The World House (11 page)

  "Mr Arthur," came the first caller message, "just to let you know that the book you requested,
The
Imagineer
by Gregory Ashe, is back in stock. We shall hold it for you for up to three days."

  The iced tea was perfectly cold and Alan drank it greedily, taking the first glassful in one go before refilling.

  "Mr. Alan," came the next message, the heavy Chinese accent getting his name wrong as usual, "your suit is ready for collect. See you soon, bye."

  Alan smiled around his second glass of iced tea.

  "Alan Arthur?" The third message was from an entirely unfamiliar caller. "I have the box."

  Alan dropped the glass and it shattered on the tiles of the kitchen floor, peppering his shoes with minted tea and glass crystals.

  "If you're willing to pay what it's worth – and mind me here, I fucking
know
what it's worth – then you'll meet me at Home Town, out on I-4, tonight, 11.30. Just keep walking around. I'll find you."

 

He felt his toes twitch within the soft leather coffin of his loafers: a small sign of life. In the distance the foliage ruffled as something made its way through the leaves. He hoped it wasn't a creature on the hunt for dinner. He might be able to blink at it really hard but that was about it as defending himself went. He would move again soon enough, but Alan had never been much good at waiting.

 

"Home Town" – as a student of history Alan had less patience than most with plastic nostalgia. The place was a cheap recreation of Fifties Americana, boardwalks and Buddy Holly, milkshakes and reproduction Wurlitzers churning out flimsy rock 'n' roll while families trudged between shops and lacklustre fairground rides. He had been there for ten minutes and already he could happily trash the place with a baseball bat.

  This wasn't the first time someone had got in touch with him claiming they had the box in their possession. He made no secret about his search, had been interviewed in a number of counter-culture magazines and websites, and made himself easily contactable… how could he hope to get his hands on it otherwise? More often than not the interview would culminate in an outrageous financial demand and the presentation of a worthless trinket – likely picked up on a package holiday or from a cheap import furniture house. At this point Alan would simply apologise for having wasted their time, explain that it wasn't the correct box and give them a small payment as an appreciation of their good intentions. Generous, yes, but having once lost his patience with a young chancer in Long Island only to find himself staring at the messy end of a packer's knife, he kept calm and always deferred to the would-be seller.

  He did as he had been asked, strolling aimlessly along the boardwalks and killing time until he was approached. He visited a small magic store, taking a few moments to admire a miniature treasure chest that – as the owner demonstrated – was crafted so as to make anything placed inside it vanish. He was sufficiently impressed with its design and efficacy that he bought it. At least now he was guaranteed not to leave the resort empty-handed. He walked further up the parade and entered a coffee shop that threatened to suffocate under its own enforced sense of nostalgia. From the chrome fixtures to the black and white floor tiles, the red leatherette seating and the elderly black guy glowering under his white, peaked hat.

  "Help you?" he growled.

  "Black coffee, small." Alan didn't try and make small talk with the man; it was obvious that such niceties weren't on the menu. He took his coffee, paid and sat down at a window seat. He'd walked enough, damn them; he was sure the caller could live with meeting in a coffee shop. He'd buy the man a damned drink to sweeten the pill.

  Alan's coffee had barely cooled before a man walked in and headed straight over. He was small, his clothes expensive but badly crumpled. He looked as if he had left his home weeks ago and never returned. His jacket looked slept in, his trousers so creased they seemed like a cotton mosaic built around the man's thin legs. He was carrying a small leather holdall but Alan suspected the heavy baggage was carried internally.

  "I take it you're my mysterious caller?" Alan asked, not altogether seriously.

  "Yeah, well, can't be too careful." The man was English, which was another slight surprise. You saw many over here on vacation but Alan couldn't imagine this guy was a fan of the Mouse House. "I like to keep the odds in my favour, y'know?"

  "Gambling man."

