William Wells had found himself so utterly and hopelessly in love, but he couldn’t escape the feeling that he wasn’t good enough for her. That at any moment reality was going to hit and Abigayle would see him for what he really was: a jobless, moneyless, illegal immigrant college dropout who had been disowned by most members of his family. Those who were still alive, at least. There was also the not so insignificant matter of his family’s legal and financial problems that had been unfairly forced upon him.
The pressure to be the man he thought she needed him to be, one at the height of his powers, who was really going places, was stretching him beyond his limits. It had made him too insecure to admit that he was lost, literally and figuratively, at a point in life when what he really needed was direction and purpose. Abigayle was the only thing anchoring him, and the thought of her leaving him terrified him more than he’d care to admit. This fear had ultimately led to him spending most of the day walking in circles, hoping that he could find this damned shop and keep up the charade.
Today, fate or luck, neither of which Will gave much credence to, was on his side. Limping aimlessly in his worn shoes, something had made him look up at a rusted iron sign bolted to a damp, moss-covered wall. It read: Frying Pan Alley. Will clicked his fingers when he saw it and said, ‘Frying Pan Alley! How the hell did I forget a name like that?’
* * *
Now that he was standing outside the elusive shop described to him by Abigayle, the sense of relief seemed to be easing the pain in his battered feet. He’d walked far enough to qualify as a marathon, had spoken to more people than he could count and couldn’t for the life of him recall how a man selling his wares from a battered old suitcase had convinced him to buy leather gloves in May, but finally, he’d found it.
The shop was nestled down a narrow alley that, aside from the shop itself, was relatively bare. The walls flanking it on either side were a Frankenstein-like mishmash of different sized and coloured bricks. The various sections of the walls were in fact parts of different buildings, all of which backed onto the alleyway. All, that is, apart from one small storefront, hidden in plain sight, facing into it. A small cast-iron frying pan hung on a flimsy metal bracket alongside it, presumably a remnant of the alleyway’s nomenclature.
The storefront couldn’t have been any more than two metres wide with a squat door leaning up against a crooked window. It looked as though the building was once much larger but had been gradually compressed between the two neighbouring buildings and was now wedged awkwardly between them. The glass was covered in a thick film of dry powdery dirt, making it almost completely opaque and concealing whatever mysteries might be inside.
The carved wooden sign that hung above the entrance was barely legible. The faded red paint and gold lettering read:
MR. DIBBEN’S THRIFT SHOP AND WONDER EMPORIUM
The sign’s grey wooden frame had deep grooves between the grain after many years of weathering. The neglect was such that the shop had become almost invisible to passersby, reclaimed by its surroundings.
William Wells had been studying the shop for some time now, his head cocked to the side, with a frown on his face, ‘Really, Abby? All this fuss over…this?’
But he’d come this far; and with Abigayle’s positive words about the store swirling through his head, he gripped the door handle and turned it. The swollen wood made the door stiff, so much so that Will almost abandoned this odd adventure completely until it eventually gave way and swung inwards after a firm shove from his shoulder. He ducked inside, brushing away the clumped grit that the door had deposited on his drab green cargo jacket, and headed down a short set of creaky stairs. When he reached the bottom, he found a surprisingly large but cluttered interior that belied the compact exterior. The entrance opened into a large space split across three distinct levels. The lowest level came immediately after the door, with a step up in the middle and down once more at the far end. It made the space look as if each part of the building was added at a different time over the years, without any thought for continuity. Each of the three levels looked to have small adjoining rooms running off them. The far end featured a large decorative mahogany counter with a dark figure slumped behind it in a chair, reading a newspaper – the shop owner, presumably.
The inside of the shop hadn’t fared much better than the outside: the bare wooden floors had been worn smooth by thousands of footfalls and the stained floral wallpaper was peeling away from the walls, pulling clumps of brittle plaster with it. The air was musty and close, and Will could see dust motes dancing in the air.
