Checkmate: Tales of Speculative Fiction

by Icy Sedgwick

Checkmate: Tales of Speculative Fiction

  By Icy Sedgwick

  Copyright 2010 Icy Sedgwick

  https://www.icysedgwick.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  These fifteen stories were originally published in online magazines and have been collected here for your convenience and enjoyment.

  If you enjoy reading this collection, then please consider leaving me a review to help other readers find Checkmate: Tales of Speculative Fiction!

  Contents

  The Midas Box

  In The Shadows

  The Crossing

  Left

  The Thwarted Stalker

  Last Orders

  Checkmate

  My Bleeding Heart

  Picasso

  Bleed Them Dry

  Spring Returns

  The Mirror Phase

  The Stairs

  Cold

  The Dead Do Listen

  Afterword

  The Midas Box

  Bending Spoons

  There’s nothing like a blast of the hot winds of hell in your face, thought Christa. She fought her way along the high street. Christa tried, and failed, to ignore the gusts of red hot air hurling handfuls of grit against her cheeks.

  London groaned under the weight of a scorching summer. Temperatures broke records on a daily basis. Everyone enjoyed the heat before the drought, but then London became even more stuffy than usual. Buildings trapped the hot air between them, creating pockets of exceptional heat to catch unsuspecting passers-by.

  Thousands fled for the cooler climes of the coast, and Christa wished she could afford to leave. She hated the two jobs that she worked to pay the rent. She hated them even more now she was working extra shifts to cover those who left for the summer.

  Christa was an artist. Or she would have been, if she’d had any time for creativity. She spent her days working in an exclusive clothes boutique in Kensington, and her evenings behind the bar of her local pub. She despised the haughty women that oozed money and the drunken oafs with wandering hands with equal measure. She prayed to a God she doubted existed for some kind of escape.

  She wanted nothing more than to sit at home and paint, or sculpt. Even a job writing about art would have been preferable, if there had been any to take. Jonathan supported her career in the early days, attending her modest shows and selling her work to his rich friends. After a few months, he developed glandular fever, and quit his job in the City. Christa hoped he would return to work when he recovered, but he decided to stay at home to look after their flat in Putney. He said it would give her more time to paint. When the savings ran out, Christa took the two jobs, and Jonathan stopped doing the housework. Christa did everything.

  “Excuse me, miss, do you have the time?”

  Christa started from her reverie, and narrowly avoided a tiny old woman and her dog. The old woman could have passed for a child, were it not for the deep wrinkles around her laughing green eyes. Wisps of grey hair stuck out from underneath her red felt hat. In one gnarled hand she carried a walking stick; in the other, a makeshift lead made out of a red curtain cord. A patient-looking Old English sheepdog sat at the end of the cord.

  “I’m sorry to bother you dear, but do you have the time?”

  “Not nearly enough time, sorry”, said Christa, looking around her. She stood in a street she didn’t recognise, lined with abandoned shops. Even the apartments above them seemed empty. Their naked windows gazed down on the street below with a sense of bored apathy.

  “Never mind, dearie. You’ll have plenty of time soon enough”. The old woman nodded once, and smiled. She shuffled off down the street with the sheepdog.

  Christa looked around again, hoping for an indication of where she was. She only had half an hour for lunch, and she didn’t want her wages to be docked if she was late back to the shop. She didn’t have time to get lost.

  Christa looked up and down the street with bemused eyes. She’d never heard of a building standing empty for long in London, much less a whole street. This one looked like it was abandoned seventy years old. Even the heat bypassed the area. A chill slipped down her spine as she noticed that there were no bus stops, litter bins, or even yellow lines on the road.

  Possessed by the sort of ‘olde worlde’ charm that sells postcards by the truckload, the street was entirely unfamiliar to her. She looked around to see if any of the shops were open so she could stop and ask for directions back to the high street.

