George and Spider Part Three - The Shop

The sun rose into a cool blue, autumn sky, its rays broke through the gap in George's curtains, penetrating his eyelids and gently pulling him back from his dream. The last few moments, or even seconds, of his sleep was typically the time where he visited his 'inner-chamber'; the place where anything is possible. This morning he'd used this time to decorate a cake, a sort of celebration cake, exquisitely decorated with perfect little irises and roses, all crafted by his own magical hands.
Now he was walking back to the waking world with the cake inside a white cardboard box which he had tucked under his arm. He was taking the usual route along a long deserted beach, the bridge between the magical, restorative world of dreams and the hard, cold light of day. The sand underfoot was soft and littered with exquisite shells and gemstones which glinted in the soft sunlight. Occasionally his bare feet sunk down deeper into the sand than he was expecting, causing him to jolt suddenly sideways. As he struggled to correct his centre of gravity. his arms twitched beneath the duvet. George wore nothing in bed, or indeed to the destinations of his dreams, except for his black digital watch whose earthly seconds could equate to an entire lifetime within this warm, self-conjured world.
A loud splashing sound alerted him to a pod of killer whales which were crashing around in the surf. Killer whales featured often in George's dreams and he enjoyed the spectacle of them, although his stomach churned at the sheer size and power of these shiny cretacea. It appeared that they were swimming closer and closer to the sands, or perhaps it was the beach which was now sloping dangerously down towards the sea. George began to feel himself leaning heavily to one side. The sea loomed below him, he felt the water splash his face as the huge shiny whales breached and crashed on its surface. He dropped the cake and saw it fall from its box and collapse into a creamy mess upon the sand. Squatting down, he attempted to to scrape it up with his hands and felt the sensation of the rough, grainy sand up mashed into the soft cream. Then he sensed his body falling uncontrollably towards the glossy dangerous bodies of the whales. He tried to shout but his whole body was paralysed, all except for his pounding heart which sounded like a drum, beating to the tension of something terrible.
Maxene was perched on the edge of the bed pulling a pair of long, high-heeled boots up her calves and zipping them up. She was heavier than George and her weight caused his sleeping form to lean downwards her bottom.
'I'm off to work George,' she said, getting up and making the mattress spring back up. 'Your dad's downstairs with Francis, I heard them talking.'
George groaned and rubbed his eyes. 'Could - you - get me - a glass of water please Max?' he said weakly.
'I've just poured you one, it's there George! I flicked some on your face just to make sure you were alive. You're very pale this morning George, and you got in ever so late!'
George grimaced, as if he were in great pain, and said, 'Yeah, I'm quite knackered actually Max.'
'You left a right mess in the lounge you know, crisp packets, cereal boxes - you can thank HER for clearing up the crumbs for you. She needs to go out by the way.'
SHE was a small, tan coloured Stafforshire Bull Terrier called Crystal. George loved her as much as he loved Maxene.
'What time is it? You've turned the clock Max, I can't see it!'
'Look at your watch! I've gotta go George or I'll miss my bus,' said Maxene as she pushed a kiss onto George's lips which was somewhere between a peck and a snog. Then she flew out of the flat, rushing downstairs noisily in her black boots and then out onto the main road, slamming the door behind her.
George's eldest brother Francis was in the middle of arranging some new bracelets in the window display. 'Don't know how she walks in those boots, ' he said, 'Look at her Dad, running for the bus.'
'I know Fran. And I wouldn't like to get on the wrong side of her in em, that's for sure.'
Saturday morning was a busy time for Jules Jewels. It was September and local businesses were beginning to gear up for their busiest time of year, the lead up to Christmas. Arthur Jules always made a special effort to look smart for work. He was a gifted salesman and he loved the attention he got from his customers, while at the same time convincing them that it was him giving them the attention. Unlike George, Arthur was a tall man, over six feet with a broad chest and shoulders and a rather thick neck. He loved the sun and his bald patch was bronze in the summer, golden in autumn and beige in winter. Sometime during January and February he usually cooked himself in the Canary Islands ready for spring.
Only one of his three sons had grown as tall as him and that was Anthony, or Tony as he was known. Tony was George's non-identical twin brother, they had shared a womb but now they shared nothing. Arthur and Tony were very similar; tall and good looking, affable and attention seeking. Francis, at thirty years old, had four years on the twins however he appeared much older. His hair was thin and there were deep lines carved into his forehead. There was a hardness to Francis. It wasn't the sort of defensive hardness which George held, it was more a build up of thin layers, formed from all the trials which Francis had endured during his thirty years of life.
