Mammon By Robin P Gilbert Smashwords Edition Copyright © 2011, Robin P Gilbert License Notes Thank you for downloading this free eBook. Although this is a free eBook, it remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be reproduced, copied and distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy at Smashwords.com, where they can also discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support. 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 exclaimed. “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 for a minute, wanting to make the wretched man think her reasons for entering the kitchen were justifiable. “Looking for this?” asked Charlie, standing in the doorway, jiggling the telephone, a humorous expression on his face. His black mackintosh fell open where his right elbow rested high on the doorframe. Something metallic beneath it near his waist glinted in the fluorescent kitchen light. “Yes, give it to me, please,” demanded Mrs Evans, although her domineering tone wavered slightly at the situation she found herself in. “Or I’ll...” “Or what, Mrs Evans? I must say, you don’t sound very happy with me. And I am doing you a favour, after all. Perhaps you would rather I hadn’t come?” “Of course not. I’m sorry,” Joyce said, hoping she sounded sufficiently diffident, but years of... decades of haughtiness were difficult to disguise. “Please return what’s mine. I can offer you... I can give you a reward?” “If I was after money, Mrs Evans, I need only have claimed the four hundred and sixty dollars in your purse, sold your credit cards to some unscrupulous sorts I know and thrown the rest in the canal. It’s not money, I’m after, Mrs Evans. Oh no, it’s not money I’m after at all!” He laughed, too energetically for the jest. Joyce didn’t laugh. She was scared now. She looked around her large kitchen, seeking help. “Then...” she began, but stuttered. “Then what is it you do want, Mr Cromwell? It’s just that I’m expecting company... yes, company, anytime now, actually.” It was a dreadful excuse and terribly conveyed but Joyce was desperate, willing to try anything to discourage the wretch. “Company? Who?” Charlie dropped the telephone on the countertop, slipped his hands inside his pockets and leant his shoulder against the doorframe. He crossed his right foot over his left, creating an air of casualness unbefitting the occasion. “My friend... Mrs Deems.” The silly old bitch was the first person to spring to mind. Charlie smiled. “That old lady? She really is a dear, and makes a great cup of tea. Unfortunately, she won’t be coming tonight.” Oh my God! thought Joyce, what has he done to her? How does he know her? From the shop? Then he must have been following me! In her mind then, her already dire situation turned significantly worse. “Why not?” she was almost too afraid asked, her efforts to sound bashful coming naturally now. “She always cooks ‘a nice little rump steak for my husband’ on Friday nights. Didn’t you know that, Mrs Evans? Of course you didn’t, yet you work with her most afternoons.” “She leaves when I arrive,” Joyce replied automatically. How long has this man been following me? “So, that means you lied to me, Mrs Evans, about ‘your friend’ coming tonight.” Charlie made the quotation marks in the air with his fingers. “I don’t like liars, Mrs Evans.” He stood upright then, ominously blocking the doorway, casting a dark and foreboding shadow on the parquet floor. “Do you like liars, Mrs Evans?” Joyce shook her head. “People do nasty things to liars, did you know that, Mrs Evans?” She began to cry. “What’s the matter, Mrs Evans? Why are you crying?” Joyce remained still, quiet. “Perhaps I should leave now?” Joyce nodded, managed a pitiful, “Yes, please.” Charlie advanced upon the frail old lady. Joyce cowered away. “Haven’t you forgotten something, Mrs Evans?” “No, I don’t think so. Have I?” “Your purse,” said Charlie, placing it by the kettle where she could see it. “Thank you.” “No. Thank you, Mrs Evans. Dinner was exquisite. Perhaps we could do it again sometime? I so miss home cooking. It’s been such a long time since I had a meal like that. How did you make the orange sauce, dare I ask?” Joyce could not believe she heard such a question. “I don’t know... really, honestly... I don’t! Gloria makes it for me. She’s really good, isn’t she? She’s my maid.” Joyce decided straightaway that if she awoke alive in the morning she would thank Gloria from the bottom of her heart. For her orange sauce. For her care. For everything. It was probably time she did. Charlie stood back, stared momentarily at Joyce, then headed towards the kitchen door. He stopped there, turned, took a few paces back towards her. “I hate to impose further, Mrs Evans, but you mentioned a reward?” Joyce nodded. “Anything!” “Could I possibly