Box of Delights

“No you don’t!”

The words were whip cracks and Jones froze on the spot. To attempt his exit now was going to invite pain and much, much worse. Not that he thought he was going to side-step a beating this time, not even with the fanciest of dancing was he going to get away with this. Jones had ridden his luck right down to the canvas of its tyres and it wasn’t going anywhere soon, and neither was he.

He stayed where he was, not daring to turn and face the music that Mr Gershwin was conducting. Jones wasn’t a coward as such, it was more that he didn’t believe in taking his punishment like a man. He’d seen plenty of men take punishment and he was yet to see any of them take it well. The best anyone could hope for was unconsciousness and whoever was administering the beating to have a short attention span.

“Where’s my money?” said Gershwin with that same, painful delivery.

That was the million dollar question, or make it a hundred and twenty five grand question. Jones inwardly winced at the amount. Like time, debt crept up on a man. He didn’t know how he’d gotten this old and he didn’t know how that debt had gotten so out of hand. It was like the grim reaper was a kleptomaniac and was raiding Jones’s piggy bank as well as his hour glass.

Honesty was never the best policy in circumstances such as these. All honesty would do is get a man killed, and that would do no one any favours, especially Jones. He needed to buy some time, but it seemed like the grim reaper had taken everything from his bottom drawer and he was out of ideas, as well as time and money.

A steam train hit him squarely in the back and smashed him into the wall. Jones heard the sound of it and was impressed right until the delayed pain went to town on him. One of Gershwin’s heavies had him pinned to the wall and he was doing it so effectively that he was sealing in the pain. Jones was struggling to draw any breath into his lungs, the heavy having expelled all the air from his body with his overzealous shock tactic.

“Start talking Jones, or Jim here will rip your lungs out and wear them as earrings,” hissed Gershwin.

Jones tried to talk, but his words came out as pathetic croaks, the struggle for air was still a priority for the man.

“What was that?” Gershwin was leaning in.

Jones tried to talk again.

Gershwin sighed, “ah well, Jim. Looks like Jones isn’t bothered with this life of his, take him somewhere quiet and hurt him so bad he wants to be your girlfriend.”

Girlfriend? Jones’s mind was racing. He’d been expecting a beating, but to a point that he wanted to be Jim’s girlfriend? That was taking the beating to a whole other level. A level just below life taking. Jim was being given carte blanche to break Jones and make him into a whole other person. Jones didn’t like the prospect of that. Jim really wasn’t his type and he didn’t want to find out what it took for him to start thinking of Jim in that way.

He pushed against the wall and managed to say what he needed to say, “I have something for you!”

“Not this again,” said Gershwin, “I’m not falling for any more of your crappy flim-flam. You’re not selling me the London Bridge and you don’t have the alchemists’ holy grail, OK? You are the last person on earth who can turn Brussel sprouts into gold.”

“No I have!” Jones gasped as he fought against the pressure exerted upon him and fought to say something that would avert his need to dress up nice for dinner with the heavy currently trying to push him through a wall.

“I. Want. The. Money,” Gershwin didn’t sound like he had any patience left in him. He sounded like the milk of human kindness had dried within him, or worse still, gone sour.

He was still talking though and in Jones’s experience, if you could keep a dialogue going then there was a way out of any and all situations. Talking was Jones’s currency and the reaper had yet to take that from him.

“It’s worth more than I owe you,” Jones told Gershwin.

“How much more?” Gershwin asked.

“That’s the thing,” Jones said, “I don’t know.”

BANG!

This second impact was worse, and Jones could feel blood pouring from his nose and taste it in his mouth. He didn’t like being the filling in the Jim and wall sandwich. Now Gershwin had given voice to his potential fate at the hands of Jim, his current predicament was pretty unsavoury.

Jones paused. He had broken his honesty rule. He’d done so because what he was offering might well be worth much more than what he owed Gershwin and he wanted to keep a slice of this pie for himself. Jones wasn’t a charity. The only valid charity for Jones was the one that began and ended at home, and Jones lived alone.

Levering himself as much as he could from the wall he spoke again, “it’s worth at least double what I owe you, but the potential upside from there is considerable.”

“Pull the other one, but make sure you’ve washed your hands first,” said Gershwin.

Gershwin didn’t see Jones roll his eyes, why did everyone think they were a comedian, especially when they had the upper hand? Leave it to the professionals, thought Jones.

“I’m not,” said Jones and there was something in his tone that prompted Jim to ease off just a little, “what do you think I’ve been doing?”

“Avoiding me,” said Gershwin.