From an early age Francis had been burdened with responsibility, this caused little grooves to appear on the surface of his brain which, over time, set firm and a concrete pattern was set for the future, He looked after his father's emotional well being, he played referee to his brother's fallouts, he made sure his grandmother took her medication, and most importantly of all, he ensured that the family business was profitable and outwardly legitimate. He was good with his hands, a skilled jeweller and did the bulk of the work in the shop, although he was no salesman and he hated the women who formed the majority of his clientelle. His credentials and apparent willingness suited the rest of the family just nicely, although secretly Francis would have loved to study philosophy or theology. He often pictured himself dressed in some sort of robed garment, perhaps in a monastery. Here he would rest and find inner peace, and that space inside his head where shameful horrors appeared so readily, would be filled instead with prayers and endless corridors of immaculateness.
'Not scared of hairdressers in high-heeled boots are you Dad?' he said smiling.
'Not sure I'd let her give ME a cut throat. George has met his match with her, that's all I can say.'
George had thrown on some clothes and was descending the stairs in a semi-sleepwalk. His little dog Crystal was following closely at his heels, looking up occasionally, seeking his approval. They came as a pair, George took his dog everywhere he could, and if dogs were not allowed he would attempt to claim that she was a therapy dog. This was partly true, for he could get terribly anxious without her presence. The two of them mirrored each other; collected, self-contained, defensive and occasionally explosive.
'Here he is!' said Arthur, as if he were announcing some specially awaited guest.
'Morning Crystal,' said Francis.
'You alright son? You looks a bit peaky.'
George did not respond to them. Typically he didn't speak before ten o'clock, except to say goodbye to Max and this took a great deal of effort. As he passed through the workshop at the rear of the store, he paused and emptied the contents of his pocket onto the bench. Francis heard the spoils of the previous evening's events clinking upon the wooden surface and he rushed to inspect them. Before he could comment, George had already unlocked the back door and was heading out into the yard. This was where he spent most of his so-called working day, the truth was that he didn't really do any work at all but somehow managed to pass his presence off as a job. Arthur felt that by engaging his son in, at least the template of employment, he could contain the amount, and indeed the depth, of trouble George could get himself into.
The yard was around thirty feet square and paved with unattractive pink and yellow slabs, many of which were cracked and uneven. Along two sides there were several ponds full of fish, Goldfish and Koi. Just in front of the rear wall of the yard stood George's shed. This was where he spent most of his time and everything he needed was contained within it; a radio, a CB radio (to listen in the local police force), an electric heater, various papers, red tops, The Sports Argos, The Racing Post, pencils, cigarettes, dog food, a desk and chair and some shelves containing products for the fish. Also some rods and equipment for George and Spider's occasional fishing expeditions.
George unlocked the shed and began pouring pellets of fish food into a bucket. He was soon interrupted by his father who called out to him, 'Georgy? There's a Mr Pen coming at midday - to look at the fish.'
There was a long pause while George absorbed this unsavoury information. 'Okay -,' he said weakly, but Arthur was impatient and he was already starting to repeat the question. 'Okay!' George yelled, 'I heard you Dad!'
If there was one thing guaranteed to spoil George's day it was customers, strangers, the general public, the human race. As far as George was concerned, people represented everything that was wrong with the world. Mostly he was very good at avoiding them but when it came to the fish he was the only one with any knowledge. Some of those fish were valuable, many of them he considered friends. He peeled back the green nets which lay across the surface of the ponds. The fish knew exactly what was coming. They transformed from quiet, peaceful shapes into a writhing, silvery mass upon the surface. George and Crystal loved this bit, he chatted to the fish, calling them by name as he threw in the pellets, and Crystal stood up on her stout legs and watched, her wide staffie mouth smiling and her little velvet brow furrowed slightly.
Inside the shop Francis and Arthur were turning over the stolen items. Francis was inspecting them with a loop. He divided them into two piles, one containing medium value items which could be sold on quickly to regular contacts, the other containing higher value stones and platinum, these items would be broken up and transformed into fresh pieces of untraceable stock.
'Get this lot chopped up as soon as possible Fran, we don't want the old bill to come sniffing.'
'They won't come in here will they Dad?'
'You never know Fran, some of them are dodgy as hell, they'll do anything for a result.' Arthur opened up the back door, stuck his head out and shouted, 'Good job son! Tell Lucas there'll be a nice packet coming his way.'
