Short Stories from Issigeac
Ian Phillips
Copyright Ian Phillips 2012
Published at Smashwords
Pandora’s Jar
by Ian Phillips
The jar stood, as it always had, on the second shelf. Not the uppermost. That was reserved for the antiquities as George described them. Ancient instruments of the trade. He had insisted on that. Let’s remind customers how far medicine has come. He had argued against the fact that it may scare clients away, with the words, they are not children. So, glinting on the utmost platter sat the implement used to castrate cows. They won’t know he had insisted. Kate knew better. Sitting one shelf below, the glass cylinder sat. Shining. Its contents suggested an other-worldliness. Perhaps grains from the moon. The jar illuminated the wood on which it sat. Everyone commented on it. Surely it is lit, by some sort of internal light perhaps? Kate usually nodded, and mentioned Ikea, uplifters and back-shelf bulbs. The subject never went as high as castration and for that, Kate was grateful.
The gentleman sat upright on the plastic, white chair. He looked old-school. Kate’s fingers rolled down his black, woolen sock, exposing his ankle. His foot sat naked on her thigh. It reminded Eric of the war. Of luxury, where silk would be rolled down from upper thigh to pool around splayed feet. Her hand felt nice. Un-doctor like. The white coat had bristled with crispness when she had bent down to tend to his foot. And he could see the beginnings of her breasts through the slit at the top of her coat. A peep-show of desire. He was enveloped by her perfume. Each way she turned he could detect the scent. It was a cloud of delight. Moments later she stood.
‘I have some lotion’, she said, ‘for this’. Her french was good he decided. She was accepted here because of her french husband but there was no doubt that she worked at being french. Eric followed her movements as as she reached down behind the counter. His eyes strayed to the cardboard cutout advertisements. Standing either side of the counter, as if advertising new film releases. Curves of vertical pastel blues and yellows; perfect countryside backgrounds. Scandinavian healthy smiles. He belched a little and tasted the liver he had consumed just one hour before. It made him feel good that he had eaten so well. He hoped she could not smell what he had tasted.
‘I’ll apply this for you now’, she said, ‘but you must do this yourself once in the morning and again in the evening’. Returning to his foot, Kate massaged the white, scented cream all around the base of his ankle. She rolled his sock back, wincing involuntarily as she touched the short hairs on his leg. Over the moistness. It felt wrong to Eric. Dry over wet.
‘I noticed’, Eric said, ‘the jar. Up there.’ Kate followed his gaze. ‘What’s in it’, he asked. Kate’s reply was stilted.
‘Normally’, Kate lied, ‘customers ask about the implement above.’
‘I understand’, Eric replied. ‘It holds more interest’.
‘The jar, that jar’, she faltered, ‘it appears to shine. Like the moon.’
‘My foot feels better already’, Eric said, ‘à la prochaine et merci.’ He held her hand in his and looked Kate directly in the eye. ‘I hope, one day, we can meet and address each other with honesty’. And as he spoke the words and turned his back to leave the pharmacy, even he doubted if that would ever be the case.
*
They had rejected his previous ideas. A secret brothel. The oldest honey trap of all. His plan to kidnap the government minister’s son. They preferred the experiment. They needed ‘plants’ they had said. People who they could turn to. Who would take orders. Without consequence. Eric ordered another coffee and put on his sunglasses. The early afternoon sun was already seeping through the green cover of the vine. Snapping closed the glasses case he reached into his pocket and opened his notebook. The sun shone brightly onto his scribbled words and initially he had problems making out the feint curls of his letters. Placing the sunglasses to one side he decided to brave the natural glare:
Presumed age: 67. White hair, white beard. Predictable silver-rimmed glasses. Allowed his facial features to blend into the background of his face. Always walked with a bitter briskness. He needed to be at his destination before he left. When he was stopped in the street, as Eric had observed first hand, it was as though a sudden brick wall had appeared. An abrupt stop. A feigned shock at the interruption. Exchanged words would be brisk, un-wasted. Conversation complete he would continue, in his mind the meeting already dismissed. Assumed partially autistic. Useful attributes. Would follow through to the end. Liked authority. Did not suffer what he perceived to be, idiots.
Presumed age: 48. Overly tall, so he stooped. When sat at a cafe, his foot, when crossed, shot out at passersby with subconscious intent. This extenuated his worn black shoes and pathetic dark grey socks that only just covered his ankles. He looked down at everyone and everything and adapted his personality as such. The tip of his dark blue tie was tucked behind the buckle of his shiny belt. It was a uniform of idiocy. He was a medalled general without a war. A retired bank manager without a large, polished desk. He was hanging onto an air of decorum that had been blown away in 2003. Possibly gay. Probably bullied as a child. Exudes an authority that could be exploited.