“I haven’t left town, have I?” countered Jones, “I’ve been sorting this out and it fell into place just an hour before you guys walked in and Jim began getting amorous with me.”

Bang!

Jim took exception to what Jones had said. Truth was, Jim’s vocabulary was purely functional and he didn’t exactly know what amorous meant, but he knew that Jones had a smart mouth. A smart mouth that Jim’s fist would do something about, given half a chance.

“What have you got?” Gershwin’s tone was lighter and more accommodating.

Jones told him.

Jim was disappointed when his boss told him to let the gobby streak of nothing loose, and he didn’t get to let his fists do the talking. He had to content himself with the certainty that his time would come. Jones would stuff up and Jim would be the one to mete out his comeuppance.

*

“What is this place?” asked Gershwin as Jim brought the car to a halt outside what looked like a scrap yard that had seen better times.

“It’s where the storage unit is,” Jones told him.

Gershwin did not look happy as he peered out into the darkness. The night was cloudy and as Jim killed the engine and the lights of the car, the shadows closed in and what they had seen of the derelict compound, blended into the dark.

He turned to Jones, “any funny business and the joke is on you, are we clear?”

Jones nodded, “crystal.”

“Jim,” Gershwin said nodding at his right hand man.

His meaning was clear, even to Jones, but all the same, Jones was disappointed to see the iron that Jim pulled on him. 

“There’s no need for that,” Jones said to Gershwin.

“There’s every need,” Gershwin snapped, “play big games, win big prizes. One way or another, you are paying your debt tonight.”

“Fine,” said Jones, acknowledging the situation, but managing to convey his disdain for this escalation. 

“Out,” Jim told Jones, but Jim didn’t wait for the other man, he left the car and was at the open boot with surprising speed and efficiency, handing Jones and Gershwin torches. 

“Why do I get the kids’ version,” moaned Jones, eyeing Gershwin’s Maglite.

Neither Jim or Gershwin responded. Jones sighed and went about the business of the night, walking the other two into the unlocked compound and along a corridor of stacked junk. There was an eerie quality to the place, and Jones found himself thinking of a night in his misspent youth when he and some friends had dared each other to spend the night in a reputedly haunted graveyard. They never doubted the place would be haunted, it was a graveyard after all. But despite their best efforts, they saw no ghosts and didn’t even manage to scare Wee Jonny. That night had been a complete disappointment, but this place, this place was the real deal and Jones’s unease was growing into something more than a mild case of discomfort.

“This place is creepy,” said Jim.

This was the most Jones had ever heard Jim say.

“Shut it,” hissed Gershwin.

Despite the odds being stacked against him, Jones smiled to himself. It wasn’t just him then. They were scared too, and if they were on edge then maybe Jones had something he could use. Maybe he could get out of this after all.

The storage unit was at the end of this corridor of broken and twisted scrap. Jones had been here once, but that was before he had taken ownership of the unit. He wondered why Gershwin hadn’t asked him how it was that he had come to own such a thing, but then the man was a blunt weapon and his patience was wearing thin. Jones was glad of that. He didn’t like explaining himself at the best of times.

The unit itself blended in well with its surroundings. It had seen better days and yet it looked like it had always been here. In some ways, it looked like a partially excavated fossil. An object that belonged in the ground. 

Jones shuddered as he looked upon the rusted monolith. There was something of the grave about it. What they were about suddenly seemed wrong, sacrilegious even. Grave robbers come to snatch bodies to earn a few grubby farthings. Right now, Jones would rather go the Harke and Burr route, or was that Hare and Burke? He always got the real body snatchers mixed up with the fictional comic book characters. His thinking was that he would rather kill someone than be here right now. He just hoped Jim, the man with the shooter, wasn’t thinking along similar lines.

He pulled his keys from his pocket and lifted the hefty padlock. In keeping with everything here, the padlock was covered in rust and looked for all the world as though it was never going to budge, but the key slipped into the lock and the chain fell away far too readily for Jones’s liking.

“Open the door and let’s get this over,” Gershwin ordered Jones.

Jones didn’t like the sound of that, both the words and their tone gave him pause for thought, but now was probably not the time to say anything. He needed to show Gershwin the goods and then he commence the negotiations.

He swung the right hand door open and for a crazy moment, something seemed to move within. Jones’s heart shot into his mouth and he stepped back into Jim.

“Oy!” said the big man.

“Didn’t you see that?” he said turning from Jim to Gershwin.

They hadn’t.

“Stop that nonsense,” hissed Gershwin, but Jones noted the reduced volume of his voice. Even Jim’s cry of oy, had been subdued. There was something wrong here and they all knew it.

