Would anyone come in? Probably not. Who needed an Art Deco porcelain figurine or a silver letter opener two days after Christmas? No one. But Kuldesh could have a little spruce-up, rearrange some bits and bobs, trawl the online auctions. Basically, he could keep himself busy. Christmas Day and Boxing Day pass very slowly when you are by yourself. There is only so much reading you can do, so many cups of tea you can make, before the loneliness crowds in around you. You breathe it in, you cry it out, and the clock ticks slowly, slowly, until you are allowed to sleep. He hadn’t even dressed up on Christmas Day. Who was there to dress up for?
The hardware store opposite is open. Big Dave who runs it lost his wife to cancer in October. The coffee shop further down the hill is also open. It is run by a young widow.
Kuldesh sips his cappuccino in the back office of his shop. He only opened up a matter of minutes ago, and he is taken by surprise when he hears the jingle of the shop bell.
Who has come calling, at such an hour, on such a day?
He pushes himself out of his chair, his arms doing the work his knees used to, walks through the office door into the shop and sees a well-dressed, powerfully built man in his forties. Kuldesh nods, then looks away, finding something he can pretend to be busy with.
You must only ever
Kuldesh doesn’t have to worry with this particular customer though. He’s not a buyer, he’s a seller. Close-cropped hair, expensive tan, teeth too bright for his face, as seems the fashion these days. And in his hand a leather holdall that looks more expensive than anything in the shop.
‘You the guy who owns this place?’ A Scouse accent. Unafraid. Threatening? A touch perhaps, but nothing that scares Kuldesh. Whatever is in that expensive bag will be interesting, Kuldesh knows that. Illegal, but interesting. See what he would have missed if he’d stayed at home?
‘Kuldesh,’ Kuldesh says. ‘I trust you had an enjoyable Christmas?’
‘Idyllic,’ says the man. ‘I’m selling. Got a box for you. Very decorative.’
Kuldesh nods; he knows the score. Not really his racket, this, but perhaps all the regular places are shut until New Year. Still, no need to give in without a fight.
‘I’m not buying, I’m afraid,’ he says. ‘No room for anything – got to clear some stock out first. Perhaps you’d like to buy a Victorian card table?’
But the man isn’t listening. He places the bag, carefully, on the counter and half unzips it. ‘Ugly box, terracotta, all yours.’
‘Travelled a long way, has it?’ Kuldesh asks, taking a peek inside at the box. Dark and dull, some carving hidden by a layer of grime.
The man shrugs. ‘Haven’t we all. Give me fifty quid, and a lad’ll be in early tomorrow morning and buy it off you for five hundred.’
Is there a point in discussing it? In arguing with this man? Attempting to send him on his way? There is not. They have chosen Kuldesh’s shop, and that is all there is to it. Give the man his fifty, keep the bag under the counter, hand it over in the morning and don’t lose any sleep thinking about what’s in the box. This is just how things are done sometimes, and it’s best to play nice.
Either that or you’ll get a petrol bomb through your front window.
Kuldesh takes three tens and a twenty from the till and hands them to the man, who quickly buries them deep in his overcoat. ‘You don’t look like you need fifty pounds?’
The man laughs. ‘You don’t look like you need five hundred, but here we both are.’
‘Your overcoat is exquisite,’ says Kuldesh.
‘Thank you,’ says the man. ‘It’s Thom Sweeney. I’m sure you know this already, but if that bag goes missing someone will kill you.’
‘I understand,’ says Kuldesh. ‘What is in the box, by the way? Between you and me?’
‘Nothing,’ says the man. ‘It’s just an old box.’
The man laughs again, and this time Kuldesh joins him.
‘God speed, young man,’ says Kuldesh. ‘There’s a homeless woman on the corner of Blaker Street who might appreciate that fifty pounds.’
The man nods, says, ‘Don’t touch the bag,’ and disappears through the door.
‘Thank you for calling,’ says Kuldesh, noting that the man is heading down the hill in the direction of Blaker Street. A motorcycle courier passes in the opposite direction.
An interesting start to the morning, but many interesting things happen in this business. Kuldesh had recently been involved in tracking down some rare books and catching a murderer with his friend Stephen and Stephen’s wife, Elizabeth. Elizabeth runs a ‘Murder Club’, of all things.
This box will be in new hands tomorrow, and the whole episode will be forgotten, just one of those things that happen in a trade that is not always beyond reproach.
