Harvester

Short Story

            The clocks struck ninety-six. Or rather, eight clocks all struck twelve. Not simultaneously. In fact, not one kept perfect time with any other and so midday in the shop was always heralded by a full minute of chiming. It was the most predictable and often the most enduring interruption to the silence each day, since it was rare for customers to come in at all, let alone to take a whole sixty seconds to realise that there was nothing in the shop that they could possibly wish to purchase. The manager of the shop was an elderly gentleman who never visited it any more but he owned the premises outright, had allowed the gas to be cut off and didn’t replace items that were sold; and so lost little money, even on days when the shop did no business at all. Indeed his only real expenses were my wages, which were far greater than the store’s turnover could economically justify and which he trusted me to take myself from the till now that his worsening health meant that he seldom visited Archibald’s Antiques in person. I took exactly what I was owed; even if I’d been generally inclined to steal, I couldn’t have contemplated doing it to Gerald, who I had a great fondness for. A friend of my father’s; it had been entirely his suggestion that I take some shifts minding the shop for him after I had dropped out of probably the least prestigious college in the land. He’d taken me by the arm on the first day while showing me round the place and told me that, since I had some previous retail experience and was not an imbecile, there was only one thing I really needed to know; a fact that differentiated his shop from all others. “It’s all tat,” he’d pronounced emphatically. “Really, it’s unadulterated dross. I took half of it off the hands of previous owners just as they were preparing to throw it away, and the rest I picked up for a pittance at auctions where I’d brought only thirty pounds in my pocket and realistically expected to come away with at least half a dozen lots.” He’d gone on to tell me that he was living very comfortably on his pension, that he’d started selling as a hobby that he’d quickly grown bored with, and that anything I managed to sell at all should be seen as a bonus. “No pressure, just get what you know you can from the punters. There are no marked prices, just estimate how thrifty or extravagant they are, and how much they’ll be willing to pay” were his instructions. You’ve always been an intelligent judge of character, Mark,” he added, suddenly serious, “there’s no doubt about that”.

            Archibald’s Antiques was a misleading name in two ways. Firstly, as Gerald had disclosed to me, nobody named Archibald had ever been associated with the place and the name had only been used for the sake of alliteration and the slightly whimsical effect. Secondly, because “antiques” usually implied more than “old stuff”, which was all that was to be found there.  This didn’t bother me though; I was even less interested in antiques than Gerald. The job had paid the bills for me since I’d taken it, and in the last few months it had brought me something much more; a little passion of my own. I hadn’t given up on art when I’d left college and I’d needed to feed my idea, my first in a long while, before it got away from me. I’d started mustering the components before I’d known with any precision what I would do with them. The collectible clientele. It was people I was amassing for the design, or personalities at least. In more honest and less neutral terms, I was hoarding human souls. And Archibald’s Antiques was my ripe reaping-field.

            No material, no element, could be more pure or self-sufficient in a design and nothing in the world could better represent a person. Because a soul didn’t just represent, it was. Of course I couldn’t bottle them up and when the concept of working with souls had first occurred to me, it hadn’t been long before I’d recognised that I’d have to make use of some physical representation if I wanted my composition to be noticed and valued by anyone else. But to me, the true arrangement was an immaterial one, with a beauty and a dignity that would resist any attempt to portray or explain.  I’d settled for using the deed of sale, the form in which the previous owner signed their spirit over to me. The design of the forms was striking enough but nothing could do justice to what was contained therein and the final layout would need to be something incredible to be remotely worthy of its constituent parts. My first successful acquisition had been the day after the idea had occurred to me and six months after I’d started working at Archibald’s, and I’d followed the same technique ever since. I knew within seconds of a customer entering the store whether their soul was one I was interested in, whether they would be willing to sell it to me, and what they would want in return. (I could see things about people that others didn’t seem able to; Gerald was right about that.) Just as they were about to leave, usually very shortly after entering, I’d call out “If you’ll wait a little, there may not be anything here you wish to buy, but there may be something you’re happy to sell. I think we might be able to help each other.” Some sort of charm offensive, tailored to the individual and what I’d been able to surmise about them would then be required but shortly I’d be in a position to outline the details of my proposition without simply eliciting affronted or, worse, concerned looks.  I’d offer my part of the bargain; “In exchange for your meagre psyche, something intangible and insubstantial, and for which I’ll just need your John Hancock on this line, you can take anything in the store for yourself”. The emphasis always worked; “anything in the store”. No matter that they’d had such scant interest in the junk that they’d not even bothered to inquire about the asking price on any item; once they’d heard that they could have any object without opening their wallet, they’d always find something they wanted on the shelves and they’d sign. They’d sign their immortal soul over to me. For a slow carriage-clock. For a chipped china plate. 