'No-one calls him that anymore Dad,' said George, quietly irritated.
'No-one?' said Francis who was now monacled and hunched over the little pile of jewellery. 'Who speaks to that lad, apart from our George?'
Arthur sighed heavily. 'Dunno,' he said, he's a funny one that Lucas - Spider, whatever it is he calls himself. Never gets caught though does he!'
The shops in the Jewellery Quarter opened late. Just after ten Arthur stepped outside onto the street to put out his folding shop sign. Mr Shah from across the road was doing the same. The two men glanced at each other. Arthur lifted his hand and gave the man a sort of stagnant wave then stepped into the road so that he was close enough to speak to him. 'Might have a couple of rubies for if you're interested. You can have them at a knock down price,' he shouted.
Mr Shah raised his hand to his ear and shrugged. Arthur crossed the street to go and talk to him. They were not direct competitors since Mr Shah specialised in the Asian market. Arthur had very little knowledge of that, except that they liked rubies and he had a few to get rid of. They had a brief chat and Arthur returned to the shop with a smile on his face.
'He said he'd have a look Fran. Hopefully he'll have them off us, I don't think we'll shift em otherwise. Rubies have gone out of fashion, no-one wants em anymore do they?'
'No,' said Francis half-heartedly as he carefully removed a sapphire from its gold claws. 'It's hard to cut them up square that's why. Rubies want to be oval shaped and nobody wants ovals, they're old fasioned aren't they? For old ladies.'
'Are they Fran? The old man gave me a tip though; four forty at Kempton, Lara's Lad, I'll just get it down for George. He can place it for me when he goes out for the shopping.'
Mr Shah was a similar age to Arthur but the truth was that time had stood still for Arthur since his wife Cynthia had died. He couldn't bare to acknowledge the years which had passed without her and therefore he saw himself as a much younger man than his years.
'Hey Georgy, pick up all this dog shit will you! And make sure you put Crystal in the shed when this Pen character arrives, not everyone loves dogs you know. Oh and there's a shopping list here and a bet I want placing.'
Arthur put the list and forty pounds under a pebble by the back door. George snarled at his father through the window as he placed them into his back pocket. He kept an old plastic lid from the fish pellets which he used a a tool for flicking dog shit over the wall and into an adjacent patch of waste ground. On a hot day it smelt bad in that yard but George didn't care, it was his dog and like all dogs she came with her own smells. Today her offerings were relatively inoffensive, this wasn't always the case for Crystal had a wide and varied diet and her smells echoed this.
Once the chores were out of the way George took to his shed. He neatened his four millimetres of hair with a comb then spent half an hour removing all the green kibbles from a box of dried dog food and throwing them, one by one, into the bin. While doing this he tuned his CB radio to pick up the local police communications. This was one of his addictions, little snippets of information, often fuzzy, would come through the airwaves in various voices, many of which he'd come to know and attach illusionary faces to. The gaps in information he would fill with his own imagery and make his own story out of it. There was once an occasion where the police mentioned one of he and Spider's own robberies. Hearing this from the safety of his shed had caused George to practically explode with excitement.
The morning passed quickly. George was aggrieved by the punctual arrival of his midday customer, Mr Pen, a quiet, rather tense Japanese man. George did much better with chatty customers, he could just switch off and let them talk, offering little grunts and nods in return. There was an awkwardness between him and Mr Pen, and somehow an atmosphere of mutual distrust. George watched him as he silently walked up and down the ponds, occasionally spinning on his offensively shiny shoes to peer down at one of the fish.
'Do you have any errrr Hikarimono?' he said very quickly.'
George screwed up his eyes and slowly shook his head from side to side. So many of those fish names sounded the same. He knew he'd seen Hikarimono before in Practical Fish Keeping magazine but he couldn't remember exactly the markings or whether he had any. 'No,' he said thinly, 'we did - but they sold.'
There followed a long silence. Just go home, thought George, just go, leave me in peace, I've had enough of you and I don't want you touching my fish.
Mr Pen walked the whole length of the ponds again then stopped very suddenly. Bizarrely he started to walk backwards, retracing his steps very slowly until he reached the pond which contained some of George's favourites. Here he stopped and peered down into the water. Then he placed an index finger into the centre of his own forehead. George's heart sank for he knew what was coming.
'This fish,' said Mr Pen, tapping his forehead, 'with the spot, the black spot in the middle of its head. Can you take it out so I can look closer?'
