* * *
The box was on his kitchen table, or rather it was in the space where his kitchen table had once been. He sighed, but he knew it would be returned eventually. Denny was regarded as a good customer, and Barry would certainly be annoyed that the lads had taken something like that from him. Denny could almost feel sorry for them when he found out.
He noticed, as he traversed the hallway, that the photograph of his mother was also missing. He had kept this picture, not out of sentiment, but rather because of a sense of dread that the old battleaxe would come back to haunt him for a lack of respect if he did not. Which was why it had been tastefully framed in solid silver (this was presumably why the lads had taken it and not for the sake of the picture it held therein) and draped in black, like the pictures of war heroes – she would have liked that. He felt a sense of relief; it was gone; no longer would it watch him disapprovingly every time he walked to and from the bedroom, and he could not be in any way blamed for its absence – he had been robbed.
He put the beer down on the floor, there being no other surface available, and knelt down to dismember the box. He did not expect there to be anything else of interest in it, but, he thought, you never knew. Sometimes Barry included items that he thought might be useful. Denny had the feeling that Barry quite liked him really, and even felt rather sorry for him. Or maybe he just could not believe that all that “geek junk” was going to keep Denny interested in buying from him.
Whatever the reason, he had, in the past included in his parcels a toaster, a set of tools, which Denny had sent to his brother as a Christmas present. It served him right for being better looking and more successful than him, in Denny’s opinion, as well as being the most complete and total git that had ever stalked the earth. Also, on one memorable occasion, Barry had stuck in a state of the art ten CD changer mini system stereo which Denny, never technically minded, though he would have loved to be, promptly broke, to his great dismay. He could only assume that its inclusion had been an error, or an example of Barry’s pity. He could not find out, because Barry never mentioned it, and Denny was afraid to, in case he asked for it back.
He carried the box, staggering a little under its not great weight (Denny had the muscle tone of an elastic band) into the bedroom and plonked it down on the bed, the better to facilitate its dismemberment in the absence of his table.
The contents were a little disappointing (Millennium Falcon notwithstanding) including some ragged bath towels, two ancient LP’s (one of which he already had, but would have denied having even under torture) and what appeared to be a dead cat, but which, on closer inspection, when taken out with great trepidation, turned out to be a Davy Crockett hat.
What sort of person did they hit? Denny wondered. He must have been a right weirdo. Denny conveniently glossed over the fact that he had coveted at least one item that this person had previously owned and already owned another. His own bath towels would not have stood up to close scrutiny either. Only the coonskin hat did not fit in, and Denny had once bought a deerstalker on impulse, though he had never worn it in public. He just knew he was not cool enough to pull it off without being beaten up on every street corner.
The dismemberment over, he inventoried his haul, a broken telephone, and a stack of dirty magazines, which he filed under the bed, a box of curtain hooks and a cracked figurine of a shepherdess. He dumped this on top of the rest of the junk back in the box and went to get a beer.
When he got back and picked up the box to dump it on the floor, so that he could lie on the bed to watch TV, the bottom dropped out of it. Cursing he kicked out at one of the tatty towels; his feet were bare, and he did not want a broken toe, but the towel felt oddly solid. It rolled away from him, which was unexpected. Then, it unrolled across the floor, revealing, rather like Cleopatra’s carpet trick, something that had been wrapped up in it.
Curiously he went to went to pick it up. It turned out, to his disappointment, to be an old and dirty looking bottle, made out of some opaque type of glass. He sighed and put it on the mantelpiece. He could not have said why he did this, instead of putting it in the box with the rest of the junk. He drew the curtains against the glare and settled down to watch TV.
There was nothing on the TV and he could not settle. The bottle on the mantelpiece kept drawing his attention. He wondered what was in it; it had felt unusually heavy. He tried to ignore it, it was just an old bottle, but he kept finding his eyes drawn to it. It was making him fidgety. Eventually he gave up. He switched off the TV with a snarl and flung himself off the bed and grabbed the bottle intending to hurl it into the box, which he would then take out to the bin. But once he had it in his hand curiosity overcame him. It was very heavy for such a small bottle. It could not hurt just to have a look inside, maybe there was something valuable in it. Its previous owner had been something of a kook in Denny’s opinion; anything was possible. He pulled out the cork.
