The Collector of Remarkable Stories (3 page)

The Giant

Hands trembling she gripped the ladder and started to climb. Up she went, her body aching from the effort, until she found herself climbing out of the darkness into a colossal room filled entirely with junk.

Margie could not see where the room ended or where it began; all she could see were the mountains of furniture, paintings, books, wheelbarrows, motors, kitchen sinks, satellite dishes, televisions, lamps, mirrors, toys, pans, toolboxes, cables and other items that stretched as far as the eye could see. Chairs and bikes hung from giant butchers hooks in the ceiling and the air was heavy with the smell of old sweat, tobacco, food and dirt; ghostly reminders of the people who'd once owned these dilapidated castoffs.

Margie closed the trap door then stood for a while taking in the plethora of sights, sounds and smells. As she looked about her, she became aware of thoughts. Thoughts that had no bearing on what she was doing or what she was seeing. Very quickly her mind became a muddle of names and events, dates and anniversaries. Sad feelings followed happy feelings; while feelings of loneliness, fear and anger flashed intermittently through her body. Once or twice she felt overwhelming love and unadulterated joy. On these occasions she paused and savoured the emotion.

At first she followed the pathways that meandered round the junk mountains. But no matter how far she walked, they continued to disappear into the horizon. No sign of a wall, a door or a window. Tired and dizzy from her exertions, Margie curled up in an old bath which had been discarded at the base of one of the mountains and slept for several hours. When she awoke she was lying on her back and the first thing she saw when she opened her eyes was a cave like opening half way up the mountain on which she'd slept. Suddenly feeling wide awake and full of energy she scrambled up the mountain.

The first tunnel that Margie scrabbled through was small but quickly led her to a larger room, which was also filled with junk. This room, however, seemed to be carefully arranged into specific sections, each containing junk of a particular nature. One of the sections contained old computer parts whilst another contained mannequins. Another section contained thousands of mirrors in a variety of sizes and shapes.

Margie had no memory of her appearance so she took a moment to study her reflection. A small, thin red haired young woman stared back at her. Her dark brown eyes appeared sunken against her gaunt pale skin and she could make out a small spattering of freckles on her nose. Her hair was piled untidily on top of her head, a mass of curls clinging to one another and her dress, which now hung off her tiny frame, was a simple white dress that resembled a nightgown. A pair of brown leather boots completed the ensemble. The clothes didn't trigger any kind of memory for Margie and it occurred to her that perhaps Auguste had removed her original clothes whilst she had been unconscious; a thought that filled her with shame. She made a mental note to herself to keep her eyes peeled for more practical clothes.

Margie made her way through another tunnel, taller this time, which led her to a tiny room. It was a small clearing approximately six metres square but it was filled with all manner of broken toys and childhood belongings. An old crib lay broken in one corner, whilst a beautiful white rocking horse sat proudly across the room. Elsewhere were piles of things carefully sorted. Margie was drawn to a pile of linen Christening gowns, once gleaming white but now discoloured and stained. She picked one up and gently clutched the fabric to her face. Beneath the smell of mothballs and the soil of age, she could almost make out the milky scent of a baby. Elsewhere in the room she could see a pile of clockwork toys, a pile of teddies, a pile of wooden toys and a pile of dolls houses.

As she picked her way through the room she knocked into a pile of old clockwork toys setting off a frenzy of activity – monkeys crashing symbols, soldiers banging drums, racing cars racing, frogs jumping. The sudden loud noise startled Margie and in her panic she stumbled back into pile of broken dolls. Then somewhere amid the chaos she saw something that made her almost burst with excitement. It was a door.

The door opened into another large room – at least three stories high. Margie supposed it might have once been an old mill. High up on the walls she could see doorways where floors obviously once existed. This room itself contained row upon row of giant shelving units that reached from floor to ceiling, each stocked with all manner of mechanical rubbish – cogs, wheels, nuts, bolts, pipes, wiring, great metal engines and chains, radiators, hinges and all manner of other clutter. Margie could see no ladder and wondered how on earth anyone could reach whatever was stored on those upper most shelves.

Some of the pieces were bigger than she could ever have imagined; ships propellers the height of a house and immense hydraulic presses which must surely have weighed over a tonne each. The smell of rust and iron reminded her of another smell. The smell of blood.

But the thought quickly disappeared when, at the far end of this oversized industrial library, Margie saw two beautiful panelled doors with the words Emporium written backwards in the glass. The doors opened up into a shop. At least it would once have
been
a shop. Now, however, it was abandoned and derelict. The windows were crudely boarded up, a criss-cross of old wooden fence panels and much of the stock had rusted and fused together.

Along one wall was a great counter ornately constructed from steel and marble. Sitting on top of it a large antique till. Margie had never seen anything so exquisite, its inner workings clear for all to see – cogs and wheels and dials and mechanisms, some of which were so small they were invisible to the naked eye. Margie ran her fingers along the keys of the till then ran her finger along the counter. A fine layer of dust coated the end of her finger. She could see from a gap in the boarded up window that it was light outside. But that was all she did know. The gloomy red sky made it impossible to tell what time it was. It could have been seven in the morning or seven in the evening for all she knew.

She crept over to the window and peeped through a crack. She could just make out a small cobbled street lined with shops. The shop directly opposite had originally been a Bakery (she could tell from the worn out sign above the shop door) but it was now a cobblers. The sign was hand painted and not as ornate as the original. A great mechanical shoe sat in the window sporting several arms like an octopus. Each arm had its own job to do and was equipped with either a polishing rag, a hammer or some boot polish.