            I glanced up briefly as a lumbering behemoth of a customer wandered in but didn’t look properly at him until he’d turned away to start showing himself around. As he jerked his form around the rows of merchandise, I scrutinized him in turn. My decisions never took long. Other than the souls of such rare and remarkable intensity that they assaulted my composure, almost causing me to forget my proven buying formula and make an immediate offer, most tended to fall into broad groups and so most of my assessments were mere identification of categories. The greater part of my labour was now a search for superior paradigms of those groups to the representatives I had already obtained. By far the most common group that were willing to sell were the jokers. They found the very idea of receiving payment or goods for something that couldn’t be seen or sensed quite hilarious and thought me an utter loony; one whose naivety they would happily take advantage of. They’d dash off their signatures, still chuckling at my ludicrous offer and think themselves very fortunate as they clutched their chosen new possessions to their chests. “It doesn’t matter anyway. It doesn’t mean anything” they’d respond to my ardent thanks.

“It means something to me”, I’d smile back at them and for the first time a touch of unease would grip their features, though never enough to motivate an actual challenge to my hubristic smirk. The joker, of course, is also known as the fool.

                  A clumsy swing of my visitor’s arm brought his coat sleeve brushing across a vase that had been precariously placed at the corner of a high coffee table and sent it crashing down onto the one small section of the floor that hadn’t been carpeted. That oft-repeated ploy had served Gerald well for many years but was also much to my own advantage, both presenting me with a chance to gage the customer’s reaction and creating enough embarrassment and guilt for them that they were far more likely to be off-guard and compliant if I was interested in what they had to offer. “I’m sorry mate” the giant yelled across to me “I’ll come over and pay, how much do I owe you?” Accountable then, he hadn’t waited for me to mention it, and he had also not looked to complain about the clearly irresponsible positioning of the vase. “Don’t worry about it,” I beamed pleasantly, “and if you’ll just come over to the counter there is a mutually beneficial proposal I would like to discuss with you.” He plodded over eagerly, though unsurprisingly highly confused.

He really was quite ill-favoured; fortunate indeed that I didn’t disagree with Duncan on poor indicators of the mind’s construction or I would have instantly rejected what I instead knew already would be a highly worthy addition to my collection. Honest, straightforward and more than a little slow. Simple Simon. And from his physique, I’d guess that he’d also met his fair share of pie-men. Not a gentle giant though, his bearing and the faint trace of bruising on his knuckles were enough to reveal that he’d use his size to his advantage at times. And certainly not so gentle as to be opposed to strong opinions and language; I could guarantee that “crap”, “arse” or “s**t” would be one of his favourite words and that it certainly wouldn’t harm my prospects if I were to use it in conversation as much as possible myself. He kept apologising as he wandered over;

“I am sorry about the vase though, sums up the s**t day I’ve been having”. 

(There’s the one).

“Really, don’t mention it.”

“First I left my umbrella at home with this s**t weather.”

“S**t; yeah it has been. And then you knocked that s**t vase over.”

“Yeah, and then I… what?”

“Knocked that s**t vase over, sir. Don’t worry, I’m well aware it was complete s**t. I’m telling you because I like you and I don’t want to make you pay through the nose for that piece of s**t. But there is one tiny thing you could do for me in return, and it won’t cost you a penny.”