~ Chapter Five ~
Tamar found herself in a dank looking bedroom; the light was of the murky twilight quality that is found when the curtains are drawn during the day. The place looked tidy, but not clean. The wallpaper was peeling, the carpet stained and the place smelled of mildew. Aside from the fact that it had the stark tidiness that comes from having no possessions at all, it reminded Tamar of the way Askphrit – the νόθος’ had left the bottle for her.
Staring at her, from under a shaggy fringe of dusty blond hair, with an expression of acute horror in his deep blue eyes, was a skinny young man. His expression puzzled her, bewilderment she had seen, wonder and frank admiration, but never before, horror. It was annoying, particularly as she knew she was looking her best.
She was. What he saw was this, a tall, slender girl of about his own age, icily beautiful with jet hair that shone like glass and looked as if it might reach her feet if it were let down, and sparkling dark blue eyes, like a midnight sea. (Really, he was getting quite poetical in his musings.) She had a clear cut ivory face, and a beautiful Grecian nose, the lines of her face were all strong angles and planes, heroic in concept, yet somehow severe. For all its amazing beauty, it was the face of a woman who had seen too much of the world. The face of a fighter.*
*[Although Tamar had chosen her own face, somehow certain aspects of her personality had been stamped on it despite herself. Or perhaps the face she had chosen, was representative of what she was inside, if so, it was unconsciously done]
And her skin was so pale she seemed almost luminous, like the moon – Tamar never could get used to the idea of a suntan being attractive. Although not a connoisseur of female figures, he could see that hers was magnificent, and her carriage perfect, as if she had a plumb line from her crown to her feet. She terrified him that was the truth of it. Even moderately attractive women scared him, but this vision… not that she was real of course, he knew that.
Denny was quite understandably under the impression that he was having a nervous breakdown, either that, or the bottle had contained some mind altering substance that created remarkably realistic and yet totally impossible hallucinations. In that case, though, why was she fully clothed, and looking bad temperedly at him? He tried to ignore her; perhaps if he went for a lie down. But somehow he could not, not with her in the room, it would seem rude. Then quite suddenly he knew. He knew she was real, and he was not crazy or tripping or anything. He just did not have the imagination to create her. Somehow, this realisation did not make him feel any better.
Tamar surveyed him intently. This is what she saw:
A pale, pointed face, the features finely drawn and sharply defined with prominent cheekbones set above cadaverously hollowed cheeks, an aquiline nose (his only classically attractive feature) and a fascinating overbite. His hair was too long and too fine and would have been the colour of corn had it been cleaner. He was tallish but not over tall, about her own height and very thin, yet it was a thinness that seemed to be natural to him and due n
o illness. The face was boyish, and yet the eyes that looked out of this face seemed to have seen a lifetime of unpleasant experience. This gave him a curiously ageless quality. He could have been anywhere between twelve and thirty years old. All this, however, Tamar felt, was only what he looked like.
He was interesting. He did not belong here; she could see that. Perhaps this was not his room; he looked wrong in it. Despite the scruffy clothes, longish, unkempt hair, unshaven chin and pasty complexion, he just did not belong here. Technically he looked like a drug addict, in perfect synch with his surroundings, but intuitively he looked like a ... a … she gave it up, it would come to her; maybe she had met one of his ancestors in a very different set of circumstances. That might account for it. She became aware that she was staring at him, that they were, in fact, staring at each other. He at least had some excuse for his surprise.
She decided to get on with it. ‘What do you want then?’ she asked abruptly.
‘Huh?’ Denny was understandably confused by this remark. Surely, he thought, in the circumstances, that ought to be his line.
Tamar watched the confusion spread over his face and pulled herself together. She began the customary spiel.
‘O’ My Master, I am the Djinn of the bottle whom you have released into your service ...’