trouble you for a ride home? The bus doesn’t arrive for another forty minutes, and the rain sounds...” he splayed his arms as if catching it from outside, “...persistent, shall we say? Would you mind, terribly?” Anything to get this man out of my house! “Of course I’ll give you a ride home, Mr Cromwell,” she said, pulling herself together a little as she left the kitchen, and the telephone, behind. She grabbed her coat and keys in the hallway and opened the heavy front door. Charlie followed her outside, watched her lock the house, slipped into the passenger seat as Joyce slipped behind the wheel and reminded her with a friendly tap on the shoulder, which startled Joyce terribly, to buckle up for safety. As they emerged from the stately driveway, Joyce wished a neighbour would pass by, anybody who’s attention she might catch. Somebody to help her. But the rain had washed the streets clean of people. Charlie indicated that Joyce should turn left. She obliged reluctantly, knowing a police station sat not half a mile in the opposite direction. The drive through the rain drenched streets took them east, into the docklands. Depravity was something missing from Joyce’s life. The derelict buildings meant nothing to her, brought no pangs of sorrow, no desire to cleanup the world or to help those less fortunate than herself. Conversely, she had often considered buying the land and building an art gallery to show off her wares, but the surreptitiousness of her existence proved too difficult to relinquish. Besides, the thought of the underlying filth seeping up through the walls made her shudder. Yet here she was, amongst the filth and the forgotten. And terrified. “Stop!” shouted Charlie. The tyres skidded on the tarmac, both rocked back in their seats. “Sorry,” Joyce apologised, staring directly ahead, desperately avoiding eye contact. She kept her hands on the steering wheel, gripped it tight to hide her shaking. She felt hot, and cold, and frightened of what might happen next, alone with this man in a dark, quiet, empty, alleyway in the roughest, filthiest, deadliest part of town. Charlie leant across, placed a calloused, tattooed hand on hers, squeezed it gently and whispered in her ear, “I’ll be in touch,” he said, then slipped easily from the car, slammed the door and disappeared into the night. Joyce, tears streaming down her face, drove frantically, chaotically home. The hum of toiling insects carried far on the midsummer breeze. Infrequent puffs of gentle cloud rolled quietly through the sapphire sky. Bedecked amid the scent of flowers reclined Joyce Evans, her gardening hat covering her sun wrinkled face, one arm hanging down, tantalising a line of eternally busy ants crawling across the paving stones an inch beneath her manicured fingers. A snapping sound roused her. A click followed, a knock, then a gentle change of air dragged her fully awake. She leapt to her feet as quickly as she could, looked around, heart racing. Is he back? was her first thought. Why is the shed door open? her second. She got to her feet, walked cautiously over and stepped inside. A man reclined in her favourite chair, flicking through a magazine, and without averting his gaze, said, “Mrs Evans, do come in. I’m sorry it’s been such a long time, but I’ve really been very busy. No excuse, I know, to be too busy for friends...” Joyce stood, motionless. “Mr Cromwell,” she said. “I... Mr Cromwell.” “Indeed it is,” he replied, favouring her address to his own name, enjoying the anonymity it offered. “I see you still have the magazines I sold you?” He shuffled the first edition copy of the Dandy he held, folded it, returned it neatly to the pile. “You really ought to protect them, you know, Mrs Evans. Do you have any cellophane wrap?” To suffocate me with? No! “I... There might be some... yes, I do. In the kitchen. Let me go and get it for you.” Joyce turned, grabbed the door, but managed only a step before a strong hand caught her arm, drew her back inside. “Later,” said Charlie. “We’ll do that later. My, what a treasure trove you have here, Mrs Evans. A positive Aladdin’s Cave!” Charlie waved his strong arms at the organised shelves. “Yes, I suppose it is. You know, oddments, bits and pieces, things I pick up here and there. Things I collect, buy and sell, pass on, give away, you know...” Joyce was aware of her ramblings but fear gripped her, suppressed all rational thought and lucidity. “Give away, Mrs Evans? Did you say, give away?” Joyce nodded fearfully. “How very generous you are, Mrs Evans. I like generous people. So much nicer than liars, don’t you think? Liars, in my humble opinion, are pure evil. Don’t you agree, Mrs Evans? Liars are bested only by those who have, but fail diligently to alleviate those who have not.” An ominous silence descended upon the