  The man stared at him and there was a look in his eyes that alarmed Alan. This was a man who liked hurting people. "No," he said, "that's my fucking point, innit? I know gamblers… taken 'em for every fucking penny… I'm not one of 'em."

  Alan was suddenly put in mind of that young man in Long Island, a kid who had just been waiting for the first excuse to pull a knife. This guy was the same, he wanted to snap and start hitting people; he just needed an excuse. Alan must be careful not to give him one.

  "So," he said, eager to get to business and then go their separate ways, "you think you have the box?"

  Wrong phrasing. The Englishman slapped the table with the flat of his hand. "I don't fucking
think
anything, mate… I've got your box, don't you worry about that." He reached into his holdall, pulled out a bundled plastic carrier bag and tossed it carelessly on to the table between them. "Question is, have you got the price?"

  "May I?" Alan gestured towards the uninspiring package in front of him.

  "Help yourself. Just don't go getting any smart ideas. You ain't fast enough to outrun me."

  Alan attempted a placating smile but was too scared to completely pull it off. There was no doubt in his mind that he was about to unwrap yet another in a long succession of counterfeit boxes; the only uncertainty was what the Englishman would do when he announced the fact. Was he going to have to pretend it was the genuine article and pay accordingly? It would be heartbreaking to hand over any great sum of money for a worthless…

  The box fell into his hands and immediately his brain quietened… this was no trinket. This was the real thing. His fingers trembled just to hold it.

  "No bollocks, eh?" The Englishman smiled. "Got a fucking bite to it, ain't it?"

  "Where did you…?"

  "A man did a runner owing me a lot of money. That was what he left behind. I want ten grand, what he owed me… point of principle."

  "Fine." Alan didn't care about the money, never had.

  "Sterling mind… you can keep your fucking dollars… cash too."

  "Fine, no problem." Alan held the box up, trying to catch the light from one of the overhead spots. The Englishman flinched and sat back in his chair. He's scared of it, Alan thought, he knows what it's capable of and he's terrified. A vicious streak bubbled up in him. He had felt intimidated; now he knew he could throw some of that back.

  "It's more than just a box, you know," Alan said.

  "Yeah, whatever."

  "But you already know that, don't you?" Alan pushed the box in the man's direction and smiled to see him flinch.

  "Look, just pay up and I'll be off, yeah?"

  "Don't be ridiculous, I obviously don't carry that sort of cash – in sterling no less – in my back pocket. You'll have to wait, or take a cheque."

  "All right, cheque's fine… I'll trust you, OK?"

  "Changed your tune." Alan smiled. "You've seen what this can do, haven't you?"

  "Don't fuck with me, OK?" the Englishman replied, trying to claw back a little control. "Just be glad I'm happy to make this business quick."

  Alan smiled, put the box down between them and pulled his chequebook out of his jacket pocket. "Maybe this debtor of yours even used the box?" he asked. "It has a reputation for stealing people away. There have been many of them over the years. You wouldn't believe the years I've spent researching it, tracking it from one owner to another."

  "Happy fucking day then, innit?"

  "You swear too much."

  "And you talk shite… now give me my money and I'll leave you to it."

  "Call it seventeen thousand in US dollars, I'm inclined to round up." Alan tore off the cheque and held it out to the man. "Oh," he said, pulling the cheque back, "one last question: how did you find me?"

  The Englishman leaned forward and snatched the cheque from Alan's hand. "Piece of piss," he replied. "The fucking box told me."

  He grabbed his bag and marched out of the building, leaving Alan with the object of a life's obsession sat in front of him.

 

• • •

 

Both of Alan's legs were filled with pins and needles, a sure sign that he was on the mend. A trail of sweat dripped from his nose into his lap but he couldn't feel enough to be discomfited by it. A sharp pain began to build in his left hand but he couldn't turn his head to find out why. As the feeling grew he managed to lift his hand slightly. There was something attached to it but he couldn't tell what. Still, if that was the limit of his injuries he could hardly complain, considering what they would have been had the box not performed as expected. He was lucky to be alive.