“Sure mate, whatever s**t needs doing”

“Don’t worry, no strenuous labour involved, just write your name on this little dotted line here,” I asked, handing him one of Alessio’s captivating forms. Captivating in every sense. He read (demonstrating an ability I might not have credited him with) through the print and dragged his finger under the heavily calligraphic line which made explicit that signing entailed the surrender of his soul to Mark Samson for eternity.

“I dunno mate, this s**t’s a bit weird”

“I never thought of that before, yeah I suppose it is, but could you indulge me? You’ll pay nothing for the vase and won’t lose anything you can see or touch. And what’s more, I’ll let you choose any item in the store to take home with you. How’s that for rescuing your s**t day? You break a vase and end up in profit.”

He nodded at my logic and turned his eyes greedily to the walls of merchandise before pointing out his selection; a hideous cream rocking chair that he’d undoubtedly break into splinters the first time he attempted to sit in it himself.

“Excellent choice, sir, it’s no more s**t than anything else in here. Are you ok to carry it out?”

“Fine, but did you say it was s**t?”

“Like everything here, sir, let’s be clear that it is quite definitely s**t, but then you’re basically getting it for free.” He looked down at it and chuckled.

“Yeah, I guess it does look a bit s**t, I’ll find a place for it though. I’d better get going actually. I want to get back in time to see if Rovers will put on a slightly less s**t performance this week.”

“Hope so, they’re only playing City after all, who are pretty s**t if we’re honest.”

“You should see the s**t team Cooper’s putting out though, I’m getting pretty sick of how s**t we’ve been since he took over.”

“Goodbye then, you s**t.” He was halfway through the door when I said this and turned for only half a second to see me still smiling and waving. Assuming he must have misheard, he shook his head before departing.

            Once alone, I estimated a realistic selling price for the rocking chair and the broken vase to later add to the takings and turned to the completed form. Alessio’s skill was considerable and the overall effect was awe-inspiring, even before a signature had completed it. Simple Simon had produced his own pen, as most sellers did. I never tried to lead them in exactly how they signed; that was part of the sale, part of the individuality of the soul I was buying. I never asked them to sign in blood, but merely ensured that that option was open to them. I kept a quill on display on the counter with the inkwell concealed behind it, only kept for those who didn’t offer blood and had no pen of their own, and positioned a small box of drawing pins and needles next to the quill to help those who were willing to get the claret flowing. Most either ignored these items entirely or passed their eyes over them uneasily before asking me for ink or a pen. But some had a bit of decorum; an idea of how things should be done properly, and would leave me a scarlet trail to complete our transaction.

            Nobody entered the boutique at all that afternoon, which wasn’t exactly unprecedented and I closed ten minutes early to take my purchase to Alessio’s. It was less than a mile to walk and my acquisition put such a spring in my step that I reached his house without taking in any of the intervening journey at all; we were near completion point. Alessio answered the door, unshaven and with only shorts and a shirt on, and led me through to the garage that in reality functioned as his studio as he recognised the excited look in my eyes. What I’d accumulated previously lay across the table tennis table he’d sacrificed for the duration of our project. They were perfectly safe, in pristine condition but still untidy and askew and my eyes did narrow slightly. It was my only complaint; I just wished he’d take more care, that he’d appreciate the components as much as I did and that their storage reflected their importance. I spread the newest out across the only remaining empty space so that Alessio could see. He studied it carefully, taking time to admire his own part of the work before turning to the signature, a childish scribble next to a shorter one that had been crossed out. Because Simon needed two stabs at writing his own name. “I’m no handwriting expert” Alessio conceded, “but was this one a bit thick?”    

“Simple is the word, but there was an honesty to him, it’s worthy of inclusion”

“Hey, that’s your part of the business. I just do the drawing and arranging. To be honest, I’ve never understood how you make these judgements, how you see people. I want to understand,” he added tenderly.

