Mr. Smith's storage unit

Mr. Smith’s storage unit

By Corina Pitt

cw: foul language

Mr. Smith’s storage unit rests on a quiet street in north London, just behind St Pancras. It stands between an abandoned Chinese restaurant and a non-operative costume shop, its exterior unrevealing of its purpose. I remember the first time we passed by it, the mortified look on my mom’s face as she pointed towards the dark blue door and warned me never to step foot in there. When I asked her why, she would always reply with the same mysterious tone: ‘He is a dangerous man’.  

Growing up, I became increasingly curious about the peculiar nature of Mr. Smith. I would bike around the area, stopping by to observe his mannerisms as he stood by the front door of the storage unit. Mr. Smith was a hazel-eyed, middle-aged, chubby man, with a wary look and a funny mustache. He would see me and crack a half-smile, lowering his gaze to give me a warning look that adults give children when their mischievous. Then after some time, he would get back inside, disappearing into the unknown.

Contrary to the concerns of my over-protective mother, I decided that I would in fact, step foot into the storage unit of Mr. Smith. As a journalist, my job was to visit local businesses and write about them.  Naturally, readers want to see something juicy, a concept to grasp on and feel intrigued by.

It wasn’t long before I decided to unpack the story of the mysterious storage unit.

My mom and I both stood in the kitchen on opposite sides of the kitchen island. Her face of concern was visible while she anxiously unpacked the groceries from her bag. I figured that her worries would have evaporated after a period of 20 years or so. I was wrong.

‘But honey, why would you choose this out of all places? Don’t you know any other businesses?’

My defensiveness came out instantly. ‘I don’t think it is still as dangerous as you think it is.’

She sighed, unpacking some half-brown avocados. ‘Do you know what they say about him?’

My mom was always drawn to rumors. I was not falling for it today.

‘What?’

 My mom was hesitating ‘They say.….’

 ‘Yes?’

Her expression was becoming serious. ‘Well…’

 ‘What is it? Tell me already!’

She finally looked at me. ‘Okay, but you have to believe me baby!’

‘Okay, okay I will.’ Lies. I won’t.

My mom’s eyes widened now more than ever.

‘Well… they said he killed his wife.’

I stopped astounded.

‘Ohmygod. Was this ever on the news? Was he charged?’

‘Well, no but Suzie used to live nearby and…’

Classic. We trust the judgment of Suzie now, my blabby baby sitter.

‘Mom. Listen to me. Was he ever accused or arrested?’

She did not address the question. ‘Baby, the news said there was a fire and that’s how the wife died. But word has it that he did the job himself.’

I shrugged. Indifferently, I grabbed a banana from the grocery bag and walked out.

I went to the storage unit today. I strode with confident footsteps towards the dark blue door, while my recorder and laptop rested in my bag, all ready for the interview. I knocked twice, waiting for the same chubby, mustached man to greet me, with the half-smile and warning look. However, when the door opened, it revealed a thin, tiresome creature.

I addressed him timidly. ‘Mr. Smith?

An elderly voice came out.

‘Who is asking?

‘Mr. Smith, my name is Robert and I am a journalist. I am here to get some insight about the businesses of local vendors. Would you be interested for a short interview?’

He hesitated for a bit, then spoke out in a worn-out yet inviting tone.

‘Come in.’

We entered the storage unit. Upon first glance, it was no more than a rusty basement, with tons of boxes and an intense smell of carton and cigar. What caught my eye the most was how jam-packed the place was. Bits and pieces thrown around like an explosion whilst slight mold was forming on the outer corners of the walls.

He pointed to an old, wooden chair, facing an identical chair in the corner of the room, and invited me to sit. I sat, although hesitantly, set up the recorder and smiled at him.

 He spoke as if my presence was irritating.

‘Okay kid, what do you want to know?’

I ignored it, reminding myself that I am simply here to do my job.

‘Well, first of all Mr. Smith, tell me… how long has the place been around?

‘Almost 40 years, a family business.’

‘And are you the only person currently in the business?’

This may or may not have been a hint for the wife story.

His gaze saddened. He turned to stare at a vitrine doll on the wall, wearing an emerald green necklace.

‘Yes.’

‘Mr. Smith, tell me- what is the most important thing in the storage unit business?’

He was still looking at it, apathetic to my questions.

‘Storing boxes.’

My stare focused on the doll. I studied it for a bit, wondering why a regular vitrine doll was wearing an expensive looking swarovski necklace. Beside it, stood about 20-30 boxes, but not made of carton. They were of all sorts of colours and sizes, with no name on them. I dared to ask about them.

‘What about the boxes on the left corner of the wall? Or the doll? It is not in a box, so do you store certain equipment like jewelry differently?

Abruptly, he turned his gaze to me, slightly irritated by my question.

‘That is not storage material. Everything from the business is in the boxes in the middle.’

I was determined.

‘So, what is the story behind this glamourous doll?

Mr. Smith quickly became uncomfortable. He lowered his gaze, looking at me like he once did.

‘You ask too many questions kid.’

I decided to give him some space, a justification for the lack of it in his jam-packed basement. I asked to be excused to the bathroom (luckily, there was one).

While in there, I started gathering my notes, nervous about my next questions. What was a vitrine doll doing in a dark, rusty basement? Why was she wearing an expensive looking necklace? Most of all, why was Mr. Smith so captivated by it? I do ask too many questions.

My mom’s words rang in my ear again ‘they say he killed his wife’.

In an act of bravery, I stepped out and approached the doll. Suddenly, the once-chubby man was taken by surprise. He rose up from the seat, headed towards me as if I was too close to unknown territory.

‘DO. NOT. TOUCH.THAT.’ he shouted, and I finally saw the fire in his eyes.

I tried to remain calm, stay curious.

‘Why? What is it Mr. Smith!? You can tell me off-record.’

‘That’s my wife’s necklace, you stupid journalist!’

My interview was becoming a police interrogation.

‘The one you killed?’

Now words were coming out my mouth uncontrollably, a dangerously inappropriate game.

‘What is wrong with you kid?! My wife died in the fire of 1993. And these are the only things I kept from her. I don’t give a damn about the rumors; this is the truth. Now get out of here!’

I was crushed, mad at myself for falling into my mother’s trap.

‘Mr. Smith, I am so, so sorry! Please forgive me!’

‘I SAID.GET.OUT!’

And with that, he dragged me past the crammed basement, the emerald green necklace doll, the bathroom, the 20-30 boxes, and finally the dark blue door.

I stood in front of the door like a once-curious kid, still absorbing today’s events.

I looked at my recorder, a reminder of an unsuccessful interview. I should have listened to my mom. I am never setting foot in here again.

That wife-killer.