“Listen,” Jones said, “I don’t spook easy, but I’m getting a bad feeling here. How about we come back in the morning. We’ll see better then too. I’ll even give you the key for safe keeping.”

Gershwin stepped back as Jones lifted the key to offer it to him, stepped back as though Jones was a leper and the key was infected. Incomprehension was writ large across Jones’s face at Gershwin’s reaction, but all of a sudden he knew and his mouth formed an O, as he turned towards Jim, he saw the gun had been raised and was pointing in his face.

The gun was the last thing Jones saw. He didn’t register the noise as Jim pulled the trigger. His end was swift and merciful. His body falling backwards and into the mess of junk inside the storage unit. He joined the storage unit’s contents at an unnatural angle, bleeding out on the worthless items.

Jim looked at the body and tried not to show his discomfort. He hadn’t liked Jones, but it wasn’t like the boss to off people like that. They hadn’t even looked inside the unit yet. Now Jones was in the unit and in the way. If Jim had a say in the matter he would have closed the door, locked the unit and thrown away the key. He didn’t like this place and he just wanted to walk away. 

Jones had been right. There was something bad here and now he’d shot the man, it was feeling even worse. This wasn’t guilt. There was something here and if it had not been aware of their presence before, it was now. Worse still, they were down a man. Jim would have thrown Jones to whatever it was that he could feel looking at him right now in an attempt to get away, he wasn’t precious like that, but now it was just him and the boss and he knew the boss would expect him to hang back and protect him. That was the deal. That was why he was the boss. Jim was reassessing that deal right now and whether maybe it was time to break out on his own. Maybe even stage a blood-filled coup.

“Don’t start getting any bright ideas so late in your life, Jim. It doesn’t become you,” Gershwin was shaking his head, but keeping a beady eye on Jim, waiting for the big man to see that he was no chump and that he was now holding his own gun. 

Jim nodded. There was a reason why Gershwin was the boss.

“Let’s see what this loser was trying to fob us off with shall we?” Gershwin waved a hand towards the open door of the storage unit as though he was graciously opening the door for Jim and letting him go first. 

Jim froze and it was all he could do not to wet himself. He was on the ragged edge now and didn’t know which way was up. That was the only reason he did not bolt. Right now, he didn’t know how. He didn’t know much of anything other than he was terrified. He wanted to cry was what he wanted to do. He had this terrible certainty that his opportunity to get out of this place intact and alive had now past, and it was now only a matter of when he would die, and how he would die.

“What’s with you tonight?!” Gershwin chided as Jim did not do as was expected.

“Boss…” Jim managed to speak the word in a tremulous voice that was not his own, and he raised his empty hand to point into the storage unit.

“What?” said Gershwin looking from his henchman to the open door and back again.

Jim was confused and aghast. The boss was a bright bloke. There were no flies on him, and yet he didn’t see it.

“He’s gone,” Jim said simply.

Then he ran.

Gershwin watched his loyal muscle turn tail and start to run. Shaking his head sadly, he said “oh no you don’t,” and he emptied his gun into the big man’s back. Not all the shots hit their intended target, but Gershwin was pissed off now. This was not the night he’d planned and his anger was getting the better of him. He did not stop pulling the trigger of his gun until there was no point in going on, even then his finger worked to and fro several times before he ceased it's silent movement.

Still holding the gun, he turned back to the open door of the unit, “right then, let’s take a look shall we…”

His words tapered off as he saw that the left side door was now open and from inside an ethereal light shone. Tendrils of that light reached out from the unit and Gershwin could not help but to step forward in order to see what it was that was in the very centre of that light. A dark, pulsating object that was haloed by a light that was glowing brighter.

Gone was the junk furniture. There was only this gyrating object and it’s shroud of light. The light made the back of the unit seem like it was no longer there and instead there was something like the infinite. The infinite of space or something much, much darker. 

Remembering his Maglite, he raised the beam higher to illuminate whatever it was that was moving in the storage unit and when he did, something unhinged his mind. A mind that was not equipped to deal with whatever it was that he had seen. In his terror, he barely felt the mouth on his arm, taking in the torch and enfolding his forearm before tearing it off. 

He would have screamed at the sight of the loss of his arm, but instead he was shocked to find further mouths on his remaining limbs, biting and drawing him in towards that thing that had no business being here. Kicking and struggling, he was drawn deeper into the unit, more mouths burrowing into his stomach and crashing through his ribs. He opened his mouth in a silent scream, throwing his head back to look pleadingly back at the comparative safety of the junkyard and the last thing he saw was Jones closing the doors of the unit…