Southend U3A

September 2023

The Locked Trunk - Anne Wilson

‘Don’t make me look!’ The Man screamed. ‘Please don’t make me look!’

‘There’s absolutely nothing to be frightened of,’ reassured Mr. X. standing beside him. ‘I want you to stand perfectly still while I turn the key. You’re going to have a lovely surprise. Just relax.’

A sound formed in the back of The Man’s throat but didn’t materialise into the scream he had hoped for and he watched in horror as the key turned in the lock, creaking with age as it did so. He tried to run, but his legs had turned to lead and flight was impossible.

Mr. X lifted the lid slowly and with some ceremony. It opened and The Man gasped. It did, indeed, contain the surprise he had anticipated, but not a grisly one. Instead, fifty-pound note after fifty-pound note fluttered out, cascading through the air and then sticking to his body – almost smothering him until there was not an inch of him left uncovered.

‘I didn’t lie, did I?’ chided Mr. X gently. ‘Isn’t this a nice little windfall?’

A warm feeling engulfed The Man. An alien voice, not recognisable to him as his own, filled the air. It spoke in slow motion, echoing as it did. ‘Yes: It’s Wonderful!’ the voice said. ‘It’s Wonderful!’ ‘It’s Wonderful!’

The Man felt a trickle of sweat run down his face. He reached out to wipe it away with his hand and suddenly felt disoriented. What was happening to him? He wasn’t standing up at all; there was no trunk, no money and there was no Mr. X beside him. He was in his own bed, awaking from a dream. He blinked his eyes rapidly in order to bring him back to reality; the feeling of well-being from the windfall (imaginary though it was) disturbing him. He was the polar opposite of a hedonist – without doubt a man of strict morals and sober habits - and the feeling of pleasure the money had brought him disconcerted him. It made him feel seedy and sinful.

His was a humdrum life – dull some might say – but he preferred it that way. A solitary person by nature and by choice, he adhered to a rigid routine. Weekday bedtimes were usually right on the dot of ten thirty. No life in the fast lane for him and certainly no evening roistering – there was work to be done the next day. It was, perhaps, an unusual ethic for someone of the comparatively young age of forty – particularly in this day and age – but he had never been bothered by contemporary thoughts or opinions.

Weekends provided little difference in routine – other than that he occasionally allowed himself one glass of wine as a treat on a Saturday evening and an extended departure for bed of eleven o’clock. He had no friends (either male or female) and nor had he ever desired any. It was a wicked world in his eyes, with which he remained disenchanted and the further he distanced himself from it, the better.

Several nights after his dream he drank his cocoa and then repaired for bed. He drifted off quickly but suddenly became aware of someone tugging at his pyjama sleeve. The touch was sufficiently palpable to make his heart lurch.

‘Get up,’ a voice urged him. It was Mr. X. ‘I have something to show you.’

The Man rose, as bidden, to see his visitor gesturing towards a familiar sight.

Yes: it’s the trunk you opened last time’ urged Mr X. ‘Turn the key. Go on: you know you want to.’

‘Is there something nice inside?’ The Man said. Much to his own surprise he found he found he actually cared.

‘You know there is,’ replied Mr X in a soothing voice. ‘You enjoyed seeing what was in it last time, didn’t you?’

The Man admitted to himself secretly that he had. This time he needed no prompting to turn the key: the content of the trunk held no terror for him.

The key creaked with age as it turned in the lock, just as it had when Mr X had turned it on the previous occasion. The Man opened the lid slowly. This time, though, the contents did not flutter out of the interior but instead bottle upon bottle of wine lay on top of each other resplendently – the glass shining in the dark.

‘These are some of the finest wines in the world,’ assured Mr. X. ‘Look at that one in the centre. It’s a Grand Cru 1949. Some collectors would pay several thousands of pounds to have that in their possession. And look to the left of it, there’s a rare Sauvignon Blanc – again from the 1940s. What is i

t that you normally drink?’ ‘Sainsbury’s 2023’ The Man replied, without irony.

Mr X chuckled sardonically. ‘There you are then. You don’t even have to drink them straight away. You can put them in your cellar and bring one out every so often for a special occasion.’

‘I don’t have a cellar,’ protested The Man with some logic. ‘And I don’t celebrate any special occasions.’

‘Then it’s high time you did,’ scolded Mr. X.

The Man licked his lips. Suddenly he felt very thirsty. He reached towards one of the bottles but when he went to lift it, the weight of it overwhelmed him and his arm faltered.

‘Don’t drop it,’ he heard a voice say slowly in the same familiar echo as last time. ‘Please don’t drop it.’

It was too late; the bottle slipped through his hand and shattered to the floor. He awoke with a start and turned on the light. A pool of water had formed on the floor - shards of shattered glass surrounding it.

The Man sighed deeply, rising slowly in order to clear it up immediately and avoid the potential hazard of treading on it the next morning.

