Writing for Fun
July 2021
A Small Gold Locket - Pete Norman
Tracey Kirby drew her hand back and hurled it with all her might towards the waste bin, which stood just outside the supermarket doors.
She missed and it fell with a dull tinkle onto the pavement.
She knew why Wayne had given it to her, she knew what he expected he was buying for that cheap and nasty trinket he’d robbed – and she weren’t having none of that. Besides it was nasty – it felt as cold as ice in her hand and the picture inside weren’t a real photo, it was just some faded old painting and the eyes were the sort that stare right through you as if they could hurt you without blinking.
She stormed off in a huff – just like he knew she would . . .
He chased after her – just like she knew he would . . .
And she forgave him – just like he knew she would . . .
But she never went back for that nasty bit of sparkly. If he wanted that then he could go and get it himself.
* * *
A month later Colin Nightingale was glaring at the computer screen.
‘Covid’s got a lot to bloody answer for,’ he muttered, ‘it steals lives and it destroys livelihoods.’
His job was not the best in the world, in fact it fell far short of that but it did pay him fractionally more than he actually needed but which was far less than he knew he deserved. However, it paid the bills and put food on the table and life was comfortable enough not to go looking for something better.
That was before last Thursday.
Last Thursday he was rudely introduced to the word ‘Receivership’ and the devastating news that the company was folding with immediate effect.
He tried to convince himself that he was not too worried, because he had never had any problems getting a job in the past . . . but he had not taken account of the Covid factor. There was nothing out there and what was on offer was in such demand that he would be more likely to win the Lottery. Nevertheless he devoted all of his free time to applying for everything vaguely within his range and he spent countless hours trying to complete each CV to the bizarrely precise requirements of that particular company. The word ‘tedium’ took on a whole new meaning.
It was at such a moment, when he was just about to hurl the computer at the wall, when the phone rang. He hesitated before he answered it – still overwhelmed with the urge to hurt someone or something – but instead he tried to compose himself sufficiently to answer the call. He need not have bothered, it was not some company desperate for his expertise, it was the Front Desk at the Police Station.
When he had handed in that bit of jewellery, he had never thought he would ever see it again but the clerk reminded him that if found property was not claimed after a month then, as the finder, it lawfully became his. He looked at the laptop, sitting innocently on the table – totally unaware of the danger it was facing – and decided that it would do him good to take a few minutes away from Curriculum Vitae.
‘It’s a lovely little thing,’ the clerk said, ‘Wouldn’t mind one like that myself.’ She hesitated. ‘But isn’t it cold . . . really cold to the touch. It’s . . .’
Colin thought she might be trying to stake a claim to the locket herself but he ignored her remark and signed the book.
When he got home he shook the locket out of the small plastic bag. It was indeed a lovely little locket and, contrary to what the clerk had said, it was at a perfect blood temperature. He shrugged. That was fine but now he had it, he had no idea what he was going to do with it. It looked expensive so perhaps it might well be the answer to his prayers at this particular moment but his knowledge of the jewellery Industry was surpassed only by his knowledge of Quantum Mechanics . . . so he phoned Andrew.
Andrew’s jewellers shop was quite small but, while he too was a bit rusty on Quantum Mechanics, his expertise with jewellery was far more shiny – as shiny as this lovely little locket, perhaps.
Andrew’s shop was closed due to lock-down but he agreed to take a look, to meet up in his garden and perhaps give him some idea.
Colin had never seen Andrew quite so intense with a piece of jewellery before – he had seen him come up with a good estimate from just a quick glance – but this time he studied it in minute detail, even bringing a more powerful lens from the house to examine it even more closely.
When he finally put the glass down his answer was curt and to the point. ‘I rarely use the word but this is truly exquisite. In the trade we’d call it F.H.Q.’ Seeing the expression on Colin’s face he clarified, ‘That’s short for Extremely High Quality.’ Colin raised an eyebrow and Andrew grinned. ‘Yeah, I know, it’s in-house humour but I reckon you’re looking at maybe four figures, maybe more. If you like I could do a bit of digging for you – I know some people in Hatton Garden. I can send them photos.’ He placed it carefully down onto a square of black velvet and said, ‘But I’ve never felt a piece of gold that’s so bloody cold before.’