shed. The air seemed unnaturally cold. After a few, interminable minutes, Charlie spoke again. “How much would you say all these... oddments, are worth, Mrs Evans? Five thousand? Ten thousand? A hundred thousand dollars?” “I... I’m not sure. Ten thousand, perhaps. Twenty, even. Anything you like? Take it, please. Take what you want.” All her refinement vanished in the presence of this terrifying wretch. Charlie laughed. “I have no need of possessions, Mrs Evans, no need at all. Mere paper and plastic, metal and wood, hold little interest for me. No, I’m more interested in flesh and blood. Heart and soul. Mind and spirit. They define who we are, not the oddments we surround ourselves with!” Flesh and blood, thought Joyce, her mouth dry, palms sweaty. She could think of nothing to say or do that might alleviate the situation, end it, return it to a subject less pathological. She begged with her eyes, an imploring gaze, that the torment be swiftly resolved, whatever that ending might be. Good or bad. “There is another thing I like, Mrs Evans.” A painful silence ensued. “And... what might that be, Mr Cromwell?” “Surely you remember!” Joyce thought furiously, not wanting to offend, but her mind was empty, uncooperative. “Home cooking! Do you remember?” Joyce sighed, nodded. “Especially the orange sauce we had last time!” The relief Joyce felt overwhelmed her, but shivers still danced in her bones. “I’ll get the recipe for you, if you like,” she said, turning and heading for the door. Any excuse to leave! Then she realised it was Thursday afternoon, Gloria’s day off, and the recipe unattainable. I could telephone her! Or, pretend to call her and call the police instead! Had this wretch known of Gloria’s absence? Had he been watching? She shivered involuntarily, stopped, turned, said in a pathetic tone, “Sorry, Mr Cromwell. I don’t have it. Could you come back tomorrow?” While I call the police and arrange to have them waiting here for you? “That is a shame.” Am I to be punished now? She inched backwards, towards the door. “Where are you going, Mrs Evans?” She stopped, shook her head, “Nowhere.” “That’s good. I like your company. I’ve enjoyed these little chats. It’s a shame about the orange sauce. Mrs Evans, I must leave you now, and shan’t, I don’t think, be back. But, before I go, there is one, more, thing I must do.” This is it. The end. “Come closer, Mrs Evans.” Joyce shuffled reluctantly forward. “Closer...” Joyce stepped to his side, deafened by her beating heart. “There, there,” said Charlie, taking her hand and stroking it gently. “There is nothing to fear.” Charlie moved frighteningly quickly. Joyce stepped back instinctively, cowered slightly. Charlie dropped her hand, embraced her as if she were his own mother. The butt of his knife dug into her side. She went limp, almost fainted. Charlie hummed, squeezed her tight, stroked the back of her head with a powerful hand. “When I’m gone,” he said, seconds, minutes, hours later, “When I’m gone, think only this of me... Wealth is the parent of luxury and indolence, and poverty of meanness and viciousness. And both of discontent. We have a certain Mr Plato to thank for that. Shall we thank him, Mrs Evans? Together? Shall we?” Joyce nodded. Her hair ruffled on the collar of the mackintosh he wore despite the heat and made a scratching sound that itched the teeth. “There, there, Mrs Evans. There, there.” When Joyce had no more tears to cry, Charlie disengaged her, held her at arms length, stared deeply into her eyes, holding her gaze. “Goodbye, Mrs Evans,” he said, smiling. “Time to go.” This is it! “You won’t see me again, but you won’t forget me, either. I hope. Remember, its never too late to change ones ways, Mrs Evans. Its never too late...” In the blink of an eye he was gone. Monday saw Joyce Evans shuffling into town, collar drawn tight against a brisk wind. The streets seemed cleaner, somehow, dazzling in the bright sunshine. She looked behind her frequently to make sure she wasn’t being followed, jumping at the slightest sound, giving a wide birth to anything even remotely suspicious. But there was never anybody there. He was never there. “Hello,” greeted Mrs Deems, making swiftly for her coat when Joyce entered the shop. “I’ll be off now, then. Let you get on, is it?” The plump old lady waddled towards the door. Joyce stared not at her but at the far bookshelf as if hypnotised. There seemed to be a face hovering upon the torn spine of an old tome; a familiar face, frightening yet... endearing? Mindful? “Would you care for a cup of tea and a chat, Mrs Deems? I’ve brought some biscuits?” # # # Thank you for reading! Until we meet again you can learn more about my exotic lifestyle (not exotic at all) wherever the web may lead you... 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