The Search For Pandora's Box

by Jim Jennings

  ***

  Laurence Swift had just lost his job, been deserted by his best friend, had his flat emptied of its contents and was now left sitting on a stool at the bar of ‘The Dragon’, his local, staring intensely at the wooden panelled floor. It was cool but crowded inside the bar; a fan buzzed away in the corner of the room whilst the doors let the noise of the ever-constant London traffic inside. The bar itself smelt of alcohol and vomit. The wailing of sirens, the beeping of horns and the miscellaneous voices that filtered into the bar represented the buzz of life, yet Laurence felt as if his own was going nowhere.

  Who then was Laurence Swift? He had been asking himself the very same question for the last hour as he wallowed in self-pity on his usual bar stall. He was a tall, slender man in his mid-twenties, with a strong jawline, prominent cheekbones and clear blue eyes. His hair was a thick, wavy mop the colour of straw that descended down to his shirt collar, but was brushed away to the left hand side of his face. He was a keen footballer, cyclist and a would-be adventurer. As a teenager he made great plans to follow in the footsteps of his brothers and pursue life in foreign lands. Sadly though, he possessed an infuriating inability to actually enact any of his grand plans due to an overbearing mother, who possessed such a worrying attitude that he was now himself, a worrier. Yet his character was good and true and, despite being clumsy, incompetent and possessing a bumbling nature, he was a man who had all the potential to be the hero he had always wanted to be. All he needed was the opportunity and the confidence to show it.

  He tried to think, tried to get his head around why exactly his life had gone so dramatically downhill. No matter what he did, it always seemed to be the wrong thing and ended up upsetting someone. Was there something wrong with him? Or was the world just against him? He didn’t know and he wouldn’t be able to discover the answer or enjoy his pint if the man next to him didn’t stop staring at him. His gaze had been focused entirely on Laurence ever since he had entered the bar, save for when he took a sip from his small glass of whisky. Laurence snatched a glance at the man who watched him; he was a great hulking mass, with bulging eyes that seemed the size of mince pies and his bald head reminded Laurence of an egg. Suddenly he was hungry. He thought that instead of staring at him, he ought to take a look at what he was wearing. The broad-shouldered beast of a man wore red and white pinstripe trousers that draped over some brown brogues. The trousers were held in place by a tangerine belt that kept the big man’s balloon like stomach at bay. The outfit was completed by a burgundy jacket over the top of a pink shirt. Though his face bore a kind and gracious smile, there was something quite sinister about how his cunning eyebrows were arched in Laurence’s direction. Though he certainly wouldn’t walk away with any fashion awards anytime soon, the man would certainly win a staring contest. Laurence began to feel uneasy and his fingers tapped on the bar in time to the loud music that was banging away in the background. A quick survey of the room told him that the bar was sparsely populated; a few gentlemen dressed in business suits played cards in the corner by the toilets, an elderly couple, who spent so much time in the bar that they might as well pay rent in the opinion of Laurence, read the newspaper in unadulterated silence and there were three attractive but troublesome looking women by the jukebox; shady characters who would often talk to whoever was playing on the adjacent pool tables; in this instance, two hung-over students. The complement was completed by the staring man, who was still staring as Laurence returned his gaze to the floor beneath him. There would be no resolution to his problems if he remained in the bar to be stared at by a man who wouldn’t look out of place in the circus. He downed what was left of his comforting drink and decided to leave, but just as he rose from his stool the strange man placed a hand on his shoulder and said,

  ‘Can I buy you another drink, Mr Swift?’ Laurence turned his face to the stranger, more startled that the man had spoken, and indeed could speak, rather than the fact that the stranger knew him.

  ‘How do you know my name?’ Laurence asked with a touch of anger, a temporary emotion brought on by his bad fortune throughout the day.

  ‘Because it’s written on your name tag,’ the man answered, a broad smile stretching across his face. Laurence checked his shirt and found that above the left breast his museum name tag was still in place. He looked back to the man and his cheeks were stricken with embarrassment. ‘Please sit down,’ the man said pleasantly to put him at his ease. He had a strong American accent that was happy and bright. With some deliberation, Laurence reacquainted himself with his bar stool and ordered another beer.