  A flicker of movement to her left caught her attention, and she turned to look at a curious old shop that still seemed to be open. Its old-fashioned bow window jutted into the street, each of its panes caked in a layer of grime. She half expected to look in the window and see Ebenezer Scrooge bent over a ledger.

  The sign above the window was faded and chipped, but Christa thought it said ‘Thyme & Co.’. She peered inside, but the clutter of things in the window made it impossible to identify anything for sale. She would have dismissed it as junk, but the shop bore the air of a treasure trove, peddling antique miracles.

  Forever drawn the ancient and the mysterious, Christa found herself pushing open the door before she could stop herself.

  It was cool inside the shop, and shadows danced across the bare floorboards. Dust floated through the weak light that fought its way through the dirt on the windows. The slightly musty air smelled of old books. Trinkets, curios and books crammed the many shelves and cabinets. A suit of armour stood in the corner. A moth-eaten feather boa hung around its neck, and it held a lamp stand in one metal fist instead of a spear. A gorgeous tortoiseshell cat with eyes like liquid amber lay purring on the counter. It watched her with a mild sense of interest.

  “Hello, Miss. And how are you on this fine afternoon?”

  The peaceful silence cracked, and Christa started at the sound of a rough male voice. An old man shuffled out into the shop from behind a patchwork curtain that hung in tattered strips behind the counter. His shock of white hair gave him the air of a mad scientist in a cheesy 1950s B-movie, and his startling blue eyes twinkled as he smiled at her. He stroked the cat as he pulled a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles out of the left pocket of his faded tweed waistcoat.

  “Er, I’m...I’m fine, I suppose”, stuttered Christa.

  “Now now, Miss. You can be honest with me. You look more than a little flustered! Is there anything I can get you? Perhaps a drink of water?”

  “No, it’s ok, I’m fine, I’m just lost. Where am I?”

  “Thyme & Co., the finest curiosity shop in London”, said the old man, beaming. The cat miaowed its agreement. “You won’t find a better collection of treasures in the capital. Possibly even the world”.

  “I really need to get back to work”, said Christa.

  She gazed around at the stuffed shelves. A statue of the Egyptian God Anubis stood beside a snow globe that held Moscow in perpetual winter, before she spotted a thick tome bound in red vellum. She could almost feel the weight of history pressing down on her. Each of these objects, both ugly and beautiful, could tell stories of lives long since lived.

  “You need to make more time for yourself”, said the old man. He wore the expression of a kindly grandfather who is trying to explain something simple to a stubborn child.

  Before Christa could stop herself, she broke down in tears. Between hitching sobs she explained how her life had managed to bore a hole through rock bottom, depositing her in a twilight world of stress and heartache. She told the
old man about how lazy and demanding Jonathan could be, how happy he was to spend her money, and how cruel he became if she wasn’t the perfect hostess to his loud friends. She complained about her two jobs, about how she never seemed to get enough sleep, and how it hurt her in the very core of her soul that she didn’t have time to paint.

  “I wish I could help you, lass”, he said. He handed her a beautiful linen handkerchief with embroidered roses climbing around the lace edge. “I could give you advice, but it isn’t advice you need”.

  Christa smiled at him as he turned around and rummaged around on the shelves behind him.

  “It’s alright, really. I didn’t realise I was so upset about it all”, she replied. She wiped away the black trails of mascara that traced the extent of her despair down her cheeks.

  “We often never know the true depths of our emotions. Here, why don’t you take this, a gift from me”, said the old man, turning to face her. He held out a wooden box.

  “I couldn’t possibly!” exclaimed Christa.

  “Please. If you won’t accept it from me, then accept it as a gift from young Bast here. She loves to look after people, and she’ll be offended if you don’t take it”, said the old man, gesturing to the cat. On cue, the cat rubbed her head against Christa’s arm,.

  “Well...if you’re sure”.