Puzzled, Andrew picked up the locket, which to him felt warm to the touch but he was not about to argue with the professional, especially after such wonderful news.
Two weeks passed and as time drifted slowly by, Colin’s initial excitement began to wane but when the answer finally came back he was stunned – apparently he had eager buyers coming out of the woodwork everywhere and some of their offers were truly astonishing. Apparently there was no hallmark on it, which either meant it had been privately made or that it was hundreds of years old but either way, the quality of it’s construction was said to be exceptional.
He knew that he should be content, that he ought to grab the best offer and run but instead he could not help thinking about the owner and wondering how devastating the loss of such a precious and personal object must be to them. He had found the locket in the shade of a litter bin but he could never envisage anyone deliberately throwing away such a beautiful thing . . . however, neither could he understand why they had never reported it missing.
He felt that he had a duty to make some effort to trace the owner, then at least no one could say that he had never tried.
With money that he could not afford he paid for advertisements in both of the free papers and he put cards in the windows of several local shops but after having to fend off an army of hopeful and obviously false claimants he gave up.
The Met had circulated its description around the Force but nothing had come back from that.
Andrew had contacted all of the local jewellers and had even made enquiries with Sotherby’s to see if it had ever been on their auction lists but . . .
He opened the locket and studied the beautiful miniature painting in the left hand heart. The woman’s face was stunning, with soft but penetrating blue eyes, a Mona Lisa smile and hair as long and as dark as night. The space on the opposite side was empty as if for some reason the other precious image had never been painted. According to the experts the lady had to be long departed but that it was highly possible that this was an heirloom rather than a mere purchase.
He held up the locket and watched as it slowly rotated on its fine gold chain. ‘I’m sorry, little locket but I’ve drawn a blank. I don’t know what else I can do. I hope I can find you someone nice . . .’ He paused as the locket began to gently sway. There was no window open and there was nothing else that could have moved it so he clamped his hand around the locket to stop it. It felt warm to the touch.
Surprised he took his hand away and it began to sway again and in exactly the same direction as before.
Now he was spooked. He did not believe in all this mumbo jumbo – ghoolies and ghosties and things that go bump in the night – but he could not ignore the fact that every time he stopped it, it began to sway again and always in exactly the same direction.
He had never believed his mother when she had told him all those stories about his grandfather, how during the war he had swung a needle over a map and had tracked her brother – his uncle Arthur – across Europe and the Mediterranean until the needle finally stopped over Northern Italy. He said that Arthur must have either been captured or killed but when the war was finally over and his uncle returned home he confirmed that he had actually been held prisoner just outside Venice and that the path marked on granddad’s map was eerily accurate.
Did anyone really believe in such stuff? Well, the jury is truly out on that one but there seemed no reason why he should not at least give it a go – after all, he had nothing to lose.
He opened up the compass on the phone and drew a line as accurately as he could on a local map. There was nothing remarkable along the line but he knew that his goal could be anywhere along it and that for triangulation you needed at least two reference points. He drove the car a few miles away and tried again. This time the locket swayed in a different direction and the two lines intersected in what he knew was a quite unremarkable housing estate on the edge of Town.
He felt deflated but he was determined to follow this to a conclusion, if only to prove himself a gullible idiot. He drove to a point as close as he could to the ‘X marks the spot’ and found himself in a road filled with retirement housing. From here the locket pointed quite emphatically down towards the dead end of the road, towards a quite densely wooded area.
A gatepost nestled within the trees and a rather battered sign showed this to be The Manor House. With some trepidation he walked up the overgrown driveway and gave a firm knock. Harking back to those old horror films he had loved as a kid he was fully expecting the door to be answered by a wheezing, geriatric old butler. What he was not expecting was a stunning young woman with soft but penetrating blue eyes, a Mona Lisa smile and hair as long and as dark as night. The locket burned fiercely in the palm of his hand and he quickly passed it into hers.
She held the locket up to her lips. ‘You clever little thing. I knew you would find your way home.’