Away to the left, a black curtain hung half concertinaed across a doorway. Beyond it was some kind of annexe, or smaller room. I caught a glimpse of a wing-chair there, and in it – dark and shiny – the crown of someone’s head.
‘Hey, are these haunted?’ Lockwood pointed to the dolls.
The big woman didn’t look up. ‘No . . .’
‘Man, they ought to be.’
‘There are shops on Coptic Street that have a wide selection of cheap gifts,’ the woman said. ‘You may find them more suitable for your means than . . .’ She let the sentence trail away.
‘Thanks. We’re not looking to buy, are we, Suse?’
‘No.’ I giggled, sucked noisily on my straw.
We wandered here and there a little longer, staring at objects, casing the joint. My snap survey told me there were two exits from the shop floor: an open door behind the counter that led to the domestic apartments (I could see a narrow hallway with a faded Persian rug and sepia photos on the wall), and the room behind the black curtain. It was still occupied – I heard a rustle of papers and a man’s sudden sniff.
Also, as I always do, I listened to the inner things. And there was something there: not strong, not a noise exactly. Perhaps the faintest hum, coiled up, waiting to be let out. Was it the mirror? I remembered the sound I’d heard in the cemetery – like the buzzing of countless flies. It didn’t sound quite like that. Whatever it was, it was very close.
Lockwood and I rendezvoused at the corner of the room furthest from the curtain. Our eyes met. We didn’t say anything, but Lockwood raised his fingers to me, making sure his body blocked the view of the woman at the counter. We’d arranged the code beforehand. One finger: we were going to leave. Two fingers: he’d found something. Three fingers: he needed a distraction.
Wouldn’t you know it? It was three. I had to put on a show. He winked, drifted away to the opposite end of the shop.
I glanced at the woman. The cloth moved in little circles, round and round and round.
I put my hand casually in the pocket of my skirt.
It’s amazing how much noise a dozen coins can make, dropped on a hard wood floor. That sudden crash, that scattering reverberation . . . It even took me by surprise.
Coins spilled under tables, between chair-legs and away behind the base of statues. Over at the counter, the woman’s head jerked up. ‘What’s going on?’
‘My change! My pocket’s ripped!’
Without waiting, I ducked down and wriggled my way under the nearest table. I did it clumsily, knocking the table so that the jewellery stands on it swayed and tinkled. Flicking a couple of coins further in, I squeezed between two African bird sculptures. They were flamingos or something: tall, beaky, a bit top-heavy. Above me, the heads swung precariously from side to side.
‘Stop that! Get out of there now!’ The woman had left the counter. From behind the tables I saw her fat pink calves and heavy shoes approach at speed.
‘Yeah, in a tick. Just getting my money.’
There was an oriental paper lantern ahead of me. It looked old, fragile, possibly quite valuable. Since it was theoretically possible that a coin might have fallen inside it, I gave it an industrious shake, ignoring the gasps of Mrs Winkman, who was bobbing anxiously beyond the tables, trying to get close to me. Putting the lantern down, I reversed sharply, so that my bottom collided with a plaster column displaying some kind of Roman vase. The vase toppled, began to fall. Mrs Winkman, demonstrating greater dexterity than I’d have expected for someone so large, reached out a ham-like hand and seized it as it went.
‘Julius!’ she screeched. ‘Leopold!’
Away across the room, the curtains were flung aside. Someone emerged, moved with stately tread along the aisles. I saw a pair of short and stocky legs, tightly clad in cotton trousers. I saw old leather sandals on the feet. I saw no socks: the feet were hairy, the yellowed toenails long and cracked.
A moment later a second pair of legs – markedly smaller than the first, but identical in shape and attire – emerged from the back room and came trotting after.
I made a pretence of scrabbling deeper under the table, gathering a few coins in my shaking hands, but I knew the game was up. I was already inching back towards the aisle when I heard a deep, soft voice say, ‘What’s all this, then, Adelaide? Silly children playing games?’
‘She won’t come out,’ Mrs Winkman said.
‘Oh, I’m sure she can be persuaded,’ the voice said.
‘I’m coming,’ I called. ‘Just had to get my coins.’
I emerged, dusty, red-faced and puffing, stood, and turned to face them. The woman had her massive arms folded; she was gazing at me with an expression that would ordinarily have been enough to turn my bowels to water. But not this time. It was the man beside her I had to worry about now. Julius Winkman.
My first impression was of a big man made short by some quirk of genetics, or by a lift falling on him, or both. He had a squat, endomorphic body, with an enormous head, a thick neck and powerful shoulders resting on a barrel-shaped chest. His arms were vast and hairy, his legs stubby and bowed. His black hair was cut very short and oiled back against the surface of his scalp. He wore a grey suit with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, a white shirt and no tie. Thick hairs protruded at the collar of his shirt. He had a broad nose and a wide, expressive mouth. A pair of golden pince-nez was balanced incongruously on his nose. Though clearly a person of considerable strength, he was little taller than me. I could look him directly in the eyes, which were big and dark, with long, sensuous lashes. The rest of his face was heavy, swarthy; the notched chin dark with stubble.
Beside him was a boy who seemed in many ways a smaller replica of the man. He too had the physique of an upturned pear, the slicked back hair and toad-like mouth. He wore similar grey trousers and a tight white shirt. There were some differences: no pince-nez, and mercifully less body hair; also his eyes were like his mother’s, blue and piercing. He stood at his father’s shoulder, staring at me coolly.
‘What do you think you’re doing,’ Julius Winkman said, ‘crawling around my shop?’
Far away across the room, behind them all, the curtain leading to the back room twitched once, briefly, and hung still.
‘I didn’t mean any harm,’ I said. ‘I dropped my money.’ I flourished the evidence in my palm. ‘It’s OK, though. I got most of it. You can keep the rest . . .’ Under their collective gaze my feeble grin grew sickly and crawled away to die. ‘Um, it’s a nice shop,’ I went on. ‘So much cool stuff. Bet it’s pricey, though, isn’t it? That rocking horse, now – what is that, couple of hundred at a guess? Lovely . . .’ The important thing was to keep them talking, keep their attention on me. ‘What about that vase there? How much would that set me back, if I wanted it? Um . . . is it Greek? Roman? Fake?’
‘No. Let me tell you something.’ Julius Winkman moved close suddenly, raised a hairy finger, as if he were about to prod me on the chest. His fingers, like his toes, had long, ragged nails. I smelled peppermint on his breath. ‘Let me tell you this. This is a respectable establishment. We have respectable customers. Delinquent kids who mess about, cause damage, they’re not welcome here.’
‘I quite understand that,’ I said hastily. Bloody Lockwood: next time he could do the distraction. I made a move for the exit. ‘Goodbye.’
‘Wait,’ Mrs Winkman said. ‘There were two of them. Where’s the other one?’
‘Oh, I guess he left,’ I said. ‘He gets so embarrassed when I drop things.’