Salvation

A short story I have written that I hope you will enjoy.

The bell jingled as Darren pushed the heavy door open and before he had set a foot over the threshold, a cheery voice greeted him with a “Good afternoon, sir”.

“Is it?” was the mumbled, gruff reply, “sorry, yes, yes, afternoon to you too,” Darren continued before muttering under his breath, “now leave me to browse.”

The shop assistant strained his ears to Darren’s words. “Sorry sir, I didn’t quite catch that, are you okay, can I help at all?” he asked.

Darren looked up solemnly and cracking the thinnest of smiles, replied, “no, no, thank you, I’m sure I can manage. It’s just a few rows of books very clearly marked, never mind me.”

With a beam wide across his face as he stood behind the glass counter where the more expensive wares are kept from public handling, the assistant replied, “Okay, no problem, I’m here if you do need anything.”

Hands behind his back, Darren started reading the book titles, laid out neatly in various genres followed by authors in alphabetical order. “Nice,” mumbled Darren, “very nice. Someone who knows how to organise books.”

This was always his favourite pastime with Jenny, his wife of more than three decades, as they stuffed their shelves at home with enough books that would fill ‘to be read’ piles for many lives over. It was always Darren’s worry that he would pass over to the other side before he could read all the stories, he had gathered over the years but as it turned out, the tales that lined the walls of their house had outlasted Jenny, who had succumbed to the Big C as the autumn leaves turned from green to red.

That was always a term that disagreed with Darren as he felt it trivialised the illness that was eating the life away from his Jenny. It was easy for others to sympathise with him and how the Big C had come knocking at their door, determined not to leave until Jenny was in its firm grip and heading to the afterlife.

Now he resented anyone who was pushing for donations in the street to bolster the coffers of research into the cure for cancer, Jenny had not been saved- why should he give a fig if others lost their battles too? The cure was not available for them, and Darren is certain that it won’t be available for generations to come no matter how much is raised. Darren was always keen to tell others that no amount of money could cure cancer as the disease was a big money business so why would pharmaceuticals put down that cash cow when they could continue to milk it, with donations never looking like they will run dry anytime soon.

“In it together,” was always their mantra, inseparable from the moment that they met at the library, both reserving Stephen King’s bestselling novel of that year, The Talisman, which became the shared reason for them to speak and realise that a love of books could develop into a love of each other.

Books were still binding them now despite Jenny now browsing the great library in the sky and Darren had vowed he would redouble his efforts to ensure he read the books she left behind, as well those he had designated as his.

He knew that promises given in her final moments may not work out. The problem is that the months since her passing had seen Darren unable to focus on the words, they blurred as tears formed and then annoyance rising when they spread across the page like raindrops marking a dry pavement at the beginning of a summer shower.

The room fills with calming Christmas music of a religious bent and the ambience in this Oxfam shop is gently easing the customers into the festive season. Some may say that Darren has left it rather late to start his Christmas shopping but he feels this is a man’s prerogative, starting mid-December, and it’s not like he has anyone to buy for anyway anymore, truth be told.

Bright green strips run the length of the shelves declaring, “Every Purchase Helps Beat Poverty.”

What nonsense, Darren thought, charity begins at home especially when the boiler doesn’t work, and the bank account is in the red. Despite this, a few pennies for a book from his pocket were sought among the rogue strips of tissues that had outlasted the late autumn cold which had dogged him for too many weeks.

As he handed over the coins, Darren thought ‘what about my poverty?’ Darren thinks to himself of his broken boiler, an empty bank and no benefits to break his financial fall despite 40 years of unbroken employment. Oil radiators were suggested online as a substitute to bring localised warmth in the event of no heating coursing through the house, but it failed to mention how it would send the smart meter into overdrive as it tried to keep a record of the electricity consumption.

He could have gone to the charity shop across the road as the books were at least a pound cheaper, but the quality was poorer and he wasn’t interested in Cornish Cream Tea Summers, which seems to be the sum total of what was on offer. There’s always a premium for Darren, he bemoaned to himself, he’s always the one who must pay over the odds but then, at his age, he shouldn’t be worrying about parting with £2.99 for a second-hand book in Oxfam.

