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
"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
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