Presumed age: 36. She was new money. Each day she would paint herself from head to foot. An actress facing the spotlight. Hair scraped back to reveal polished, bright features. Each action was presented with emotion. She would lay her fingers on your arm when emphasizing an incident. Recent occurrences in her life were recounted as stories. A beginning, a traumatic middle and a furrowed brow finish. She surrounded herself with young things. Babies, new Audis, muscled ponies and Belfast sinks. Conversation came easily but never dug further than yesterday. And of course tomorrow. But to dig into that past was dangerous, for Jenny (name overheard in the pharmacy). Too many hidden sticks of dynamite. She has re-invented her past. This can be unturfed. Her lust for money could be used.
Age: undetermined. Always shows too much leg. Hunched in appearance. Could be sciatic . Looks crushed by life. Hair short and blonde (easier to manage Eric imagined). Overly slim. Smokes and drinks (too much). On introductions one assumes Parkinsons’ or Bailey’s. Carries a searching look as if looking for something lost. Her husband is always present but absent in nature. Her addiction and her lack of goal can be utilized. Shows potential to lie and her personality contains holes that need to be filled. (suicidal potential).
Presumed age: mid-forties - (has 18 year old daughter). Wears hair in bunches (emulation of ever-present youth in her sibling). Infant in posture. One stoops to kiss her hello. Holds a far off stare that never retains a focus. Dresses in grey and black (leggings) and appears asexual at times. Insecure yet proud. Always talks about a recent illness. Probably a secret drinker. Doesn’t smile, merely extends mouth into a paper-slit. Hides a mental pain behind a thin, veiled curtain of courtesy. Does not trust outsiders and is happy to discuss why (the war, the economy, customs, drunkenness). Patriotic, almost fascist (but who isn’t these days?).
Eric tapped his pen on the notebook. The sun was at full lilt now and he was no longer part of any offered shade. Catching the attention of the young waitress he ordered a water. It was too early for wine and it would smudge his brain. Two small roads led past the cafe, passing either side in the shape of a ‘v’. As all of the village offerings sat north of the cafe, Eric was well placed. Everyone who visited the pharmacy parked to the left of the cafe and would walk past where he sat. The french custom of greeting everyone you met meant that he got to know why they were going where they were going. Hands were gripped and pale, paper thin cheeks were kissed. Sympathetic enquiries of health would open up vast waterfalls of information. Had it not been for his training, a single notebook would not have sufficed.
Age: around 30. Stylish in that french way where even wearing a jumper with holes looks good (probably due to the ever-present buttons on the shoulder). Romanesque nose. Hair in a dry quiff. Short in stature but with a strong sense of grounding. Happy overtly. Drinks constantly and not only just where appropriate. Lunch time, afternoon aperitif, evening summer BBQ with friends, last minute invite to the local eaterie. Girlfriend, pregnant and one daughter from a past relationship. Loves children and acts as a surrogate to most of the village offspring. Likes money and while not tight, holds on desperately to it - money provides his tenure in life. Holds back a serious side. When drunk will exclaim his love for everyone. When sober this becomes filtered. He is sharp and likes to impress. Complicit. A good choice.
The television was jammed into the corner of the bar. Its screen was a desert background with a familiar presenter, looking relieved he was still alive. Ticket tape monologue appeared at the foot, from left to right. Eric recalled the wall-to-wall sports of the bars in Boston. Here it was politics. A wallpaper of boredom. Another bland presentation of what you cannot change. A ride you cannot get off. Yet, Eric reminded himself, this was why it worked. After all, one couldn’t argue that the public were being fed reduced information. It was all there in front of them. It may as well have been a cookery program. At least the Americans were honest and chose football over reality.
