There's nothing like a blast of the hot winds of hell in your face, thought Christa ruefully as she fought her way along the high street. She tried, and failed, to ignore the gusts of red hot air that hurled handfuls of grit against her cheeks and made her eyes water.
It had been a scorching summer, with temperatures breaking records on a daily basis. Before the drought, everyone enjoyed the heat, but then London became even more unbearably stuffy than usual. The hot air became trapped between the buildings, creating pockets of exceptional heat to catch unsuspecting passers-by.
Thousands fled for the cooler climes of the coast, and Christa desperately wished that she too could afford to leave. She hated the two jobs that she grudgingly worked to pay the rent. She hated them even more now that 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, continually praying to a God she doubted existed for some kind of escape.
She wanted nothing more than to sit at home and paint, or sculpt. She would have even happily taken a job simply writing about art, if there had been any to take. Jonathan was so supportive in the early days, attending her modest shows and selling her work to his rich friends. But then he'd become ill, and quit his job in the City. Christa hoped he would go back 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 had to do everything.
"Excuse me, miss, do you have the time?"
Christa was shaken from her reverie, and realised that she had almost walked into a tiny old woman and her dog. She was so small she 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 absently, looking around her. She stood in a street that she didn't recognise, lined with shops that had been closed for many years. 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, before shuffling off down the street with the sheepdog.
Shaking the confusion from her mind, Christa looked around her again, hoping for some 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, but she had a feeling that that was what she had become.
She 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, but this one looked like it had been forgotten about for seventy years. Even the heat seemed to have bypassed the area. A vague 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 the 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 that was actually 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 gently 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 on the counter, purring contentedly. 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", began Christa, gazing around at the stuffed shelves. Her eyes constantly roved over the bounty on display. First a statue of the Egyptian God Anubis, then 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 that she'd never know, yet desperately wanted to experience.
"You need to make more time for yourself", said the old man softly. 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 bitterly 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, handing 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 weakly as he turned around and began rummaging 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 began to rub her head against Christa's arm, purring happily.
"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. Inside, it was lined with soft purple velvet.
"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, tickling the cat behind the ear.
"Are you sure?" asked Christa again, worried that the old man thought she had started crying for sympathy. Then again, she was just 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, shaking her warmly by the band.
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?"
"Huh?"
"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 just 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 roughly, before glaring at her.
"How the hell did you afford this?"
"I didn't. It was a present", replied Christa truthfully, wishing 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 that her voice would betray her. She could see 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, knowing that he hated cats.
"Oh well, it'll do as a present for Kathryn, I suppose. It's her birthday next week", he said, tossing it onto the bed. Christa grabbed it, and after glancing at the small figure at the window, hugged it tightly 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!" laughed 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 had given to their friend Suzette six months ago. Suzette quietly gave it back and accepted a homemade cake from Christa, but she'd never forgiven Jonathan for giving it away.
Christa finally let the tears flow freely as 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'd always just sat and listened quietly as he verbally abused her on a daily basis, convinced that it was all somehow her fault and that she'd made her bed, and now she had to die in it. Today, however, 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 neatly at the bottom of the box. She noticed a vague tingling in her fingers as she did so. Deciding it was simply fatigue, she closed the box, and hid it under a pile of clothes at the bottom of her wardrobe.
The heat had given 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 tightly 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 that was because he didn't have a phone, and she guessed he couldn't afford a listing in the Yellow Pages.
Christa had never actually seen anyone's mouth drop open in awe, but she was aware of doing it 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 once been paste pearls was cold to the touch, but rapidly warmed beneath her fingers. Examining it closely, she became sure that this was in fact pure gold.
The thought that perhaps Jonathan had developed a conscience and bought her these things as a way of saying sorry flitted through her mind, but she dismissed it instantly. Jonathan would never say sorry as it would mean he would have to admit he'd done something wrong. She'd always suspected he was physically incapable of ever seeing anything negative in his behaviour or attitude. Besides, these were the exact same things she'd put in the box a month ago – the only difference being they were 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 just going mad. She figured she would only know if she put something else in the box, something that wouldn't normally be made of gold. If it was transformed, then she would need to track down Thyme & Co. to let them know exactly what they had given her.
She decided that a black biro with a chewed cap, an apple and a pile of paperclips would be enough for her new experiment. She noted the tingling in her fingers as she neatly arranged the items on the box's velvet lining, and vowed to check up on that when she re-opened the box tomorrow.