  Christa examined the box in her hands. About the size of a small shoebox, it appeared to be made of ebony. Nymphs and small animals cavorted with gay abandon across the carved lid, while a beautiful Grecian pattern marched around all four sides. Soft purple velvet lined the inside.

  “This must be worth a fortune!”

  “It’s worth more than you could possibly realise, but you need it more than I do”, said the old man. He tickled the cat behind the ear.

  “Are you sure?” asked Christa again. She worried that the old man thought she started crying for sympathy. Then again, she was glad he hadn’t tried to give her the suit of armour.

  “Absolutely. Now, you head off back to work, lass. And take good care of yourself. Bast will know if you don’t, and she’ll get awfully upset”, said the old man.

  Christa kissed the cat on the head, before impulsively leaning over the counter to give the old man a kiss on the cheek.

  “Thank you!”

  She blinked hard as she stepped out in the bright sunlight after the cool darkness of the shop. She was so busy examining the carvings on the lid of the box that she didn’t realise she was back in familiar surroundings. She only looked up when she walked through the door of the boutique. Alexa Curran-Shaw, the owner, looked up from the latest catalogue. Surprise softened her severe features.

  “My, someone’s keen! Back already?”

  “Sorry?”

  “You’ve only been gone ten minutes. Don’t you want a proper lunch break?”

  Christa might well have agreed if she hadn’t chosen that moment to faint.

  ***

  “What’s that?”

  Christa looked up in time to see Jonathan take the box out of her hands. She’d taken five minutes while she got ready for work that evening to examine the box again, tracing its exquisite patterns with her tired fingers. Jonathan turned it over in his hands, before glaring at her.

  “How the hell did you afford this?”

  “I didn’t. It was a present”, replied Christa. She wished she’d taken the time to hide it. Jonathan would no doubt requisition it and give it to a friend as a birthday present.

  “Who on earth would give you this?”

  “Alexa”. Christa didn’t know why she’d lied, but she knew that Jonathan would not only be uninterested in her adventure that day, he also wouldn’t believe her.

  “That snooty cow? Why did she give YOU a present? I somehow doubt it would be for hard work”, he sneered, as hot tears pricked Christa’s eyes.

  She looked away, hoping that he wouldn’t see her fighting the urge to cry. She said nothing, knowing her voice would betray her. She saw the cat from next-door looking through the bedroom window. Her green eyes almost glowed in the darkness as she watched the scene unfold. Christa hoped Jonathan wouldn’t see her. She knew he hated cats.

  “Oh well, it’ll do as a present for Kathryn, I suppose. It’s her birthday next week”, he said

  Jonathan tossed the box onto the bed. Christa grabbed it, and after glancing at the small figure at the window, hugged it as Jonathan turned to leave the room.

  “No”.

  “What did you say?”

  Jonathan stopped in the doorway, turning his head to look at her out of narrowed eyes.

  “I said no. It’s my box, it was given to me”.

  “And what are you going to do with it?”

  “I’ll use it as a jewellery box”.

  “You haven’t got any!” said Jonathan.

  “That’s because you keep giving it away as presents because we can’t afford to buy anything for anyone” shouted Christa.

  Jonathan glared at her, and opened his mouth to shout back. Surprised at her own courage, Christa glared back. She thought of her grandmother’s emerald and silver necklace that Jonathan gave to their friend Suzette six months ago. Suzette gave it back and accepted a homemade cake from Christa, but she’d never forgiven Jonathan for giving it away.

  Christa let the tears flow when Jonathan left the room. She heard him slam the front door on his way out of the flat, and relief washed over her. She’d never fought back before. She always just sat and listened as he verbally abused her on a daily basis, convinced that it was all her fault and that she’d made her bed, and now she had to die in it. Today she felt different.

  She finished getting ready for work, and scooped a jumbled handful of costume jewellery out of her drawer. She untangled the strings of paste pearls, and coiled them at the bottom of the box. She noticed a vague tingling in her fingers as she did so. Deciding it was fatigue, she closed the box, and hid it under a pile of clothes at the bottom of her wardrobe.

