The Pale Locksmith

CHAPTER 2: THE DEATH

The man picked up the candle, then walked over to the polished metal mirror. Manoeuvring the disc to try to catch the flickering light, he looked at his reflection. It was difficult to make out his appearance, which was probably a good thing. He let out a sigh. At least his clothes were without creases, and his hair was neat - but there was little he could do about the rest. Every time he was able to take a good look at himself, he seemed just that little bit more unhealthy. He knew what his body craved was also poisoning him.

His skin was sallow and dry and almost had a hint of yellow, while the bags under his eyes looked darker and more pronounced than ever. His eyes had become pale again; as was always the case before he got what he needed. His mouth was as dry as a Salathan desert; he kept running his tongue over his cracked lips. He kept his hair short now, for otherwise it would just cling lifelessly to his head. His paunch now more prominent than ever. Previously he had been able to hide it with clothing, but not anymore.

The thirst clawed again at his throat, sending him to the kitchen to get yet more water to drink. The relief did not last long... it never did. At least now it was time to leave. He put on his grey coat. It was made from good quality wool and had been an expensive purchase at the time. This had been years ago however, and it was showing its age. Yet despite the fraying edges and holed pockets, he had not replaced it. It had served him well after all, and there was a strange attachment there. Plus, he could hardly afford anything of this quality anymore.

Walking slowly to prevent the candle from going out, he went down the stairs into his shop. The Locksmith always made sure to avoid the splintered stair; he knew he should do something about it but he never remembered about it at a convenient time. Into the spacious coat pockets, he packed tools. There was nothing unusual about a Locksmith carrying such things, but he kept them hidden away anyway. Then he sat down at the ledger book. He suspected he was the only shop owner on the square to use one, or even to have seen such a thing. It was an old habit, a carry-over from his previous life as a coincounter. He was meticulous when it came to his record keeping, recording the name and address of his customers in neat little rows. By some of the names, there were marks that he had made; those he knew lived alone. In some places these marks had been crossed out; if perhaps the person had gotten married or now had children, anything which meant their house was now busier. He also crossed out the name of those who had died, regardless of whose hand their death had been at. Finding two names still with a mark, he made his way to his cabinet and pulled out two keys, and into his pockets these went as well. He was ready to leave.

Suddenly he heard noises in the square; the sound of someone walking. Quickly he blew out the candle, then stood as still as a statue, hoping the bright moonlight would not be reflected in the paleness of his face as he peered through the front window. He could see two figures walking, not half a hundred paces away. One was plodding, heavy set. The other was slight, walking almost as if she was floating, her steps so light the Locksmith could not hear them. The Lawkeeper and his wife. He frowned at the sight of that woman – if she could be called that. So she had come back; the Locksmith had been hoping that she had finally moved away. It would only be a matter of time before people became suspicious of her enduring youth and guess her secret. She also knew his secret as well as he knew hers – a fact that made them both so very fearful.

Once they were inside the Bakery the Locksmith waited a while, wanting to be sure they had settled down. Then, silently, he opened the door and stepped out onto the pavement. Before walking off, he tried the door to make sure it was locked – a necessity in Cilia Town. He did not miss the irony of being wary of people out at night with evil intentions. He raised his pale eyes up to the round blemished moon as it sat among the speckled stars, its brightness prominent in the dark sky. Soon, like his cursed thirst, it would wane away.

For one all-too-brief month.

* * * * * * * * *

She leant over to test the water temperature with her finger, careful not to drop her long blonde hair into the fire. Satisfied, the woman pulled the small pot away from the flames, then set it down upon the table. Dipping a cloth into the water, she began to wipe the cosmetics from around her river-blue eyes, slowly so as to enjoy the warmth against her skin. This was how every evening had ended for her over the sixteen years since she had been struck down by the Pox. The disease had spread across Antolund through the year and claimed the lives of many. She had been lucky to survive, she was well aware of that. Still, the scars left behind across her cheeks and neck were not a welcome reminder of this good fortune. Nobody had seen her bare face since, not even her now-deceased husband.

She paused as she heard a noise outside. She listened for a moment but heard nothing else. There were often stray dogs running up the street, scavenging for food. The last Chief Minister had at one point decreed a cull upon them. This had turned out to be very popular; there were many out there who enjoyed violence against other living creatures; the potential to earn a coin for every mutt carcass they delivered to the Ministry was all the excuse they needed. The new Chief Minister needed to announce something similar - assuming he could pull his mouth away from a wine bottle for long enough to utter a sentence. She smiled at that last thought – it was the sort of thing that everyone knew to be true, but did not dare to utter.

She heard another noise, but this time it sounded closer. As if it was within the room. She began to turn around and caught a glimpse of a figure standing behind her, bringing its raised arm down.

The sound echoed around the room. The Locksmith watched as she slumped sideways, falling off the chair. He stood still, listening for any sign that someone else had heard the noise. After waiting for as long as he could take, out of his pocket he pulled a knife. While the hammer had been an instrument of violence; this would be one of well-practised precision. Kneeling by her side, he used it just once, as he had done so many times before. Now he was able to finally satisfy the thirst that had been tormenting him.

Soon, it was all over. When he was sated, he allowed himself to rest for a few minutes to regain his breath. There was no pleasure in what he did, just relief at being free from that most awful of needs. The streets were quiet when he made his way back to his shop. In the moonlight, he could make out the sign above the front window.

LOCKSMITH & CABINET MAKER

There was not a lot of demand for cabinets in that part of the city, so he was known as the Locksmith. He was really feeling the cold of the night, but he could not getting under warm blankets yet. For before he could go to bed, he needed to clean. There had to be no stains on the hammer or knife, no evidence either on his face or clothes. It was unlikely that these tools would be seen by another, but one could never be too careful. And then, finally, he lay down and was asleep within moments.

When the sun arose he did not stir, so still andpeacefully was the Locksmith sleeping. No doubt he would have slept well intothe morning, if it were not for the unexpected knock upon his door.