George wasn’t religious. He considered himself more a realist. He was someone who recognized the presence of good and evil, yet not within inanimate objects. Within people. He saw the jar as a talisman. Each visitor to the pharmacy was exposed to the jar and its contents and he hoped that in some way the baring of its purity was transmitting a goodness. He lit the cigarette and inhaled the blue, acrid smoke. Smoking in the pharmacy - even after-hours - felt good. The cancerous wisps curling around packets of thrush cream and clouding around shelves of headache tablets. It was a deadly invasion amongst all this clean goodliness. Disease amongst cure. And George was in control. He twisted the glass lid of the jar and felt the reluctant sucking of air against his pull. At last it was exposed to fresh air. He felt tempted to dip his little finger, to taste a little. He knew it was the evil of temptation and he smiled in its presence. He flicked the finished cigarette into the now cold coffee cup where it hissed for a moment. He replaced the lid and pushed open the shops front door, allowing the alien fumes to escape. As he turned his back to place the jar back on the shelf, he just caught sight of the overly gangly figure of Monsieur Torneau, approaching from the opposite pavement. I’ll have to shut the door he thought, otherwise he’ll think I have opened. The jar safely back in place he turned to make his way to the front of the shop. Monsieur Torneau was already inside. Pushing the door closed.
Dope, smack, ‘H’, horse, tar, boy. Eric had armed Peter with what he needed to know. Enough to shoot a warning in front of George’s ‘close to collapsing’ nose. The money was good. It told Peter that this was an unofficial mission and that the infrastructure of village life was at stake. He felt important again, needed. Confiscation became paramount. the goal. He would offer a replica in its place, containing flour. He was being watched, Peter would tell him. Day and night. They had found traces, Peter would continue, in small clear packets outside the village school. Was his wife involved, would be the final question. Peter had left George after that, after he had shown the photographs. The implications were clear. George had agreed to everything. As planned. Eric asked the barman if he could change the TV channel. He was sick of the news. Sport, he replied to the question, anything that is showing sport.
The clear plastic packets, empty and discarded by Eric, had been noticed by Emily as she dropped Sophie off at 8:30 on Friday morning. It was the discussion with someone the evening before, over an aperitif, that had raised her suspicions. She was still shocked to find what had been suggested to be true. She asked Sophie if she knew what the misty plastic bags were as she dangled them in front of her. Sophie was still embarrassed that her mother was picking up litter outside her school. In front of her friends. Emily grabbed the closest parent and begged that they stay with Sophie. Then she ran to the administrator’s office, her world crumbling. Change was about to interrupt her gentle routine.
Most addicts - those that are really addicts - will try any new high. Anything that can induce a three to four hour pleasant buzz. Cassie fitted. She was a choice because she was a drinker. And drinking is all about the same thing. Inducing enough alcohol until Cassie was able to face the day. When the hit diminished she had to start again.This meant beginning at breakfast and starting again after lunch. It was cumbersome. The clinking of the empty bottles in her garden shed. The haziness each morning. The parched throat and the gallons of water she had to drink in the middle of the night. The aching of her kidneys. The forgetfulness and the sweats; all forgotten when Cassie was drunk enough. Eric could not act as a pusher. Too obvious. Outside expertise had been called in. The nice guy, in his forties. Gets chatting to Cassie on the Monday evening club night in town. They hit it off. Couple of dances, where Cassie holds onto him for steadiness rather than lust. A kiss in the taxi on the way home. She couldn’t believe he lived so close to the school and why, she asked, hadn’t she seen him before. Eric had suggested the bus shelter next to the school entrance. She was drunk and open to suggestions. And now her DNA was all over the evidence that was making its way to the administrator’s office.
Peter was easy to convince.
“We acted just at the right time,” Eric had confirmed.
“I couldn’t believe it. Emily told the police what she had found.” Eric placed a hand on Peter’s shoulder and guided him towards the emptiness of the tennis courts.
“This needs to stay between us Peter, the game has just begun.”
“My prints are on that jar I gave you, where that stuff came from..” Eric steered Peter across the road, away from suspicious glances.
“You have to trust that I thoroughly cleaned the jar. It will be examined I am sure by our people and perhaps the police. They will know that you helped me.” It was enough to calm Peter for now and also to keep him tagged. “Remember, the rest of the jar will never be distributed. You and I made sure of that.” Eric stopped and gripped Peter’s hand in his. He shook it twice, looked Peter in the eye, smiled then turned to return to the village. All successful plans Eric decided, depended on paranoia and gullibility.
He could just leave. Abandon the village, after all his job was done. Suspicion had been injected and was flowing through the streets of the village. Distrust bolstered by the bakery, the ‘huit à huit’, market day on a Sunday. He would only have to step in every now and then, remind people of their roles. They could never walk away. They were his now. His report had been brief but packed with detail. Their answer came back to him as a silence. The highest achievement. He was being trusted to run things. Extra funds had been issued. The jar had been a good choice. Evil was indeed now amongst us.
