Forgetful

This is a heavily edited piece that I still pick away at from time to time, it is a short story about a boy who finds himself lost in france... not everything is quite as he thinks though

 

James stirred from his enforced sleep; purple clouds gently rolling away from his eyes to show him that once again he wasn’t lucky enough to land on a conveniently placed bed. The alley was long and narrow, and the sun that trickled over the cobblestones did nothing to comfort his now bruised body. He slowly sat up to find he was alone, he couldn’t remember how he had gotten there and felt that wherever here was, it was distinctly lacking his tour-group. So without too much grumbling he got to his feet and tried to work out exactly where in this tiny French village he was. The last thing he remembered was getting off the bus, and the tour operator telling them they had two hours, James wondered how long he had now his epilepsy had decided to show up. With no time to lose he began his slow march to the end of the alley, hoping to find someone who could either understand his garbled French, or spoke emphatic gestures fluently.

 

   The alley was more of a disappointment than even he had originally thought; James rounded the final bend into a wall, and a beautifully decorative billboard advertising The Magic Shop. With nothing to lose he entered and hoped for the best. The smells all at once overpowered him, and the lighting was otherworldly; candles in all forms burnt their offerings to this plane they were forced to pass through. James looked around for the owner and took in some of the wares, candelabra and statues were covering one shelf and in the centre of the shop was a display cabinet with a large black mirror inside. Its stark blackness reflected nothing in the light, and as he looked closer, wondering why anyone would want a mirror that showed nothing, someone gently tapped him on the shoulder,

 “If I didn’t know better I'd say you were lost” a refined voice said

James, shocked at this sudden burst of English, stood speechless in front of her.

 

    She was radiant, no older than thirty she stood with an air of authority gazing at him; thick auburn hair fell in ringlets onto her emerald green dress and she began to move towards the desk next to the display cabinet at which he was standing.

   “I am…I think I must have had a fit…and my tour-group…what time is it?” James stuttered.

   “I’ll check”

She made her way towards the backroom, her dress gently trailing behind her. James couldn’t quite believe he was standing in a Magic shop in France talking to what he could only guess was an English witch.

 “It’s ten past five dear” she called, James heard some cups being moved around and when the lady returned she carried steaming cups.

 “You said you had a fit, and being British that means we need a cup of tea, right?” James smiled and accepted the cup, he had an hour yet to get back to the coach station, and for how he felt right then, the cup of tea was a godsend.

 

    They spoke for what seemed like an age, and as the time flew by James found out much about Susan; it turned out she didn’t buy into any of this witchcraft stuff that her mother did, ghosts, magic, psychic powers, none of it. But since her mum passed away she had kept the shop going in her memory; she even ran the séances for the regulars, “you have a gift” they’d say; she said the key to her “gift” was tone of voice, and sounding vague enough to make it plausible. James found it funny that someone so down to earth could pretend to be possessed. Susan tidied up the cups and went into the back room,

“It’s ten to six; didn’t you have somewhere to be?”

With the gut wrenching feeling of someone late, James leapt out of his seat; he called his thanks to Susan and rushed out of the door. Having found out where he was while talking to Susan all he had to do was run.

 

   As he made his way through the cobbled street, his boots clicking away how much time he had left, James realised he hadn’t asked which way to turn at the end of the alley. Panicking he arrived at the gaping mouth onto a road that stretched out both ways. In the distance to the right James noticed a distinctive church-tower, piercing the heavens with its gothic beauty, and marking north from the bus-stop very clearly in James’ mind.

 

    Susan walked into the backroom and carefully placed the cups into the sink, the T.V was on in the background and its background noise suddenly jumped forward making its presence suddenly known. A British news reporter was currently at the scene of a horrific accident.

“April here reporting from a tragic accident, it is exactly 4.15 and I stand here live at what can only be described as a holiday nightmare. A tour-group visiting this area has been hit with…”

Susan snapped around, looking up at the screen filled with such empathy for James at what he was walking towards, she hoped he had the strength to deal with such horror, and hoped that it wasn’t someone terribly close to him that was involved. As pictures from the scene were beamed into her little room, and the story unfolded before her, she realised what had happened...

“Oh bother… they were right”

With this Susan began to laugh with tears gently stroking her cheek.

 

    As he walked down the street it filled up with bodies, people were flocking in one direction, and as it happened to be the one James needed, he began to think that getting back was a lost cause. In the distance he could hear the wailing cry of a siren, cruelly tempting all those who heard it to its perilous shores. And it beckoned from over by the coach station, just coming into view.

He hoped and prayed it wasn’t someone he knew. He hoped and prayed it wasn’t someone from the tour group. The crowds around him were flowing closer to the scene, and crime tape kept all but the official back. He peered over people, and looked on. Familiar faces wept their tears, but none were missing. He pushed through the crowd, and looked on at the scene; a young man lay on the floor, a few feet away from the car that killed him. Blood pooled a perfect halo around his head. James saw who it was and burst into tears of shock, and pain. As the paramedics tried desperately to bring back the man’s life, James stood, watching himself bleed out.

Author's Note

I know it isn't exactly fantasy but I didn't really class it as exactly horror either, so I'm sorry for the confusion if anyone is an ardent fan of either.