The Collector

He looks at it and pushes away the carnal, blinding urges; to spit, to vomit, to tear; the rage screaming between his ears, telling him that the box is his – rightfully his – and that he should reclaim it with neither payment nor mercy, should snatch it back, and make the unworthy worm pay for his insolence.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he tilts his chin and looks down his nose at the tatty-looking package.

‘That it?’ he sneers, his teeth the colour of amber and just as cracked.

The worm nods and places the box on the table.

‘And it’s genuine.’

The collector knew that already. Had known as soon as it had entered the room, but now he can feel the energy of its contents. Like a foetid miasma it seeps through the cracks and folds of the packaging, irradiating the room. He feels a familiar stir. His heartbeat slows.  

The worm opens the top and lifts out another box. He produces a key from his pocket, turns the lock, and lifts the lid, keeping the contents concealed. As he does so, the air thickens with damp and decay, as if they’re underground. The buyer flares his nostrils and inhales deeply, savouring the moment.

‘Five hundred quid,’ the worm says.

The vulgarity of his words breaks the collector’s reverie. Such base intentions cheapen a defining moment of his life, and he lashes out in disgust, slamming the box shut.

He would defer his gratification. Erase this moment. Construct another.

The worm flinches at the collector’s sudden speed and violence, it was like a bird’s deliberate movement. He looks frightened for the first time.

‘The fuck are you-?’

‘Here,’ the collector says and reaching into his suit pocket, he produces a bunch of notes, held together with a fat elastic band. The tips of his curling fingernails scrape the surface of the paper as he hands the money across.

The worm’s fear is suddenly placated. He looks at the bundle. Flicks through the notes.

‘You don’t need to count it,’ the collector says. ‘It’s all there.’

Grabbing the box, the collector heads for the exit. He reaches the door. Stops. Looks back.

‘One question.’

The worm looks up.  

‘You want to know how?’

‘Yes.’

‘Don’t worry,’ the worm says, tucking the money into his jeans. ‘You’re safe. Brother-in-law’s a copper. He drew the night shift. Turned a blind eye.’

He points to the box underneath the collector’s arm.

‘Only three people know that even exists.’

The collector studies the worm for a second, then darts out of the room.

______________________________________________________

Fresh sweat slicks on the greasy face of the collector when he pushes open his front door, but as he closes it and shuts out the summer evening, it is already beginning to dry. The house is dark and unnaturally cold.

Wasting no time, he moves through the hallway and into the kitchen. He places the box on the table and opens the front of his massive, cast-iron oven. He fumbles in the dark for a moment, then draws out a small key.

Box in hand, the collector opens a small angular door beneath the stairs and slips inside. He shuts and locks it behind him. Flicks on a light. Peels back a strip of carpet to reveal a trapdoor. He fits the key into the lock, lifts the hatch, and descends into the cellar.

The room beneath resembles a museum. Glass-topped cases line the edges, and the walls are filled with framed posters, old newspaper pages, and mounted weapons of all types.

A blood-stained crowbar.

A hammer with hair still attached to the ball end.

A neatly coiled length of rope.

He moans as he descends into the cellar. This is home.

A high, wing-backed chair sits in the centre of the room, facing a makeshift altar upon which sits a long surgical knife. He calmly sits in and lays the box on his lap.

Like a meal.

This is the moment.

He inhales.

Reaches down.

Places his fingers…

Closes his eyes.

…and lifts the lid.

Slowly.

Breath held.

He opens them again.

The image clears.

And there it is.

A rectangular frame of black ironwork spirals around the lettering, and though its white paint shows signs of rust, the words and numbers still burst from the shadows.

25 Cromwell St

He exhales.

Reverent.

Content.

Sated.

At least for now.

The noise awakens something. Something delicious.

It stirs in the recess behind him.

A chain rattles.

A wet moan.