It wasn’t really his intention to buy a book, but he turned in through the door to avoid Audrey - he had spotted her across the road with her wicker basket and Waitrose chrysanthemums and, no doubt, the freshest cuts from the butcher’s counter. Darren only visits that supermarket when the reduced stickers start appearing across the store, bringing prices more in line with his sensibilities and wallet. Of course, a free coffee with a purchase has led him to seek the cheapest item in store that would activate his free drink, with the challenge being increased since seeing on Facebook that some lucky punter had bought one mushroom for pennies and walked away with a £3.20 Latte from the machine for free. Sod’s law that this Waitrose doesn’t sell loose mushrooms, they probably knocked that little wheeze on the head after it went viral, but Darren does have a voucher for ready salted crisps which means he will only have to part with 75p on this visit and six bags of crisps would do for a meal that night if nothing else.

Bumbling towards the charity shop exit, Darren was almost bowled over by an over eager family who came barrelling through the doors, led by two precocious kids who looked the definition of the future for Waitrose. Stopped in his tracks, Darren looked like a doorman to some glitzy London hotel ensuring the way was paved for the money-laden guests.

“Just come in, don’t mind me standing here waiting for Christmas,” Darren grumbled to no acknowledgement from the family as they headed in after the youngsters keen to get to the Fairtrade chocolate.

“Pampered little pricks,” Darren added knowing that he was well out of earshot, though still looked keenly to make sure he wasn’t heard as well as not being seen.

It is now dark outside with wicker reindeer brightly lit with Christmas tree lights that reflected off the rain-laden overcoats of winter shoppers who were heading back to car parks as the weather looked to get the better of those who hadn’t sought refuge from the deluge. Audrey had gone though, which was a blessing.

An overwhelming sense of loss and direction hits Darren like a wave. There seemed almost no point in heading home, where he would continue wearing the coats and layers he had ventured out in to save the smart meter from having to haul itself into action - Darren’s not even sure he could be bothered to turn on the lights as there had been a universal darkness brought to his life that no lightbulb could ever help illuminate again.

Darren felt that he had begun the journey to the other side with Jenny but found that his migration was brought to an abrupt halt while she was fast tracked into the light. Guilt overwhelming for his remission. Now he was displaced and wandering lost despite having a house he could call home but that now was a place where memories survived, and he didn’t want to.

While Jenny ultimately found the right path to eternal happiness among every book and late author who’s passed, there was no salvation for Darren.

An empty house beckons, one which will not be welcoming the joys of the festive season, something that was only ever Jenny’s domain anyway and was thought to be an encroachment on their living space by Darren. Not that he ever said anything. It gave Jenny such joy and her happiness was always paramount, right up to her last breath. Darren’s happiness then left alongside his wife’s soul.

A leaflet finds itself in Darren’s hand. Disappearing into his own thoughts had left his fingers to automatically take it from the distributor before his brain could intervene and instruct his hand to abort the mission and bring down the barriers on the interaction.

Darren cursed in his head at being caught out this way and screwed up the leaflet in his hand before turning to look for a bin but with none making themselves visible to him, he muttered to himself, “never one when you need one”.

Darren flattened out the flyer so that he could fold and place it in his bag for future dispersal, his eyes focused on the glossy leaflet with British Red Cross emblazoned across it and images of a family displaced from the Russian invasion of Ukraine. The terror of war punctuated the Christmas merriment with the flashing lights of the nearby shop turning the images from green to red.

Ukrainians being forced from their homes while Darren couldn’t bring himself to walk back over the threshold of the house which was his kingdom with Jenny.

The leaflet’s message seemed a prompt for him to reevaluate his life, showing him what he has got compared to others, almost as if the ghosts from Dickens’ Christmas Carol had come to shine a light on the path that he should be taking and to not retread the tired ways he had succumbed to since winter’s grip had taken hold.

Opening his door to a family who were on their knees, one that would satisfy his need to be needed and bring life back into a space that was snuffed out months ago, this could be a way of saving himself as well as those leaving the frontline of a bitter battle.

A thought flashed across Darren’s mind that he was lacking in Ukrainian literature, though he was sure that Jenny had squirrelled something away from the time when she wanted to expand her literary horizons. Darren had humoured her with Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment but before he had made much of an indent into the mighty tome, decided that a return to something a little easier on the brain was in order, though he did make some fanfare after finishing A Short History of Tractors in Ukrainian, hoping that this scratched the Eastern Bloc itch for the pair of them. Anyway, Dostoevsky was Russian, so probably ill-judged to strategically place a copy on the coffee table when looking to welcome in a family who was escaping the regime of that author’s homeland.

The leaflet awakened a desire inside that hadn’t been present since the night Jenny left and as he stood with raindrops distorting the lenses of his glasses, Darren took out his phone, swiped the love of his life from the screen and gently touched the call button knowing that this next call could change the future for more than just himself.