George took a sharp intake of breath and nodded. The fish were very calm for they were used to being fed and passively admired. Few of them had witnessed an abduction and so the poor black spot adorned creature yielded into the net without a fight. George plopped it into a white bucket for inspection. Mr Pen looked down at it, his face expressionless. George marvelled at the blackness of his hair. After about thirty seconds the corners of Mr Pen's mouth turned downward slightly. 'I'll take it,' he said, 'how much do you want?'
George reckoned that fish to be worth about sixty pounds tops, but he wanted more from Mr Pen, on account of his shiny shoes and shift demeanor. 'One hundred and twenty,' he said quickly.
Mr Pen nodded and said, 'I will fetch a suitable container from my car.'
George was sad to let that fish go. It was one of his original stock and a confident character, always popping up to greet him. When he saw the Mr Pen's car he realised he could have asked for more money. That fish was a one off and if it wasn't for his father George would never have let that fish go.
'A hundred and twenty quid for a fish!' said Arthur.
'They're valuable Dad. I told you there was money in fish keeping.'
'You did well there George. What's that, the third one you're sold this year?'
'I've sold four. Didn't want to let that one go though really.'
'That's your job isn't it, fish expert? That's what I employ you for.'
'And the rest!' said Francis.
Arthur made a sort of grunting noise and said, 'If you weren't fish expert, you'd be back on the dole.'
'With all the trimmings.'
'Don't know what you're on about Fran. And I think I'll take my lunch now after all that hard work.'
George had a habit, or rather a compulsion to change his underwear often, sometimes several times a day. The act of serving a customer was more than sufficient to engage this urge. It was very convenient for him, living above the shop, to pop upstairs regularly throughout the day to greet his many caged birds and stare at his tropical fish tank. Maxene wanted to get into reptiles but they had yet to save up enough money for the necessary equipment.
He changed his pants and then made a little sandwich. As he pushed the peanut butter across the bread with a knife he found himself humming the tune of Fun, fun, fun by the Beach Boys. It was rare for George to be in such light mood, he usually felt a strong and constant sense of extreme unfulfillment which clung to him and gave him a sort of permanent serrated edge. But somehow the execution of a successful robbery with Spider the previous evening, closely followed by a sale in the fish department had left George feeling usually clean and satisfied, calm and even. It seemed, for a few moments, that he owed nothing and had nothing owing.
During the afternoon he wandered off to the shops with his father's list. Crystal accompanied him, she was allowed inside the betting shop but not the supermarket. If there was a queue and George couldn't see her he would sometimes explode with stress, swearing at the cashiers and insulting the other customers. Today there was no queue and she waited by the exit where he could see her. He returned to his shed, the day passed. A steady stream of customers visited Jules Jewels, many just to browse, a few to spend. Francis changed fourteen watch batteries. George listened to his radios, Crystal dozed on the floor with one eye occasionally opening. Mr Shah's tip came to nothing and Arthur cursed the man harshly for it. At six o'clock George pulled the nets back over the fish ponds and said goodnight to them. Briefly he worried about the fate of the one he sold. He locked up the shed and walked through the shop with a folded newspaper under his arm. Crystal followed, sniffing here and there where customer had trodden.
'You and Max ARE coming over for lunch tomorrow aren't you George, you haven't forgotten?' Arthur called after him as he was halfway up the stairs.
George stopped and held his breath. He'd remembered alright, he never forgot anything and this had been on his mind because he really didn't want to go and had planned simply not to turn up. 'Er - yeah, he said vaguely. 'We're coming Dad, we're er - looking forward to it.'
'Good!' said Arthur with a heavy sigh, 'Good!'
That final 'good' sounded rather like a nail going into a coffin. He climbed the last few stairs in a state of mental fatigue. Surely he spent enough time with his family already. Why wasn't that enough, why must they have family dinners?'
Arthur smoked a cigar as he folded his shop sign from the pavement and carried it inside. It was important to him to appear successful even on days when they'd sold nothing. Francis cashed up and cleared the window display and Arthur pulled down the shutters. They had their routines set in stone. When the working day was done they both rolled the three miles home in Arthur's navy blue Jaguar. He drove like a seasoned taxi driver, smooth and unflappable, occasionally miming the word 'idiot' at other motorists and shaking his bald head.
At home Grandma Kathleen, Arthur's mother-in-law would be wringing her hands, waiting for Francis to boil her some tripe or microwave her a steak and kidney pie. Tony would be preening himself for a night out.