“It’s not something I can explain, for all I’ve tried,” I replied, slightly exasperated. “Not to anyone. I’m not sure how other people don’t see it”. This wouldn’t do though, Alessio was an equal partner and a vital part of the undertaking. He would be responsible for following my instructions about how the souls were to be pieced together; for realising my vision and completing a composition that extended beyond my mind for others to appreciate. He needed to have some understanding of the wider process to convey even a fraction of what the work meant to me. And he was smart enough to take it all onboard; he didn’t just have clever hands but a clever mind as well. “Why don’t you come with me to the store tomorrow?” I proposed. “You’ve got nothing on and you’ll be keeping me company. We’re so near the end now and I’ve got a feeling the final element will be walking in tomorrow. I normally only get two or three worthy in a week but I’m sure there’s going to be an exceptional one soon. The last one.”

“I’ll miss Top Cat,” Alessio mused and deliberated silently for a while. “Ok then. I’m going to bring some games though.” This didn’t surprise me.

            Alessio arrived at Archibald’s only half an hour after I did, earlier in the morning than I’d ever known him to be conscious. He wore a pleated shirt and a silver waistcoat and flung his boxes onto the floor beside the counter. “We start,” he declared emphatically, “with Buckaroo”.  It was during the decider of the Twister round in the Mark Samson and Alessio Esposito Games Compendium Challenge Cup that the first customer of the day walked in. Alessio glared up at the middle-aged man, a glare that couldn’t be misread and that could mean nothing other than “Yes, your eyes are not deceiving you; we are two twenty-five year old men playing Twister on the floor of an antiques shop. Now what on earth do you want?” The visitor turned to the lamps and gaudy picture frames first, in the hope that we’d finish our game soon and remove the obstruction to his viewing the crockery on the opposite shelves that he was actually interested in. When he’d been waiting for ten minutes with no sign of curtailment to the Twister session, he turned to Alessio, who was taking up the most floor space. “Would you mind moving so that I can look at the plates over there?” he ventured.

“Yes I would,” Alessio replied tartly, “because if I were to do so I would forfeit the game, and my current lead in our championship. The instructions on the box say it is suitable for four years and older but perhaps the concept of Twister is somehow beyond you.” Crockery-man stomped out and Alessio’s gambit proved a futile one as I sent him crashing to the floor with the passage of another five minutes. It was a chess board that was spread over the floor when the second consumer, a somewhat younger man intruded. Alessio owned a standard-sized chess set that could comfortably have been placed on the counter but had deliberately brought the one that would take up the most space and another client was frustrated in his naïve expectation of being able to see what was for sale in the shop he had entered.

“Please can I squeeze past to get to the furniture?” our new hopeful asked politely and received an incredulous stare from my associate.

“Well, if you really must, but you’ll have to be very careful; surely you can see that my knight is engaging in a sweeping charge towards his right flank and I don’t want you disrupting it. Did Mark arrange for you to visit and sabotage me?” The customer ignored this but was forced to trouble us again when he decided he’d also like to see the books in a corner we’d made almost inaccessible.

“May I?” he requested.

“You may, if you can answer me these questions three,” Alessio began. The customer left.

            Alessio slapped a ten pound note on the counter for each person he scared off. He was very good about that and in truth most of them would probably have left without buying anything anyway. We’d finished with the games and with the prospect of no souls being bought that day, I’d decided to at least try and discuss my thought process as the next best alternative to his witnessing an exchange.

“So is it just the main Tarot cards you’re trying to represent?” he inquired.

“No, it’s not really much to do with the Tarot at all,” I explained patiently, slightly infuriated that he’d thought me so crude and unoriginal. “Some happen to be the same but that’s only incidental, it’s when the Tarot creators really did hit on a significant archetype of humanity. Mostly, they’re not and we’ve already got more souls than there are cards in the Major Arcana.” He always winced slightly when I said the word “souls”, and never explained why, but I ignored this and continued. “We couldn’t complete the whole Tarot anyway; the Hierophant represents religious orthodoxy, so ex hypothesi anyone who was willing to sell couldn’t be an example of that card. The Devil, on the other hand, wasn’t complicated to obtain; it involves attachment to material things. That one’s already at your place, naturally it was the most expensive I’ve ever bought. I threw in some money as well as more than one object from the store, and the more he held out for, the better the paradigm he was and the more sure I could be that he was worth it. Isn’t that interesting, that I couldn’t possibly lose?”