She had found it better, since the eighteenth century, to explain the situation fully, and even then most people took a lot of persuading to believe it.
‘You may have of me, any three wishes of your choosing. Your wish is … my …’ She trailed off, embarrassed. He was giving her the most peculiar look that she had ever seen. It was a look that she really should have recognised. She had felt it on her own face often enough. He looked bored (disinterested might be a better word) and slightly wary.
‘No thanks,’ he said.
‘S – Sorry?’
‘I said, no thanks, I’m not interested. Thank you all the same.’
‘I’m not sure you understand,’ said Tamar. ‘Three wishes, anything you want, your hearts desire, anything! I’m a Djinn, you know, a Genie, a real one.’
‘Yes, I understand, but I don’t want anything thank you. Can you leave the way you came in?’ He sounded like a man talking to a double glazing salesman.
‘No I can’t leave, you’re my master.’
‘Oh – well, you can stay if you like. Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘A – ? Oh well, yes all right then, thank you,’ said Tamar, trying to pull her scattered wits together. She did not want a cup of tea; she just wanted him to stop looking at her as if she was a peculiar type of wildlife specimen instead of a stunning and all-powerful being.
Well, may as well get acquainted, she thought. ‘What’s your name?’ she asked the back of his head as he rattled cups. She would not have been surprised to hear that his name was Heathcliff or Tyrone or perhaps Dante. It was those curiously intense eyes, and perhaps the floppy hair.
So it was a bit of a disappointment when he told her, ‘Denis Sanger.’
‘Is that all?’ she blurted out then bit her lip. He did not seem to notice.
It was such an ordinary name for someone with those eyes, deep melancholy eyes, the eyes of a man with the soul of a poet. She shook herself mentally; what was she thinking?
She waited for him to ask for her name. To show some interest in her, after all she had to be the most intriguing visitor he had ever had, she thought petulantly.
He said, ‘Here’s your tea.’
She tried again, ‘Denis is a nice name,’ she said, untruthfully.
‘Call me Denny.’ He would not look at her.
‘I’m not really sure about mine, it’s pretty old fashioned.’ She waited. But he did not seem to have heard her. He looked as if he wished she would just go. She realized, with a shock, that she was probably irritating him.
‘Mirror,’ she said, and one materialised in her hand. No, still as perfectly beautiful as it was possible to be. Maybe he was … maybe she should have been male, but somehow she did not think that was it, and even if it was, there was still the whole “Being of infinite power” thing. Perhaps he did not believe in her; perhaps beautiful girls appeared in his room with a flash and a bang as a matter of course. (They did – often, but not in real life.)
Tamar was getting impatient. Perhaps he thought he was dreaming. That had happened before.
Denny knew he was not dreaming; he only wished he were. He thought all this was terrible. He had read about things like this happening, and it always ended badly. He wondered how he could get rid of her. Like Tamar before him, he was finding out that excitement was not all it was cracked up to be. The difference was he had always known this. At least, not when it happened to people like him. People like him who encountered excitement, usually ended up, at best, in hospital.
Tamar gave it one last try. ‘One thing I do hate is being called ‘Djinn’,’ she said. (This, by the way, was not true, Tamar could not have cared less if she had been called ‘Sideshow Dickie’ as long as she got her wishes)
‘After all, I do have a name you know,’ she said very pointedly.
‘Sorry,’ said Denny, and unexpectedly smiled. He could not have stopped himself for a “Han Solo” collector’s edition in its original box.
It was the most beautiful, heart-breaking smile Tamar had ever seen. She would have gone weak at the knees. If she had had real knees.
‘I didn’t mean to be rude. What is your name?’ suddenly he did want to know, she was the only person he had ever met who seemed more miserable than him. Besides she seemed terribly upset at his apparent indifference. This was a complete reversal of the reaction he was used to getting from girls. He knew how she felt.
‘Huh! Much you care,’ sniffed Tamar, turning away pettishly.
He took her hand. ‘Please,’ he gave her that heart-breaking smile again.