The pharmacy door swished open at his touch, leaving the briskness of outside where it was, before gently closing behind him. He felt cocooned in this sweet smelling room, full of whiteness and boxed remedies. The small, neatly stacked boxes made him feel organized. Amongst all this ammunition and weaponry waiting to fight for life. Kate was serving a client so Eric browsed the shop. The shelves had gone he noticed, plaster had been used to fill exposed holes in the wall. Perhaps they had been pulled down in rage. Had his replica jar smashed, flour coating the floor where he now stood? The shop appeared normal now with no conversational entities. All talk remained medicinal. He watched the elderly woman leave, slowly but with intent. Eager no doubt to return home and self medicate. Become well again, claw her way through old age. Kate looked up and was unable to disguise a look of distaste on recognizing his hunched form. She looked towards the door, willing another customer to interrupt this virgin silence. A silence that was talking to Kate, telling her why he was here, what he was going to do. Hadn’t she promised George? That they would get through this, get past it. Time would help them. Yet she understood why he was standing before her now. I hope we can be honest with one another, he had said. And now she was being honest, to herself.
‘It’s my leg again, my foot. The lotion worked but I thought - hoped, that you had something else.’ Hs tone was confident, assured. He looked around for the white, plastic chair. ‘I would need to sit you see, like before.’ Again from her, silence. He stared intently at her white coat, looking for fissures, gaps, stolen glimpses of flesh. At last she spoke.
‘You had better come through.’
Socrates
by Ian Phillips
The brightness of the sun surprised and flooded their vision as they left the house. As if they were discovering an exit from a dark, cavernous room. Dueting in time, hands went up to provide human shade from the glare and sunglasses were fumbled for.
‘It’s a lovely day,’ Chrissy said.
‘Blue but fair,’ David replied.
Chrissy paused at the view flowing away from the front door. The green undulations dipped suddenly before taking a run up to the hill at the foot of the field. Beyond that she would be guessing. Turning left David started to lead the way, walking in the middle of the single lane that lead up to the main road.
‘This path is like an artery,’ Chrissy breathed heavily as she caught David up, ‘and I’m not sure what organ our house represents but it is connected to that main vein up there.’
‘And what are we, the filters? Keeping the grass short, the beds free of weeds.’
Chrissy laughed.
‘I guess so. Although some filters appear to do more work than others.’
Walking slightly uphill, the horizon shifted slightly. The aromas altered as they left what they knew and entered the arena of the neighbour’s livestock. Of removed crops. The still bruised building that Patrice was renovating held its form yet had changed little in over five years. As they passed the crumbled surface of the driveway that fed away from the lane it held an air of abandonment still. Chrissy said it was too large to fill with total warmth and love. It takes decades to fill a home with love David had replied and Patrice was not overflowing in that department. They both purged ahead, away from a problem that was not theirs to resolve, almost at the top of the road now. Towards the junction.
It felt like they had reached the top of a mountain. The surrounding flatness meant they could see for miles. All topped with a searing blue. Colours were everywhere and autumn was standing proud amongst the debris of summer. Purple stems lay dead amongst once proud bursts of sunflower. Distant rebellious fields still showed scattered orange where famers were late to harvest. It felt like a decree David had remarked. Leave some colour for the tourists. As they turned left towards the village, in the distance they could see the local’s gardens were pushing nurtured reds and fading pinks. And the now empty holiday homes, the golden stone still reflecting laughter and warmth of nine solid summer weeks of intensity, allowed superior weeds of glowing quality to show. These gîtes overflow with temporary love, Chrissy mentioned. Each week overlapping into the next. Where families, thrust together are shown the light of how it is meant to be. But never can, David had reminded her.
‘Just stand here for a minute.’
Chrissy stopped.
‘It’s that time of day. The retreat I call it. When everyone is home from work. No cars are around. Even the birds are resting. The sun is giving it one last go. Like a dying firework. That’s why we see all those oranges and reds. Look, it’s the the death of a day. I almost expect to hear a “phut”.’
Chrissy took a deep breath.
‘I know what you mean. It’s that cycle. We are within these laws of nature and have no control, you know, of night and day. We just have to accept the light and the dark.’
David grabbed Chrissy’s gloved hand as they continued to walk towards the village.
‘You know, sometimes I feel it is just you and me in this world. Not against the world but part of the flow. Every now and then we hit some rapids get caught up for a while. Then we are off again. But I never feel like we are stuck behind a dam you know?’
Chrissy laughed.
‘I aways had you down for a beaver. Gnawing through whatever life throws in our way. Freeing us up. That’s what brought us here. To this.’