He became aware of a soft pattering sound.
Around him, all over the shop, petals were falling like rain.
AND THESE?
‘That’s our De Luxe assortment,’ said the lady in the chocolate shop. It was such a highclass establishment that it sold, not sweets. but confectionery – often in the form of individual gold-wrapped swirly things that made even larger holes in a bank balance than they did in a tooth.
The tall dark customer picked up a box that was about two feet square. On a lid like a satin cushion it had a picture of a couple of hopelessly cross-eyed kittens looking out of a boot.
WHAT FOR IS THIS BOX PADDED? IS IT TO BE SAT ON? CAN IT BE THAT IT IS CAT-FLAVOURED? he added, his tone taking on a definite menace, or rather more menace than it had already.
‘Um, no. That’s our Supreme Assortment.’
The customer tossed it aside.
No.
The shopkeeper looked both ways and then pulled open a drawer under the counter, at the same time lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘Of course,’ she said, ‘for that very special occasion …’
It was quite a small box. It was also entirely black, except for the name of the contents in small white letters; cats, even in pink ribbons, wouldn’t be allowed within a mile of a box like this. To deliver a box of chocolates like this, dark strangers drop from chairlifts and abseil down buildings.
The dark stranger peered at the lettering.
‘DARK ENCHANTMENTS,’ he said. I ?WKEIT?.
‘For those intimate moments,’ said the lady.
The customer appeared to consider the relevance of this.
YES. THAT SEEMS APPROPRIATE.
The shopkeeper beamed.
‘Shall I wrap them up, then?’
YES. WITH A RIBBON.
‘And will there be anything else, sir?’
The customer seemed to panic.
ELSE? SHOULD THERE BE ANYTHING ELSE? IS THERE SOMETHING ELSE? WHAT IS IT THAT SHOULD BE DONE?
‘I’m sorry, sir?’
A PRESENT FOR A LADY.
The shopkeeper was left a little adrift by this sudden turning of the tide of conversation. She swam towards a reliable cliche.
‘Well, they do say, don’t they, that diamonds are a girl’s best friend?’ she said brightly.
DIAMONDS? OH. DIAMONDS. IS THAT SO?
They glittered like bits of starlight on a black velvet sky.
‘This one.’ said the merchant, ‘is a particularly excellent stone, don’t you think? Note the fire, the exceptional -‘
HOW FRIENDLY IS IT?
The merchant hesitated. He knew about carats, about adamantine lustre, about “water” and “make” and “fire”, but he’d never before been called upon to judge gems in terms of general affability.
‘Quite well-disposed?’ he hazarded.
NO.
The merchant’s fingers seized on another splinter of frozen light.
‘Now this,’ he said, confidence flowing back into his voice, ‘is from the famous Shortshanks mine. May I draw your attention to the exquisite -‘
He felt the penetrating stare drill through the back of his head.
‘But not, I must admit, noted for its friendliness,’ he said lamely.
The dark customer looked disapprovingly around the shop. In the gloom, behind troll-proof bars, gems glowed like the eyes of dragons in the back of a cave.
ARE ANY OF THESE FRIENDLY? he said.
‘Sir, I think I can say, without fear of contradiction, that we have never based our purchasing policy on the amiability of the stones in question,’ said the merchant. He was uncomfortably aware that things were wrong, and that somewhere in the back of his mind he knew what was wrong with them, and that somehow his mind was not letting him make that final link. And it was getting on his nerves.
WHERE IS THE BIGGEST DIAMOND IN THE WORLD?
‘The biggest? That’s easy. It’s the Tear of Offler, it’s in the innermost sanctuary of the Lost Jewelled Temple of Doom of Offler the Crocodile God in darkest Howandaland, and it weighs eight hundred and fifty carats. And, sir, to forestall your next question, I personally would go to bed with it.’
One of the nice things about being a priest in the Lost Jewelled Temple of Doom of Offler the Crocodile God was that you got to go home early most afternoons. This was because it was lost. Most worshippers never found their way there. They were the lucky ones.
Traditionally, only two people ever went into the innermost sanctuary. They were the High Priest and the other priest who wasn’t High. They had been there for years, and took turns at being the high one. It was an undemanding job, given that most prospective worshippers were impaled, squashed, poisoned or sliced by booby-traps even before making it as far as the little box and the jolly drawing of a thermometer’ outside the vestry.