Some nights he found he didn’t dream at all and he would then find himself disappointed the next morning. On the nights when he did, Mr X was invariably at his side, exhorting him to open up the trunk and introducing him to pleasures he had never even thought about: never-ending boxes of hand-made chocolates, the finest cigars, collections of travel brochures each with a ticket pinned to them luring him to faraway places by first class transport. He was hard put to think of a favourite. All proved to be elusively beyond his reach.

‘It’s been a few nights now. Please, please let me dream of opening the trunk tonight,’ he prayed as his head touched the pillow. ‘And please don’t let me wake up. I want to sample the pleasures I’m being shown. I’ve grown to crave them.’

His prayer was answered.

Mr X looked on as the key turned in the lock. This time the content inside the trunk was not inanimate and The Man stepped back in surprise. A voluptuous blonde stepped out and made her way towards him, her pouting lips trembling with allure. She sashayed towards him.

‘Hello, Big Boy,’ she whispered in an American accent.

‘Who are you?’ The Man gasped. ‘Where are my manners?’ said Mr. X in a rare act of self-castigation. ‘This is Miss Marilyn Monroe: I’m sure you’ve seen her in many a film on television. She’s one of the most famous sex symbols of all time. Just look at her body: her shapely legs, her trim ankles, her curvaceous bottom, her enormous . . .’ He stopped himself just in time, mopping his fevered brow with a handkerchief in an effort to control himself. ‘Well, you can see for yourself.’

The Man found feelings stirring within him he didn’t know he had. He opened his mouth to say something but couldn’t.

Miss Monroe, however, was unfazed. She moved towards inches of him, pulled him towards her and kissed him passionately on the lips. The taste of her lipstick was almost palpable.

And then he woke up.

‘It’s not fair,’ he railed at no-one in particular. ‘For years I’ve lived a life of sobriety and now I want to raise my head above the parapet and indulge in all the pleasures I’ve been shown no-one will let me.’ He was not a religious man but his entreaty had worked the last time and he sank to his knees by the bedside; a bizarre convert to spirituality in his striped pyjamas.

‘Please . . . please,’ he cried out with frustration. ‘If you’re out there, Mr. X come and visit me but the next time I turn the key and open the trunk don’t let me wake up.’

Nights went by and nothing happened. The Man went to bed, dozed off to sleep and woke the next morning. It was frustrating. Then his luck changed . . . he had been in bed no more than an hour when he felt a figure standing by his side.

‘I thought you’d deserted me,’ he whined like a petulant child.

‘You know me better than that,’ chided Mr. X. ‘Come with me. The trunk’s waiting for you.’

The Man took the key from him and rushed over to it eagerly. What would be inside this time? The familiar creak of the turning in the ancient lock was music to his ears now and, whilst he had always employed caution in lifting the trunk lid, this time he had no inhibitions. He had prepared himself to gasp with wonderment at a new discovery but, instead, what he saw inside sent a chill that went right through his body. In the trunk lay the body of a man; his face a deathly white. It was himself.

‘I don’t understand,’ he spluttered. ‘What on earth is happening?’

‘You asked for me,’ explained Mr. X. ‘Frequently. Frankly, you’ve disappointed me. I thought you were going to be a tough nut to crack but you were just like all the rest: greedy, grasping; a man of straw, in fact. Such a terrible pity when your entire life had been exemplary until I made you look into the trunk and see what you were missing. I’d despaired of ever winning you over.’ He sighed deeply. ‘I suppose it was Marilyn Monroe that finally tipped the balance. I must confess that whenever I look at that body it makes me pleased I’m not on the side of the angels.’

‘Who are you?’ quaked The Man. ‘What are you trying to do to me?’

‘My name is Benjamin Laurence Sebubb’ Mr X told him slowly. ‘Surely you must have heard of me.’

‘I’ve never heard you’ the man protested in a trembling voice. ‘I don’t know anyone with a name like that.’

‘Everyone has a passing acquaintance with me,’ responded Mr. X in even tones. ‘Some more than others.’

The Man shrugged his shoulders in ignorance.

‘Think about my name,’ he was instructed. ‘Repeat my initials and my surname.’

Light began to dawn. B.L. Sebubb.

‘You can’t be,’ said The Man.

‘I can be,’ said Mr X in a calm, reasonable fashion. ‘And I am. I tempted you and you failed miserably. And now I’m going to shut the trunk. With you in it. You don’t exist anymore.’

The Man pointed his finger at him accusingly.

‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’ he wailed. ‘You’re a dream. The minute you close the lid of that trunk I’m going to hear that exaggeratedly slow ‘dream voice’ of mine and I’ll wake up. And when I do, I’m going back to my old life. I’m never going to make the mistake of letting you anywhere near me again,’

‘We’ll see,’ said Benjamin Laurence Sebubb smugly. ‘We’ll see.’