Christa wasn't sure how she'd made it through her hellish shift at the pub that evening. She didn't know who'd been playing, but a football match had been won by a team in black and white, to much derision from the patrons of the pub. The defeat of their side made them even more obnoxious than usual, and she'd been glad to get home. She couldn't sleep when she finally 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, and she felt like a small child on Christmas morning when she carefully slid the box out of the jumper she'd wrapped it in. She actually felt terrified. On one hand, the box might contain a useless pen, a bruised apple and some paperclips. Yet at the same time, it might contain three gifts of solid gold.
She closed her eyes as she slowly lifted the lid. Half of her prayed that she'd see gold when she opened it, yet she wept silently with the confidence that the contents would be as they had been yesterday. She'd always believed 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 as she realised her fairytale was real. At the same time, she felt a need to be pragmatic, and 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 began buying cheap jewellery, which she then sold on as pure gold. She might have felt bad about such rampant profiteering, had she not been secure in the knowledge that the gold was real. These things were worth something, both to her and the buyer. Yet 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 was going to be harder than she thought.
"I'm quitting my job at the pub. I'm an artist, not a barmaid", she said firmly. "I'm just not happy there".
"Happy or not, we can't afford for you to quit there. Not unless some moron decides to actually buy one of your paintings", sneered Jonathan, dropping korma on the sofa. Ignoring the insult, Christa fought the urge to retch as he rubbed it into the fabric in the hope that he could somehow rub it out of existence.
"You could always get a job again. In the City".
"I dropped out of that rat race long ago. Unless you want me to get ill again", he replied, his tone accusatory as he looked at her through narrowed eyes. "No, I've decided to become a writer. So I need time to create. I can't do that if I'm working".
An explosion of rage suddenly rattled through Christa's veins with a force that took her by surprise. She needed time, not him. Only now she had a way to get it. A plan began to slowly form on the furthest edges of her consciousness, and she smiled serenely, enjoying the look of bemusement on Jonathan's face.
"What are you smirking for?"
"No reason. I just want to offer my support in your chosen career. Creative types need time to stretch their wings", she said calmly.
Bemusement, confusion and the smallest trace of fear chased each other across Jonathan's once handsome features, features that had been warped by cruelty and apathy. He expected her to cry, or maybe even start shouting – not this. She could see the frustration and petulance in his eyes that he couldn't start a fight. Still smiling and inwardly cheering at her tiny victory, she sashayed out of the room, waving to the tiny feline silhouette at the window as she left.
It was 3am when Christa quietly climbed out of bed, and slid her feet into her fluffy blue caterpillar slippers. Aside from the muffled sound of the clock in the living room gently ticking away the minutes, the flat was completely silent. The bedroom curtains were drawn, but the moonlight cast the shadow of a cat through their thin material and across the bed. Jonathan was fast asleep, his eyelids flickering as he no doubt dreamed of busty blondes serving him cocktails on a yacht in the Caribbean. Christa double-checked to ensure that he was asleep, before carefully lifting back the duvet that covered his feet. He stirred slightly, moaning in his sleep, before turning over and settling back down.
"I used to love you, you know", she whispered, her heart heavy with the pent-up emotion. "But you changed. You're not the man I used to know. You're selfish, you're thoughtless, you're malicious, and you're a total pain in the arse. Worst of all, you're completely irredeemable. If I was a Christian, then I would tell you to burn in hell".
With that, she retrieved the box from its home at the bottom of the wardrobe, and emptied out its cache of gold earrings, bracelets and necklaces. She carefully slipped his foot into the open box, closing the lid against his ankle. She smiled to herself as she patted the box, before climbing back into bed.
The following morning was a crisp October Tuesday. A bright sun hung low in the sky, completely lacking in warmth. Christa could see her breath curling away into the cold air as she locked the front door behind her. People hurried past the flat on their way to work, swaddled in thick coats and scarves to keep out the cold. Christa didn't even feel it. Instead, she felt joyful, and warm. Her heart felt light, free from its burdens, and Christa felt like a newborn.
She walked to the bus stop, clutching the handbag that contained her notice for the boutique. Mentally she planned the great work that she would begin when she returned home that afternoon. She already knew that she would call it 'Liberty'. She smiled as she thought of the cold, hard, lifeless statue lying in her bed. Jonathan was finally worth his weight in gold.
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