  ‘I’ve been reading some of your work, Mr Swift.’ Laurence’s big blue eyes sparkled with surprise bordering on disbelief. The ‘work’ that the man referred to were two books that Laurence had written during his time at university, time he should have spent revising for exams, that were focused on Greek mythology, particularly Pandora’s Box, but they were did not sell well. In fact, they didn’t sell at all. As a result of the failure of these books, Laurence was forced to take any job he could find, and it was the job of museum tour guide that he found. Surprised to find someone who had actually read his books, the former author and current nobody continued to listen to the as yet unnamed man,

  ‘I liked them Mr Swift. They were very detailed, engaging, and humorous. I enjoyed them a great deal.’ The man ordered himself a glass of whisky; edging his stool closer to Laurence’s own seat and leaning close into his face. Laurence thought the man was going to kiss him and though he was grateful for the compliments the man had given him, he didn’t really want to kiss him. The man whispered the words, ‘Now, I’d like you to work for me.’ The whisky arrived and his gaze rested on Laurence’s perplexed face.

  ‘Work for you? I don’t know a thing about you. I don’t even know your name, Mr..?

  ‘Ah, please excuse me Mr Swift. Where are my manners? My name is Johnson, Randall Johnson. Perhaps you’ve heard of me?’ He said warmly, offering his hand in friendship to Laurence. Randall Johnson, of course! As soon as Laurence heard the name he recognised the face; he had once seen it on the front cover of a magazine. This man, this staring stranger who wanted Laurence to work for him, was of Afro-Caribbean descent and was one of the richest men in the world. He was a major force in the crisp industry; as a young man, Randall had always found the flavours of crisps rather dated and dull and therefore decided to create his own unique brands that represented what he believed to be the tastes of the 21st century. Flavours included ‘Fish and Chips’, ‘Chicken Chow Mein’, ‘Chicken Tikka Masala’, ‘Yorkshire pudding’ and ‘Lobster Thermador’. These flavours had all proved immensely popular and resulted in a staggering amount of money for him. Even before he built up his enormous crisp empire, Randall had been a wealthy man, thanks to his father’s manipulation of the stock market. At Oxford he studied Classics and gained both First Class honours and, more importantly, an almost childlike obsession with the Ancient World. Having spent the next ten years of his life building his business, Randall spent his time and money pursuing many famous and long lost ancient relics. He had become more famous for his extravagant adventures and archaeological digs than for his crisp organisation. Randall funded any and all campaigns that headed to remote and unexplored stretches of rainforest, barren mountain ranges and deep craters beneath the sea in a vain effort to find some hidden treasure or lost world that would lead to his name being written into the history books. He had organised many searches for the lost cities of the Incas, Atlantis and Troy. Those antiquities he did find he then donated to museums around the world and those that needed donations he graciously helped. His fortune had led to fame and many considered him to be one of the kindest and most interesting men in the world.

  However, the flamboyant manner which Randall employed in his quest for antiquities had led to some rather disturbing rumours about him; some said that he had had a colossal golden statue of himself erected in his back garden. There were also those who believed Randall to be in
vestigating the possibility of constructing an underwater metropolis which he would name ‘Randallado’. In recompense for the vast sums of money he donated to museums, it was said, Randall reimbursed himself by taking whatever artefact he most liked. Furthermore, there were some who said that he was capable of going to extreme, even dangerous, lengths to get what he wanted; when a collection of 17th century paintings originally owned by the Duke of Buckingham had been stolen from the National Art Gallery, it was suggested that Randall had been in some way involved. Laurence took a nervous sip from his glass; he was mystified firstly as to the fact that someone who had been to Oxford had read and actually ‘enjoyed’ one of his books! Secondly, that that person, one of the wealthiest and most powerful men in the world, wanted Laurence, who just two hours ago had been fired as a tour guide, to work for him. Take that, Quentin Derry, he thought to himself.

  ‘Okay, I’m listening.’ said Laurence, flabbergasted.

  Randall began, ‘Mr. Swift, if I may be frank...’

  ‘You can be whoever you wish as long as you tell me what you want...’

  ‘Please, let me finish. If I may be frank, I need your help.’ Laurence felt hollow and a rush ran through him. He was nervous; was Randall about to ask Laurence for fashion advice? He continued before Laurence could contemplate the idea further,

  ‘As you probably know, I love antiquities. As a young boy I spent half my childhood in a museum and the other half with my head buried in the works of Tacitus or Livy or Archimedes. When my mother put me to bed I would never be able to sleep, for I was still held in rapture because of the ancient myths she used to tread to me. Whether Hercules or Theseus or Helen, that whole world fascinated me. When I grew up to be a man, I found our own world to be a deeply unsatisfying place. Where were the marvellous man-made monuments that stretched to the heavens? Where were the admirable heroes one could tell their children about? Where were the great adventures that one could take to prove himself? I’ll tell you where, Mr Swift. They were in the past, all in the past. I yearned to recapture that glorious past and so, as you know, devoted myself to finding it. And yes, I’ve had my fair share of success. Museums across the globe are now fit to bursting with artefacts that have been abandoned or forgotten about. Yet there are those objects that still elude me, including my great passion, my deep obsession…Pandora’s Box. ‘I have been searching for it for almost twenty years now and finally, FINALLY, I have found it!’’ Randall’s eyes flickered in delight at the mention of his favourite artefact. He stared off into the distance and thrust his hands aloft as if he were holding the box at this very moment. Laurence looked behind him at what Randall was staring at and, seeing nothing, returned his gaze to Randall, who was now sitting quite normally, his hands resting on his lap.

