Mrs Cartwright, a cigarette wagging in her mouth, “but I
need a quick word about the room.” She folded her arms, drawing a thick
maroon cardigan tight across her chest, and eyed the few cardboard boxes and
black plastic sacks Les had filled with his uncle’s belongings.
“What is it?”
said Les.
“Mr Mathers
paid the rent reg’lar, pet, but the room’s only paid for until tomorrow. I
know that doesn’t give you much time to move his things out, but I need to
get it let again.”
Les wondered
what other secrets might still remain in the room and saw only one course of
action.
“I’ll rent it,
if that’s OK?”
Mrs
Cartwright’s eyes narrowed and she remained silent.
Les took the
hint. “It’s more central than my place, bigger, nicer room, much nicer
area.”
“Hmmm… Well
you look all right, but I don’t take just anybody. You got a job?”
“Taxi driver.”
“You not
married then? Lad your age should be married.”
“Divorced -
didn’t work out.”
“Any kids? I
don’t allow kids.”
“None.”
Satisfied, Mrs
Cartwright reeled out a monotonous list of terms and conditions finishing
with, “...and I’ll need two weeks in advance - need that tomorrow.”
“You forgot to
mention - no women.”
“What?”
“You said no
animals, no cooking, but you forgot to mention no women.”
She shook her
head. “Don’t be daft, pet, this isn’t the fifties.”
The funeral
was a quiet affair, with only Les and two older men, friends of his uncle,
present for the service at a crematorium. Shortly after, Les moved to his
new room.
It was only
when he was settled that he found enough time, and courage, to try the card
again. He sat at the desk, took several deep breaths, and tentatively
lowered his hand onto it. The street scene formed around him again, almost
real but not. He still felt the pressure of the chair under him and smelt
the distinctive air of the room.
None of the
buildings was particularly tall, and sunlight seemed to find its way onto
every part of the street. A shadow flickered by and Les stared up. One of
the wheel-less vehicles passed overhead, level with the rooftops.
For the next
twenty minutes he floated effortlessly along the pavements, exploring what
he could of the city, but it seemed to stretch off in all directions and he
would have needed hours to get anywhere. Then the man in the black suit
walked up to him again, stopping with his hands crossed at his waist.
“Glad to see
you again, Les. My name is Titus - in case you forgot.”
Les couldn’t
reply - his throat felt painfully tight.
“You can
answer - I will hear you.”
“Right,”
croaked Les.
“Good. Now we
- that is, my government - have a proposition for you. We’d like you to work
for us - returning certain items that occasionally get misplaced on your
side.”
“...on my
side,” said Les, vacantly.
Titus held up
a gun identical to the one Les had found. “The gun is a tuning device that
allows us to target the lost items and bring them back over. It serves no
other function, and will not affect anything other than the target object.”
Les nodded
slowly. “Got it - tuning device - brings stuff back.”
“There’s a
number of environmental problems that make it difficult for us to collect
the items ourselves, so we find it simpler to employ a local agent.”
“Local?”
“Someone on
your uhh... planet, basically.”
“You’re not
from Earth?”
“No.”
There it was -
Titus had admitted he was an alien, a being from another planet. But he
looked so normal, so human.
“From your
reaction,” said Titus, “I can see you’re open to - new ideas. A little
background might help - your uncle did the job for us for a long time, but
latterly he had his limitations.”
“My uncle?”
“Yes - a very
capable man in his day.”
“And you paid
him?”
“Of course -
we arranged for him to win prizes in competitions.”
“Cash prizes?”
“Mostly, he
was always satisfied with the payment.”
“How do you
manage that?”
“We alter the
computer records; replace the actual winner’s name with yours. With our
technology, it’s not that difficult.”
“So what did
Jim have to do?”
“I would tell
him where to find a target object. He would go to it and trigger its
recovery by shooting it.”
“Sounds easy
enough.”
“Yes, for the
right person. It was your uncle’s suggestion that we approach you. He spoke
well on your behalf.”
“Good old
uncle Jim.”
Titus smiled.
“So you’ll consider taking the job?”
Les’s thoughts
were spinning in wild circles, but before he had time to think he found
himself saying, “Yes, I’ll consider it.”
“Excellent.
I’ll leave you for a few days to make your decision, though I guarantee that
this is a real opportunity to better yourself. Use the communicator card to
contact me with your answer.” Titus checked his watch. “About this time of
day will do.”
“I understand;
but this place,” Les motioned to the scene around him, “where is this?”
“It’s a
representation of the world on my side. Of course you’re not actually here;
just think of it as a convenient interface.”
“Your planet,
where’s that?”
“Sorry, there
are limits to what I am allowed to discuss. It will be part of the terms of
employment. I’m afraid that’s all I can say.” Titus glanced at his watch
again. “I must be getting on. Goodbye for now.”
Almost
immediately the link was broken and the scene faded. The wave of nausea was
less intense than before and passed quickly.
Les sat
quietly for a few minutes wondering what he had just agreed to. Was it a
genuine offer of work, or a deal with the devil? But if his uncle had done
it, then why couldn’t he?
He pulled open
the top drawer of the desk, took out the gun, and aimed it at the wardrobe.
As before the cross appeared over one of the handles, his chosen target. He
pulled the trigger and the cross pulsed brighter for a moment. When he stood
to inspect the handle and the wood around it, they were reassuringly
undamaged.
An envelope
arrived in the mail the following day. It contained a money order for
£400.00; second prize in a competition to create an advertising slogan for a
popular cat food. Fortunately the cash option had been selected or Les would
have had to explain the arrival of a small mountain of Kitty-Delicious cat
food to Mrs Cartwright.
He took the
money order to his bank and cashed it immediately. Arriving back at the
bed-sit he sat with the neat stack of ten-pound notes on the desktop in
front of him. This was clearly an advance; a show of good faith, and proof
of the method of payment.
How hard could
it be, he wondered? Definitely easier than driving taxis; especially
considering the hours he had to work to earn this kind of money.
He felt the
pile of notes; stroking the smooth surfaces with his fingertips and rippling
the crisp edges with his thumb. They were real, and this was not a dream. He
would try it for a while, just to see how things went.
***
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