“Mesmerizing,” Alessio replied dryly. I concealed my hurt as best as I could.

“I know that I’m bound to fail” I stated sadly, “that for all my best efforts and even with the advantage of all your dextrousness, I can never re-create what’s in my mind; that whatever we finish will be a pale imitation. I wish I could; just pluck out my ideas, shining like strands of liquid gold and fling them directly onto canvas. It wouldn’t simply be easier but an immeasurably better work. But I cannot, and it’s devastating to me that what we make will be only the tip, the mere end point of a construction that took place in both the mental, physical and spiritual worlds. The art must consist far more in the process and the struggle than in the final image; I think all art is like that to some extent but this piece especially, only if the viewers bring all their mental baggage with them, only if they interpret it in the light of their own experiences can they find any meaning in it that compares to the meaning it had for the artist, for me.” I was a little out of breath as I finished and Alessio, more concerned than I had ever seen him, looked about to say something but we were interrupted by the door crashing open once more. Simple Simon had returned.

            He was carrying, to my chagrin, the revolting rocking chair I’d thought myself rid of, manoeuvring it through the door with considerable difficulty. I didn’t offer to help.

“You know this s**t chair I picked up yesterday?”

“Yes.”

“It’s s**t.”

“Well I daresay one or both of us did acknowledge that at the time, sir.”

“Yeah, I know, and I don’t want to make things difficult for you mate, but my girlfriend says she won’t have anything that ugly in the house.”

“I can think of one exception she’s making,” Alessio muttered darkly and I fought back a snigger.

“I’ll tell you what,” I offered, “unfortunately there’s nothing of the same value in the shop, but for another fiver I can exchange the chair for something new I’ve got in that I think your girlfriend will like.”

“Sounds good,” he agreed, producing the agreed sum, and I handed him a gaudy pair of quartz earrings that were worth far less than the five pounds alone.

“No more exchanges now, you’ve already made as many as Cooper did yesterday,” I joked condescendingly as he left. We’d not mentioned his soul. I’d never returned one after buying; nobody had ever asked.

            If Alessio had been preparing to say something significant, he’d forgotten it and we only chatted casually until nearly five. No one else had been in for almost an hour and I was thinking of closing early again when a draught announced the silent entry of a young woman, a couple of years our junior. She smiled endearingly at us both and it was the flash of her eyes as she smiled that transformed my offhand curiosity into unexpected and overwhelming enrapture. I knew, without the meanest doubt, that hers was the final soul, and the crowning one. I hadn’t expected a woman, they had very rarely featured; of the forty-one I’d accrued before, only five had been female. She browsed disinterestedly for a few minutes but was clearly bright enough to recognise the unattractiveness of everything on offer. She wouldn’t be leaving with just what she came in with, however. I beckoned her over to the counter with my customary opening line.

I had to work fast. Her patience would not be inexhaustible and her evident intelligence meant I could not make use of the more obvious flattery I might deploy when otherwise pressed for time; I had to play the subtle sycophant. We spoke of theatre, film and poetry and regarding the latter I expressed a not wholly insincere interest in reading some of her own, if she would only bring it in another day. I broached the crux of the matter; the object of my desire currently in her possession, delicately. I think, though, I failed to entirely prevent the pleading tones, tones I had never suffered from before when proposing, from creeping into my voice when I once more made my generous offer of whatever she liked from the store. Alessio said nothing throughout and I’m sure didn’t realise how valuable his silent presence was. He was extraordinarily pretty and it was not the first time an otherwise very bright individual had found their judgement compromised by his company. I found her suggestible at last, acquiescing to me while her eyes darted to him, though her lack of desire for any of the crud on the shelves meant I had to make a significant financial offer and would be paying back the till. “I’ll have to borrow some of it from you,” I whispered to Alessio. He nodded sullenly; something was troubling him, and not the money. As we came to a final offer and I pushed the form to the girl, she still looked a little doubtful. “I hope I’m not scaring you,” I murmured soothingly, “and that you’ll forgive my persistence. It’s just that there’s such an incredible beauty to your personality, it’s like a work of art…”