They were playing Cripple Mr Onion on the high altar, beneath the very shadow of the jewel-encrusted statue of Offler Himself, when they heard the distant creak of the main door.
The High Priest didn’t look up.
”Lost Jewelled Temple Roof Repair Fund! Only 6,000 gold pieces to go!! Please Give Generously!! Thank you!!!’
‘Heyup.’ he said. ‘Another one for the big rolling ball, then.’
There was a thump and a rumbling, grinding sound. And then a very final bang.
‘Now,’ said the High Priest. ‘What was the stake?’
‘Two pebbles,’ said the low priest.
‘Right.’ The High Priest peered at his cards.‘OK, I’ll see your two peb-‘
There was the faint sound of footsteps.
‘Chap with a whip got as far as the big sharp spikes last week,’ said the low priest.
There was a sound like the flushing of a very old dry lavatory. The footsteps stopped.
The High Priest smiled to himself.
‘Right,’ he said.‘See your two pebbles and raise you two pebbles.’
The low priest threw down his cards.
‘Double Onion’ he said.
The High Priest looked down suspiciously.
The low priest consulted a scrap of paper.
‘That’s three hundred thousand, nine hundred and sixty-four pebbles you owe me,’ he said.
There was the sound of footsteps.
The priests exchanged glances.
‘Haven’t had one for poisoned dart alley for quite some time,’ said the High Priest.
‘Five says he makes it,’ said the low priest.
‘You’re on.’
There was a faint clatter of metal points on stone.
‘It’s a shame to take your pebbles.’
There were footsteps again.
‘All right, but there’s still the -‘ a creak, a splash ‘ – the crocodile tank.’
There were footsteps.
‘No-one’s ever got past the dreaded guardian of the portals -‘
The priests looked into one another’s horrified faces.
‘Hey,’ said the one who was not High. ‘You don’t think it could be -‘
‘Here? Oh, come on. We’re in the middle of a godsdamn jungle.’ The High Priest tried to smile. ‘There’s no way it could be -‘
The footsteps got nearer.
The priests clutched at one another in terror.
‘Mrs Cake!’
The doors exploded inwards. A dark wind drove into the room, blowing out the candles and scattering the cards like polka~~ of snow.
The priests heard the chink of a very large diamond being lifted out of its socket.
THANK YOU.
After a while, when nothing else seemed to be happening. the priest who wasn’t High managed to find a tinder box and, after several false starts, got a candle alight.
The two priests looked up through the dancing shadows at the statue, where a hole now gaped that should have contained a very large diamond.
After a while, the High Priest sighed and said, ‘Well, look at it like this: apart from us, who’s going to know?’
‘Yeah. Never thought of it like that. Hey, can I be High Priest tomorrow?’
‘It’s not your turn until Thursday.’
‘Oh. come on.’
The High Priest shrugged, and removed his High Priesting hat.
‘It’s very depressing, this kind of thing,’ he said, glancing up at the ravaged statue. ‘Some people just don’t know how to behave in a house of religion.’
Death sped across the world, landing once again in the farmyard. The sun was on the horizon when he knocked on the kitchen door.
Miss Flitworth opened it, wiping her hands on her apron. She grimaced short-sightedly at the visitor, and then took a step back.
‘Bill Door? You gave me quite a start -‘
I HAVE BROUGHT YOU SOME FLOWERS.
She stared at the dry, dead stems.
ALSO SOME CHOCOLATE ASSORTMENT, THE SORT LADIES LIKE.
She stared at the black box.
ALSO HERE IS A DIAMOND TO BE FRIENDS WITH YOU.
It caught the last rays of the setting sun.
Miss Flitworth finally found her voice.
‘Bill Door, what are you thinking of?’
I HAVE COME TO TAKE YOU AWAY FROM ALL THIS.
‘You have? Where to?’
Death hadn’t thought this far.
WHERE WOULD YOU LIKE?
‘I ain’t proposing to go anywhere tonight except to the dance,’ said Miss Flitworth firmly.
Death hadn’t planned for this, either.
WHAT IS THIS DANCE?
‘Harvest dance. You know? It’s tradition. When the harvest is in. It’s a sort of celebration, and like a thanksgiving.’