What was wrong with her? She wondered. He was not even handsome; so pale and thin and scruffy. He looked as if he slept in his clothes – in a skip.
‘Tamar,’ she croaked.
‘What, just Tamar? Like ‘Cher’ or ‘Madonna’?’ he said, grinning.
Tamar smiled at his way of putting it. Only the famous and society’s outcasts had no need of a last name. How was that for irony?
‘Not exactly like that,’ she said.
‘But you don’t have a last name?’ he persisted.
‘No, I don’t need one. I don’t have an address either, unless you count the bottle.’
‘I think you should have one.’
Tamar sighed. More human nonsense, she had been down this road, and whatever he came up with was bound to be bloody awful.
‘Maybe I’ll give you one,’ he continued, as she had known he would. ‘Let me think about it. What goes with …?’ He hesitated
‘Tamar.’ She repeated patiently.
‘Tamar, yeah; that’s unusual.’ He was covering his embarrassment at having forgotten her name, which he felt truly terrible about, having been called “er Derek” more times than he cared to remember.
‘Tamar, Tamar?’ he mused, ‘That sounds familiar somehow.’ Then he opened his eyes wide. ‘Are you a goddess then?’
Tamar was amused by this, remembering her first encounter with Askphrit. – the νόθος’. He was no, doubt, thinking of Tanith, she decided, since she knew of no gods with her name – none that she could think of anyway.
‘No, no, just a Djinn’ she said with heavy irony, which was completely lost on Denny, of course.
‘It is an unusual name, though,’ said Denny again.
‘Yes, I suppose so.’ she replied. ‘It wasn’t when I was named, but that was a long time ago I suppose. It was thousands of years ago. It was the name of a queen of Persia who killed her husband, apparently by talking him to death, my parent’s idea of a joke. They called my sister Xanthe, which means “yellow”, because she was so sallow. Th
at was when I was human of course.’ I’m babbling, she thought. Why am I babbling? He must think I’m an idiot. I am an idiot. Just look at him. He’s only a mortal, pull yourself together.
She had never told a mortal so much about herself before; it was unnerving.
He was frowning, puzzled. She wanted to reach out and smooth the crease in his brow. Just reach out…
‘Human?’ he broke into her thoughts abruptly.
Oh hell! If he asked, she would have to tell him, he was her master. And then bang goes any chance of suckering him, she thought. But then, she would not; or would she? Not him, not this one.
Then she realized sadly that she would, given half a chance, even him. So that’s what I’ve become.
She crossed all available fingers and toes. Please, please just go back to being uninterested.
He asked – it was inevitable – so she told him.
* * *
‘It was a long time ago,’ she finished. ‘You might say I’ve learned my lesson.’
He was staring at her in horror (again). ‘What a rotten thing to do,’ he said eventually
‘I’ve always thought so,’ she agreed, ‘Askphrit got me good – the νόθος.’*
*[Denny did not need a translation here; it was pretty clear what she meant]
‘Isn’t there anything anyone can do?’
‘No,’ she said briskly. She was not ready to give up her power yet, besides which she was not allowed to suggest it (rule seventeen – subsection a)
‘What about you?’ she asked. ‘Why don’t you want your wishes? I’ve never heard that one before.’
‘Oh – well, there’s nothing I want that much,’ he said airily. ‘I mean it’s a risk isn’t it? There’s always a catch: you should know that better than anyone. No such thing as a free lunch is there?’
‘How do you know about the catch?’
‘I’ve read stuff, the ‘Arabian Nights’ stuff like that. There’s always a catch.’
‘Arabian Nights?’ thought Tamar crossly, ‘damn that Scherezade.’ But who would have thought that anyone would believe it.
‘And you believed it?’ she asked aloud, still incredulous this turn of events.
‘Well – no, obviously not, not at the time, not until you turned up. And then I thought, if Djinn are real then I’d better be careful, if the stories are true. Just wait and see what happens. That’s why I was a bit standoffish with you at first, and now, well, I was right wasn’t I?