Everything in the shop appeared to be divided by department, but it was all arranged in a haphazard fashion. In one area, armchairs were stacked precariously on top of one another alongside tables and chairs in a similar arrangement. A small side room contained a variety of doors, piled flat like a pack of playing cards. Another had fireplaces and mantlepieces. The room opposite had wooden bird cages hanging across the ceiling, enamel-covered metal signs lining the walls, vintage bicycles covering one-half of the floor and shelving with everything from old typewriters to wood-effect transistor radios on the other. There was even a wooden canoe hanging from the ceiling in the shop’s main space. Will dared not touch anything, fearing the whole shop might come down on top of him, but one thing was for certain: Abigayle was right. He loved it.
He’d grown up in the small town of Le Clair, Iowa, and from a young age had been fascinated with objects or places with a story to tell. His mother and grandfather had worked as pickers in the area, searching local properties, abandoned farms and factories for hidden treasures to sell for a profit. He had accompanied them often as a kid, and the thing that he found most magical was finding an item with a rich and interesting history behind it. This didn’t happen often in his experience, but when it did it was an exhilarating feeling. As he surveyed the walls of this cluttered shop, he couldn’t help but imagine the stories that each of these pieces had to tell. However, it was one of the side rooms to the right of the counter that piqued Will’s interest the most.
Inside, the walls were almost entirely covered in clocks. Larger clocks were arranged with smaller clocks nestled in between them, almost completely obscuring the grime-crusted wallpaper behind them. There were several grandfather-style clocks in one corner and a wooden display case with a glass top in the centre of the room. It contained dozens of old wrist and pocket watches. The sound of the numerous ticking clocks was incessant but strangely relaxing.
Will approached the display case, studying its contents intently. One of the first things he had learned about Abigayle was that she had a fascination with horology. She loved clocks and watches and often went to markets, antique fairs and car boot sales in search of old, interesting or rare timepieces. As he looked at the selection, it occurred to Will that their one-year anniversary was coming up soon. The idea of her smiling with surprise when he presented her with a rare and unusual watch was intoxicating.
As Will inspected the contents of the case for anything that looked old or unique to his relatively well-trained eye, he heard a floorboard creak behind him. He turned quickly to see the man from behind the counter standing uncomfortably close, with no apparent consideration for personal space, studying him intently.
Will startled and attempted to create space between them but was boxed in by the display case behind and the owner in front. By way of escape, he slid sideways inelegantly. The shop owner smiled briefly as Will did this, then said, ‘Oh, I’m sorry, my friend, it wasn’t my intention to startle you.’ His voice was deep, warm and ever so slightly accented.
Caribbean perhaps, Will thought.
‘I don’t often get customers this late in the day.’
The shop owner was somewhere in his mid-eighties, which showed in the way he moved and how he held himself. He wore a pristine white shirt with a neat brown tie and a knitted sleeveless pullover, patterned elaborately in natural, earthy colours. He had a full head of dense white curls and a neatly
maintained beard and moustache, trimmed short. His white hair contrasted with his smooth dark skin.
‘Hey, no, it’s fine. Really,’ Will said, feeling rather sheepish.
‘An American?’
‘Yeah, that’s right.’
The shop owner shuffled his feet. ‘Have you been here before, my friend? My eyesight isn’t what it once was, but your voice, it seems familiar to me?’
‘I don’t think so. This is my first time in this part of the city.’
‘Ah, I see. I must be mistaken then. Now, are you looking for anything in particular?’
‘I’m looking for something for my girlfriend. Soon to be ex-girlfriend, actually.’
‘Oh?’
‘Sorry, no, what I mean is we’re engaged, so technically… you know what, it doesn’t matter. The point is, she loves horology. Collects watches and clocks, especially old and unusual ones like these. No prices I see,’ Will said, pointing to the watches in the case. ‘That’s not always a good sign and I’m on a pretty tight budget here.’