Now that Margie had seen what was outside, she was desperate to get out. It all looked so normal and absurdly familiar. She suddenly felt very trapped in the Emporium and despite Auguste's warnings that people wanted to harm her she wasn't afraid. To the contrary, she was suddenly and inexplicably filled with rage. She resolutely scanned the shop for something to smash her way out. To hell with the noise. To hell with the bad guys. How could Auguste just leave her like that, boarded up like some medieval plague victim?

As Margie rummaged angrily through a box of axes, she felt an overwhelming sense that she was not alone in the room. The breath of someone or something passed close to her, virtually unnoticeable but enough to make the hairs on her neck stand on end.

"Hello," she ventured, sounding braver than she felt. "Who's there?"

Her voice disappeared quickly into the dense forest of junk.

"Auguste, is that you?"

The air in the Emporium suddenly felt thick with eyes and she quickly picked out a large chopping axe.

It wasn't long before Margie found herself standing on a cobbled street still clutching the axe. Blinded by the natural light, Margie struggled to open her eyes but they seemed to have a mind of their own and fought her efforts to open them. Even when she managed to prise them open a crack, all she could see were shadows.

Margie quickly steadied herself by pinning her back against the wall. For a second she allowed herself to relax, happy in the knowledge that her eyes would adjust quickly to the light. But all of a sudden through the haze she became aware of a huge figure standing over her. Like something from a nightmare, he appeared to be wielding a large bloodied cleaver. Margie didn't have time to react. In a flash, he grabbed her by the back of her neck - as though picking up a stray kitten - and darted into the building next door.

Margie struggled but The Giant squeezed her tighter under his heavily built arm. He pressed his other hand over her mouth and peered through a tiny crack in the door. A stench unlike Margie had ever encountered before raced up her nose like smelling salts. To her horror she realised it was coming from The Giant's hand the same hand that was covering half her face. Margie tried to cry out but gave up when The Giant's sweaty, offal-covered palm inadvertently forced its way inside her mouth. While her mind flicked, like an old fashioned train station departure board, through all the possible means of escape, Margie realised she was in a Butcher’s shop. A fresh wave of panic swept through her. Was she next on his chopping block?

Satisfied that the coast was clear and that no one had seen them, The Giant relaxed his grip. Margie immediately took a big gulp of air before ripping her lungs to shreds with an almighty scream. 

Startled, The Giant dropped Margie to the ground. She landed inches from a small bucket of rotting offal. Margie (having inadvertently swallowed a mouthful of putrefying meat) frantically scuttled away from the offending item and wiped her mouth vigorously.

The Giant stepped back to observe Margie from a distance (as you would a dog you didn't quite trust) and waited. The Giant was tall, at least eight feet with shoulders as broad as cricket bats. His ruffled shirt was well-worn and hung off his frame as though it had once belonged to someone bigger and was only half tucked into a pair of heavy woollen trousers which were several inches too short.

Margie noticed a wrought iron butcher's hook lying on the floor nearby and quickly made a grab for it, brandishing it like a sword.

The Giant took a small step back.

"I ain't not looking for no trouble missy," he said softly.

The gentleness of The Giant's response took Margie by surprise.

"Your hands smell disgusting!"

The Giant lifted his hands slowly and studied them with shovel-sized eyes. He couldn't see anything untoward but wiped them on his apron anyway.

Despite his bulk and his heavy foreboding brow, he had a kind face.

"Sorry," he said. "I woulda washed 'em but Auguste said I had to make sure you didn't come to no harm."

Margie narrowed her eyes suspiciously.

"How do you know Auguste? Where is he?"

The Giant shook his head sadly. "He jus' said he was goin' away and he would sen' someone when the time was right ... I think that's what he said." He reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper, screwed it into a ball and threw it in Margie's direction. "He gave this to me to give to you. It's yours. I don't want it back."

Margie reached for the paper and started reading. It was a note from Auguste. Margie read it several times before folding it up and shoving it down the side of her boot.

"Did you read it?"

"Nope, I ain't so good with reading."

"He said he was keeping a low profile because he didn't want to draw attention to my whereabouts," said Margie.

"That's what he said to me an' all. Said there were a lot of bad people out there all wanting a piece of the pie."

"Did he mean
me?
"

"I s'pose."

Margie sighed: "I just don't know why anyone would want
me.
"

"He would'n tell me. I asked an all but he jus' said it would all become clear."

" I don't even know where I am. Are we in London?"

The Giant laughed. "You're in Limbuss."

"Where is
that
?"

The Giant stopped laughing. "I'm not sure exactly. But I know it's not nowhere near no London. It's not nowhere near anywhere."

Margie wondered if that's why it had been so quiet outside.

"I ain't never seen no one as excited as Auguste was the day you come to Limbuss and got whacked by that trolleybus," said The Giant. "I ain't
never
seen him so beside himself like he was that day."

Margie shook her head, exasperated by her lack of memory.

"I guess we just have to wait like he said then," she whispered, bringing her knees up to her chin.

"You okay?" asked The Giant stooping down slightly to get a better look. "I can fix you somewhere to lie down until we've got things figured out."

"I'd like that," said Margie. For a moment she contemplated The Giant. "Do you have to hold that thing?" she asked, pointing to the meat cleaver that he was still clutching.

With a swift flick of the wrist, The Giant lobbed the cleaver in the direction of the door. It took a fraction of a second for the knife to Catherine-wheel its way across the room before hitting its target, a large wooden door, with a loud thud.

Margie screamed.

"Oh, please don't be frightened," begged The Giant. He dropped to his knees and let his body sag, as though the worries of the world were weighing heavily on his shoulders. "I scared her," he scolded himself. "I told him I couldn' do it ... I told him."