  ‘Not the Pandora’s Box of Greek myth?’ Laurence asked in disbelief.

  ‘Do you know of another Pandora’s Box? While excavating a grotto in the Bay of Naples, some of my archaeological friends found a ledger. Within the ledger were strange symbols and drawings, showing Pandora’s Box. Out fell a map of the Mediterranean, with a large X over a far out point off the coast of Skyros, an island that lies between Greece and Turkey. I knew that maintaining anonymity would be the key to success. You see, if word got out that someone as important and interesting as myself was looking for Pandora’s Box, the whole world would go berserk with anticipation. And what if the book turned out to be a red herring? No, I had to maintain secrecy, and so I created a fictional company, ‘la Ventura de su Vida’, who were excavating the remains of a sunken submarine.

  ‘Secretly, I assembled together a small research team made up of an elite team of…’

  ‘Superheroes?!’ Laurence exclaimed.

  ‘No,’ Randall corrected the now embarrassed Laurence. ‘Archaeologists. They verified that the map and ledger that I had found were genuine, and so with some excitement we set off in the dead of night to locate the Box. When we reached the X-marked spot on the map, we searched for hours, and sure enough, there, lodged amongst some coral, lay Pandora’s Box.’ Randall slammed his glass onto the bar as Laurence stared at him in silence.

  ‘We were only in a small speedboat however and we were not equipped to store such an important relic on board. We agreed to return the next evening, at the same time, with all the necessary equipment so that we might raise the world’s greatest mythological treasure, now a reality! A sensible plan, right?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Wrong. When we returned the next evening the Box had vanished without a trace. It was no longer anywhere to be seen. Someone had got there before us! I had been so close to it and then, only a day later, it was gone. I thought all hope was lost. And yet, as I’m sure you’ve heard (Laurence hadn’t), the ‘Paris Museum of Ancient History’ has announced that they are going to unveil a most exciting new exhibit…Pandora’s Box!’ Randall’s face was overcome with anger and annoyance. In an instant, his face relaxed and returned to its former kind expression. He stretched a hand into his inner jacket pocket, and produced an envelope.

  ‘Mr Swift, how would you like to come to Paris and join my team? As I’ve already said, I admire your writing immensely. I want you to document our attempts of finding the box so far, and our visit to the museum next week. We may have lost the box for now, but from where I’m from it’s a case of finders keepers. I’m going to get that box back if it kills me! Please, Mr Swift, write for me!’ Laurence frowned nervously. This was all very strange. Surely Randall could get anyone to write an account of his attempts to locate the box. He was flattered, of course, but he couldn’t go to Paris at a moment’s notice and leave everything behind him. It wasn’t the kind of thing he did. Randall’s mince pie eyes could sense that Laurence wasn’t totally convinced; he was stroking his chin and biting his lips in trepidation, and so he attempted to sweeten the deal; ‘Inside this envelope is ten thousand of your UK pounds and a first class ticket to Paris. You’re booked on the first flight tomorrow from Heathrow.’ Laurence guffawed and before he could even accept or refuse, the big American man gave a meaty laugh and patted Laurence on the shoulder with his enormous right hand, almost pushing him into the floor. Laurence winced and as Randall said goodbye and left, he stared down into the abyss of his bottle and reflected on what had just come to pass. It’s funny how emotions and situations can skyrocket from one side of the spectrum to the other; from happiness to sadness, from anger to calm and vice versa. Twenty minutes ago, there looked like there was no hope for Laurence. It seemed as if he was consigned to a hopeless and doomed future as a failure. He was at rock bottom in his life and suddenly, from out of the shadows of ’The Dragon’, Laurence had been offered his very own ‘La Ventura de su Vida’. He would be paid for writing about his passion and he would have the chance to see Pandora’s Box. With a broad smile and a hope in his heart that could fill even the most scornful with optimism, Laurence left ‘The Dragon’ and called a taxi.

 

  Au revoir Britain, bonjour France!

  Chapter Three

  Gunfight in Paris