‘Do not worry, I’m sure we can find something suitable. Now, let me just fetch the key for the display case. I won’t be a moment.’
The shop owner headed back to his counter and began fumbling around underneath it, searching for the key. As he concluded his search, the phone rang. It was a shrill, high-pitched ring and louder than it needed to be. He answered and glanced at Will, giving him an apologetic smile and poking a finger in the air to signify that he would only be a minute. He greeted the caller warmly, still smiling. Whatever the caller had to say, it caused the shop owner’s expression to change to one of dismay almost immediately. He tried to recover the lapse in his friendly persona, flashing Will a forced smile before turning away. With his back to his customer, he hunched forwards, talking quietly and gesturing with his arms. As the conversation progressed, he looked over his shoulder at Will for a long, unblinking moment before turning away again and ending the call.
After the shop owner had gathered himself, he spun around to face Will, doing his best to shrug off the effect the call had had on him with another forced smile. ‘Sorry about that, my friend. I’m afraid to say that on second thoughts I don’t think you’ll find anything suitable here after all. These watches are junk. If your fiancée is a serious collector, that is.’
‘Huh. Is that so? They were good enough a second ago,’ Will said, his face contorted in his best attempt at indignation.
The owner returned Will’s look with a raised eyebrow and a shrug. ‘Well, yes, but given that you’re on a tight budget, these watches are likely to be too expensive.’ He seemed eager to steer Will away from the display case.
‘Which is it then? Are they junk, or are they expensive? You know what, don’t answer that, I see what’s going on here. I would have expected this kind of treatment on Bond Street, but this place?’ Will held his arms out to the side theatrically, palms facing upwards, turning his body one way, then the other. ‘I wouldn’t have guessed this was the kind of place that could afford to turn customers away. But you’ve done a great job!’ Will felt unexpectedly flustered by this brief exchange and headed for the exit.
As he stepped up into the raised middle section of the store, the shop owner called after him: ‘Excuse me, Mr. Wells, I think there has been a misunderstanding. I meant only to say that I think I have another timepiece that your fiancée will be very happy with.’ Will stopped, lowered his head and let out a sigh. Feeling slightly embarrassed now, he turned back to the owner, who he saw holding a bulky, brass-cased wristwatch bound to a thick leather strap. ‘I’m sorry,’ Will said. ‘It’s not like me to snap like that. It’s just been a long day.’
‘No harm done.’
Will walked back towards the shop owner, who said, ‘This is a unique timepiece, but one that has never held much monetary value. I’m confident this will be in your price range.’
Will regarded the old man with scepticism, then turned his attention to the watch, which certainly did look intriguing, and like nothing he’d ever seen before.
‘How much are we talking here?’ Will asked.
‘Yours for £15,’ came the reply.
Will checked his wallet and with just enough to cover the bill and bus fare home, he nodded to the owner and stepped back down into the far end of the shop. He followed the shop owner as he limped inelegantly behind the counter. ‘Allow me to write you a receipt. Should your fiancée not like it, you will of course be welcome to return it.’
The shop owner had placed the strange watch on the countertop while his slow hands worked the till and fumbled with a pen as he wrote out a receipt. Will picked up the watch for a closer look. The face was unusually large, which it needed to be to accommodate the twenty-four-hour time segments. Towards its centre of the face were three gradually smaller rings, with additional segments for what appeared to be days, months and years. The watch also featured six hands instead of three, as he was used to seeing on a watch of this size. The brass case was slightly worn but in otherwise good condition. It had no crown on its side, like a wristwatch, but instead had it on the top, as is common with pocket watches. It also featured an outer bezel that appeared to rotate. The strap had a heavy-duty brass frame that gripped the watch body and was riveted to the brown leather. It was slightly wider than the watch and required two separate buckles to hold it in place.