 

Alan drank his coffee slowly, staring at the box. What came next was daunting and he was in no great rush. He had confidence in his research – it was pretty much all he had, so he wasn't going to doubt it now. Still, if he was mistaken… No, no point in thinking that way. He had set aside the majority of his life in the name of this box. There was nothing to be gained by getting cold feet now.

  He drained his cup, picked up the box and walked outside. The crowds were thinning out as the hour grew late, holiday-makers heading home to their motels and rented villas. Alan would not be going home. He walked past his car – ignoring it completely – and headed towards the Interstate. Even now, the road was busy, airport traffic and those kicked out from the parks making their way home, bellies sloshing with junk food and soda.

  He held the box firmly in his hands and stepped out into the traffic, gritting his teeth in panic as the horns began to cut through the thick Florida night.

  It was some time before he felt anything else.

 

His hand was still hurting and, slowly, he managed to lift it to his face so that he could find out why. A thorny vine was imbedded into his palm, small purple holes leaking blood in thin trails toward his wrist.

  A movement ahead drew his attention. A girl, fourteen or fifteen, had stepped from out of the undergrowth and was staring at him. He tried to speak but his mouth was slack and unresponsive. He turned his hand towards her, intending to show that he meant her no harm but with the vine and blood it occurred to him the gesture was rather grotesque. She continued to stare, utterly expressionless, then walked over and crouched in front of him. Delicately she pried the thorns out of his hand and flung the vine to one side. Job done, she stood back up and began to walk back into the undergrowth.

  "Wait…" Alan managed to say, "please… wait…"

  She stopped and turned to look at him. After a few seconds, she came to a decision, sat down in the foliage and waited for him to come round.

  They sat together for a while, lazy light tumbling down through the thick canopy of leaves above. Occasionally, Alan would mumble something, whisper reassurances or impatient apologies as, slowly, his legs and arms came back to him. The girl said nothing.

  Slowly, Alan began to move, stretching his legs amongst the fallen leaves and moss.

  "How long have you been here?" he asked, massaging his cramping legs. The girl didn't reply. "It must have been quite a shock," Alan continued, undaunted, "snatched from wherever you were and ending up…" he looked around him "…well… I must admit this wasn't quite what I had expected." He pushed against the tree and pulled himself upright. "I've been researching the box… you know about the box, well, of course… you must know… well, as I say, I've been researching it for years. Reports of people taken from their day-to-day lives and transported here into…" he looked around again "… well, most accounts agreed it was some sort of house, not quite like this at all." He took his first few hesitant steps. "Very few reports exist from people who have claimed to return so I suppose it's only natural that there may be more to it all than meets the eye… but they all talk about a large mansion, English, Victorian, but with, well, certain rather weird differences… endless corridors, impossibly large rooms, a building that has dismissed the more fundamental laws of physics."

  Alan walked, somewhat unsteadily, over to the girl. "A disturbing place, certainly, a nightmare of a building but… full of possibilities." The girl looked at him but her face was expressionless. He had assumed it was shock but, as he looked into those solid yet empty eyes, he began to wonder if it wasn't something a little more permanent.

  "I'm talking a lot," he said, "not like me, sorry." He removed his tie; maybe it would help if he looked less austere. "Nerves, I expect."

  They looked at one another for a moment then she stood up and began to walk into the trees. "Quite right," Alan said with a smile, "a doer not a thinker… let's see what we can find, shall we?"

 
 
 

The troops are fragile. Months of famine and abuse from the neighbouring Chinese have made them as weak as they are bloodthirsty. If determination were a weapon they would be victorious, but the renegade observer knows it isn't enough. They'll need all the help they can get. He trots between the brothers-inlaw, Li Jinzhong and Sun Wanrong, enjoying the feel of the horse beneath him, the domination of another animal still a hobby he favours over all others.

  "Do you think they will fight well, my chieftains?" he asks.

  "They will defend their honour," Jinzhong answers.