The Antique Shop - Part 8

I’ve never felt so out of control in my life. My body feels like it’s turning in on itself, like my oesophagus will burst out of my mouth and envelop me so that I look like a giant, glistening sausage. I drop to my knees and vomit until there is nothing left to bring up, and after a few extra agonising dry heaves my stomach stops bucking my body further towards the ground. I stand up shakily and wipe my mouth on my sleeve. My mouth tastes foul; I’m ten-years-old and have gastro; I’m an awkward 17-year-old, drunk out of my mind at my matric dance, eyes glazed, conscience numbed. Since then, I’ve had a few “worst nights of my life”.
- Are you okay?
The hand on my shoulder is warm and tender. I realise it’s the first time I’ve been touched caringly by another person in months. I miss it terribly.
I try to speak but no words come out. Words usually gush so easily. I look at the person next to me. I recognise the old lady who lives down the corridor. I’ve greeted her a few times I think. She smiles at me, and her face is all motherly tenderness and homely comfort.
- Wha-
- Shshshshhh… don’t you worry. Let’s get you some care.
She leads me over to an ambulance. A paramedic is looking into someone’s eyes. They look a little sooty and shaken.
- This is the young man who lives in the flat. I think he needs some attention.
The paramedic gently sits me down on the stretcher next to the girl he’s examining. I notice a thin cut above her left eye, and she has a big lump on her forehead. I look away when her eyes flick to me; I hate being caught examining people. I look instead at the old lady. She’s talking to a cop. They both turn, and he follows her finger as she points at me. He nods slowly. It could be a “Yes, he looks like our man” nod, or a “Shame, poor guy just had everything he owns blown up” nod.
- Oh crap!
I’m up and running before the words leave my lips. Someone tries to reach out and catch my arm but I brush their hand away. I hear shouting but no words register. I leap over the debris cluttering the building entrance and jump the lobby steps two at a time. I’m on the landing. I’m on another set of stairs. Landing. Stairs. Landing. Corridor. My door isn’t there anymore. The entrance hall/kitchen is a blast hole. My toaster looks like it got some of its own treatment and lies dead where the front door would be. The corridor wall is black, fingers of soot spread in every direction and chucks of plaster are missing where bits of brick and door shot into it. I step into the wreckage that is my life and don’t notice the two fire fighters picking through the debris and occasionally dousing the odd flame with extinguishers. It’s amazing how in a flat so small you can feel so lost. I’m missing all my points of reference – my coffee table, my CD rack, my bed. Everything is a smouldering, crumbled tangle of wood, cement and plastic.
I start scrabbling frantically where my bed used to be. I cry out as an ember melts into my hand. They must be here. They must be here. They must be here. They must be here. They must be here. I dig with the rhythm of my thoughts. One fire fighter makes a move to stop me, but the other holds him back and shakes his head.
My hands are bleeding and my arms completely black when I finally find it. The tin box has a huge dent in it and looks like it’s gone a few rounds with a pit bull but to my relief it doesn’t look like it’s been breached. It’s still hot from the fire, but my hands are so burnt I don’t really register the heat. The latch is gone, and when I try to lift the lid it won’t budge. I put it on the floor and whack the lid with a piece of wood. On the third strike it pops up. I close my eyes, say a quick prayer and lift the lid.

© William Edgcumbe