  The heat gave way to an autumn chill when Christa found the box again. She rummaged through the small pile of sweaters at the bottom of the wardrobe when her fingers struck something wooden. Thankful that Jonathan was out, she pulled the box free, hugging it as she remembered the kind old man. She’d looked for the street several times on her lunch break, but she’d never been able to find it again. Nor was Thyme & Co. listed anywhere. She supposed he didn’t have a phone, and couldn’t afford a listing in the Yellow Pages.

  Christa’s mouth dropped open in awe when she opened the box. The cheap jewellery that she bought in a charity shop was now a gleaming, glossy gold.

  She noticed the same tingling in her fingers as she lifted it out of the box, surprised at its weight. The necklace of what had been paste pearls felt cold, but rapidly warmed beneath her fingers. Examining it, she became sure that this was pure gold.

  She wondered if Jonathan had developed a conscience and bought her the necklace to apologise, but she dismissed the thought. Jonathan would never say sorry as it would mean he would have to admit he’d done something wrong. She suspected he was physically incapable of ever seeing anything negative in his behaviour or attitude. Besides, it was the same necklace she put in the box a month ago. The only difference was it was now gold.

  On a whim, Christa decided to test the box. Maybe they were presents from Jonathan. Maybe the contents of the box had been the subject of some freak scientific anomaly. Maybe she was going mad. She figured she would only know if she put something else in the box, something not normally made of gold. If it transformed, then she would need to track down Thyme & Co. to let the old man know what he had given her.

  She decided on a black biro with a chewed cap, an apple and a pile of paperclips for her new experiment. She noted the tingling in her fingers as she arranged the items on the box’s velvet lining, and vowed to check up on that when she re-opened the box tomorrow.

  Christa didn’t know how she made it through her hellish shift at the pub that evening. Sh
e didn’t know who’d been playing, but a football match was won by a team in black and white, to much derision from the patrons of the pub. The defeat of their side made them more obnoxious than usual, and she was glad to get home. She couldn’t sleep when she tumbled into bed, and it occupied her thoughts throughout her shift at the boutique the following day.

  She feigned a migraine when she got home to keep Jonathan from the bedroom. She felt like a small child on Christmas morning when she slid the box out of the jumper she’d wrapped it in. She felt terrified. On one hand, the box might contain a useless pen, a bruised apple and some paperclips. On the other hand, it might contain three gifts of solid gold.

  She closed her eyes as she lifted the lid. Half of her prayed she’d see gold when she opened it, yet she wept with the confidence that the contents would be as they were yesterday. She never stopped believing in fairytales, and she would be crushed if hers turned out to be nothing but a fluke.

  The box contained gold.

  ***

  Over the following weeks, Christa tested the box with various objects of different sizes, textures and shapes. Every time she opened the lid and saw gold, she felt her heart lift. Still, she knew she needed to be pragmatic. She decided to discover if the box transformed the entire object into gold, or if it simply coated the objects in shiny yellow dust. After a few abortive attempts at cutting open the golden apple, she took it to a jeweller, who confirmed that it was indeed 24carat gold, and was she interested in selling?

  Christa bought cheap jewellery, which she sold as pure gold. She might have felt bad about such rampant profiteering, but she was secure in the knowledge that the gold was real. These things were worth something, both to her and the buyer. More than anything else, they were worth time to her. She earned enough money with a few necklaces to quit her job at the pub. The hardest part was telling Jonathan.

  “I want to take up painting again”, she said after sitting Jonathan down with his chicken korma and a glass of wine.

  “That’s great. But when do you plan on fitting it in? You’ve got two jobs, and the house doesn’t clean itself”.

  Christa bristled. This would be harder than she thought.

  “I’m quitting my job at the pub. I’m an artist, not a barmaid”, she said. “I’m just not happy there”.