I found Alessio standing opposite me as I turned from pushing the last bolt across the front door. “That’s the process then,” he said dismally. “I don’t know what I was expecting.”

“It’s always different,” I replied curtly, walking past him to separate my wages from what I’d be taking to Gerald, “and I’ve never had one quite like that before.”

“I hope not. It must feel strange, and worse. To me it felt, I don’t know, to be honest it felt predatory. Tell me it didn’t exactly feel nice to you, it didn’t feel right.”

“I told you, that one wasn’t normal, it was far from representative. Just forget about it.” In truth I was a little shocked by his use of the word predatory and hoped it had just been carelessness, that the connotations weren’t quite the same to someone who wasn’t a native English speaker.

“Why did you let it be abnormal though? Why did you go after it so much, what was so important about that one?”

“You know I can’t explain,” I snapped, finally letting my irritation show. “I could just feel that that soul was important, that I couldn’t do without it. I can feel it and somehow nobody else can. I don’t expect you to understand.” He paused, visibly stung, before asking a question I’d never anticipated coming from him.

“What would you say if I suggested that we could have just written in the names ourselves, for that form and all the others? That you never needed the sale at all.”

“I’d say that was a damn insult, to my integrity and to the integrity of the whole project. Haven’t I being trying to make it clear that the history and the struggle have to be part of the creation? That the soul has to be acquired, not faked? Otherwise we’re not artists but a pair of bloody charlatans.”

“You really believe in it, don’t you?” he stated quietly. “You think you’ve bought something, that there’s been a real transfer and that the forms are a genuine and accurate record of what’s taken place.”

“Of course, of course I do, that’s the whole point. Even if I don’t always believe, I have to at least believe while I’m completing it. Or it’s nothing, it’s just a con,” I barked furiously.

“Then for me it is a con, if an insightful and artistic one. Because I don’t believe. I didn’t think you did either or I’d have tried to dissuade you earlier. It’s not healthy, you shouldn’t be doing it.”

“And yet you can play your part happily, you can do all the elegant calligraphy, you can add all the embellishments, put it all together.”

“Because I don’t believe what you do; because for me it’s not real, it’s an elaborate send up of a popular superstition and that’s the point of it. It’s different if you believe; that changes what’s acceptable. I was always worried when you mentioned souls and perhaps I should have realised before, from your intensity when you spoke of them. If you believe in souls, you shouldn’t be buying them. I can’t explain it as eloquently as I’d like but maybe it’s a bit like if a Jew eats pork. Whether there’s anything wrong in eating pork anyway I don’t know, but it’s wrong for them because they believe it’s wrong and they’ve gone against something that they believe. If you believe it’s all real and I help you, then, even if you’re mistaken, I’m helping you to do something that’s wrong for you.” His face was flushed now and he looked into my eyes intently “I’m only concerned about you, Mark, but for the first time I’m uncomfortable with continuing the project.”

            My head was swimming; a retreat at this point, a betrayal of all the work we’d done was something I couldn’t even conceive. Fear merged with anger, even hate. “Then you don’t have to be comfortable with it Alessio”, I snarled. “You just have to do it.”

“Very good sir,” he quipped bitterly. I took some deep breaths and calmed a little.