Will held the timepiece to his ear to check whether the movement was still operational. He reached for the crown to adjust the time when the watch was snatched from his hand by the shop owner, who placed it into a brown paper bag and then deposited it into Will’s jacket pocket. The shop owner turned back to his till, picked up a small card from the counter and handed it to Will. ‘Your receipt. Please keep this safe. I neglected to include the price, so that you may give it to your fiancée along with her gift, should she need to return it.’
‘Great, thanks,’ Will said, smiling awkwardly.
‘I’m afraid the shop is closing, so I must ask you to leave, my friend. Now, if you please,’ the shop owner said, gesturing to the door in a hurried manner.
‘Right, sure. It’s getting late.’ He was slightly disturbed by the elderly shop owner’s constantly shifting tenor.
‘Goodbye. Enjoy the rest of your day,’ the shop owner said.
Will headed towards the exit. As he reached the bottom of the steps that led up to the street, he turned back to the owner, who gave him a curt nod, returned to his seat and was soon absorbed in his newspaper once more.
Will scaled the steps, pulled the door inwards and was temporarily blinded by the low, fading sun. He raised an arm to shield his eyes. When he lowered it again, he was alarmed by two men striding purposefully towards him. The two figures – one tall and thin, the other shorter and solidly built – wore identical tweed jackets with matching flat caps, beige corduroy slacks and shin-high brown leather boots. There was something disturbing about the way they bustled past him and headed into the thrift shop, pushing the door closed behind them. Will could hear the unmistakable sound of bolts sliding home.
He walked a few paces down the narrow alleyway before stopping and glancing back towards the thrift shop.
Something feels off about this.
Returning to the shop, Will tried to peek in through the window but could see nothing through the thick layer of dirt. He ducked down, wiped clean one of the small panes of glass with his jacket sleeve and peered inside. From the higher vantage point of the street, he could only just make out the lower halves of the two men who’d entered the shop. They were now standing in front of the counter. He couldn’t quite make out the shop owner as he was obscured by his two visitors, but he could hear the muffled rhythm of a seemingly calm conversation between the three men. The words weren’t clear, but it seemed friendly enough.
Will was about ready to leave when he saw the shorter of the two men drop his hand to his side. In his hand was a black handgun with a long, bulbous barrel. The conversation remained calm fo
r a brief period, and it was clear that the owner was unaware that one of the men was holding a gun just out of sight below the counter. Will glanced up and down the narrow alleyway, desperately hoping to find help but there was none – not a soul in sight.
His attention was pulled back to the three men inside the shop by the single dull popping sound from the silenced handgun. It was strange; the immediate sound was no more than a whisper, but it seemed to reverberate and rattle off into the distance. It sounded more like a car backfiring many streets away than a man being shot on this innocuous London side street.
Will moved his face closer to the glass now and saw that the two men had parted just enough for him to see the shop owner. He was slumped backwards in his chair, agony in his face, with both hands pressed against his stomach. His white shirt and knitted top were saturated with blood.
CHAPTER TWO
May 14th, 1984, 18:05
Will was immobile with shock, his fists clenched and trembling. He couldn’t avert his wide, unblinking eyes from the scene that was playing out on the other side of the murky glass. For a brief moment impulse took over and his hand closed around the door handle as he prepared to burst through the door to the stricken shop owner’s aid. But with no real idea what his next move would have been, it was fortunate that this foolish deed was halted when one gunman, perhaps sensing prying eyes on his back, turned his head in Will’s direction. As soon as the man’s head began to move, Will ducked out of sight and spun away from the window, pressing his back against the uneven brick wall to his left.
I need to get some help, he thought.
After narrowly avoiding what would have been a fateful display of heroics, Will came to his senses and fled the shop towards the main road. He emerged from Frying Pan Alley and whipped his head left and right before finding what he was looking for. He quickly peeled off to his right towards a phone box.
The Timepiece and the Girl Who Went Astray: A thrilling new time travel adventure Page 2