“I’m sorry, Alessio. You know how much I value you, and how important you are to what we’re doing becoming something really magnificent. That’s the only reason I’m upset. I can’t do this without you and I wouldn’t want to. We’re so close now, I don’t need to buy any more. Will you just put them together in the final design? You’re more adroit than me, your hands are nimbler; will you just do this one thing for me?” He sighed but I knew I’d won him over, at least to the extent that he’d finish it. He only had to follow my instructions, though I’d left him free rein to add some final embellishments of his own design. “I am sorry I shouted and got angry but I am emotionally invested in the project, of course I am. I have to be or it won’t ring true; it won’t be true. And the truth is everything; the construct has to say something about the construction. There has to be a history, the art has to say something about the artistry.”

 “And it has to say something about the artist?” Alessio suggested.

“Precisely,” I replied, relieved that he was engaging again and beginning to understand, “that as well and…”

“And have you actually thought about what it might say about you or is it enough that it says something?” Alessio interrupted. His tone was nothing but gentle but still I could not answer, I couldn’t say a single word to him. He said he’d be able to finish that very night but would be leaving early in the morning and away for the whole weekend. I nodded dumbly. “I know you won’t be able to wait to see it,” he said, not critically or unkindly. “I’ll leave my keys under the doormat, it’s perfectly safe, nobody comes round that way anyway.” He walked out with his Buckaroo, his chess set and the final soul and left me alone.

            I can’t think of anything I did at all between closing the shop and getting into bed and I know I couldn’t sleep when I did. I could have predicted as much, and I knew that no midnight walk or herbal remedy could possibly help. I tried to think of future works I might begin, on my own in all probability, but there was nothing. Once I could entertain a dozen ideas at once but not any more. There was only this one and nothing beyond. And somehow, inexplicably, as though senility had gripped me and memory failed, nothing before either; not one idea I could think of, from my time at college or earlier. Neither past nor future. I urged time to pass and rose as soon as didn’t seem absurd; I couldn’t keep any food down and just drank two mugs of coffee and departed for Alessio’s. Like when I’d walked from Archibald’s, I noticed nothing on the way there but it wasn’t the same, not at all.        

            I retrieved the keys from under the mat and let myself in and through to the garage, my whole body shaking as I fumbled with first the handle and then the light switch. The un-shaded bulbs illuminated the room and, instantly, so that it would have hit me like a sledgehammer even if I’d not come looking for it, the art. The realisation of my vision. It spread across the whole back wall, a huge rictus grin. Each tooth was one of my paradigm souls, the glorious thirty-two, and the others not wasted but rolled loosely and coloured crimson, to protrude out from the design and the wall. Alessio had done everything I’d asked for in my instructions and better; it was repulsive, genuinely chilling even to its designer. “You’re brilliant,” I thought gratefully, “this is why I can’t do without you.” I felt a rush of energy and smiled for the first time since we’d both been in Archibald’s the previous day. Something felt odd though, in the corners of my mouth, not pain or irritation but some feeling, some unease. I touched my fingers to the corners and looked down at them but saw nothing. Returning my gaze to the grin opposite I saw it anew. Did it remind me of my own? Surely that was simply because I’d been thinking of mine. I’d designed the image so long ago but I had to bring my own baggage, something of myself, when I viewed it, everyone did; I’d been saying as much when I’d tried to explain. There did seem to be more than the hint of malice I’d imagined though, the wall grinned at me with an intensity of malevolence and I found myself more unnerved than I wanted to be. Suddenly I hated it, felt a powerful urge to tear it from the wall or strike at it with a sharp implement. I turned my head away to the left and told myself that I simply needed to move nearer, that when I saw that the familiar names and forms, that when I could identify the individual components and how they were arranged together, I’d conquer my shameful and superstitious fear. I edged closer, towards the point where I’d be able to read the signatures on the declarations of soul-surrender making up the composition but just as I thought I’d reached that point I noticed for the first time what Alessio had used to portray the gaps between the teeth. They were shards of mirror, irregular and jagged, yet filling the gaps exactly and accentuating the terrifying, cruel effect of the grin and as I leant forward my own image, drawn, horrified and abhorrent, flashed at me from a myriad of vicious angles; as my design revealed one more soul than I’d ever meant it to.